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They won’t tell you fairy tales of how girls can be dangerous and still win. They will only tell you stories where girls are sweet and kind and reject all sin. I guess to them it’s a terrifying thought, a red riding hood who knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the wild in. —Nikita Gill—
“Your outline’s all fogged up.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and continued. “You’re gonna be an ache between the ears. I can feel it.”
The girl with a thousand scars collected from years of abuse and neglect. The woman who’d endured absolute and ceaseless rejection from her neighbors. So that when the sentence for exile had been carried out, there’d been a tiny part of her—of me—that believed it’d been justified. And I’d survived, only to be thrown into slavery. To suffer the complete and utter destruction of self.
“Because as long as you keep breathing, there’s a chance that things will get better. That you can make them better. If you’re blessed with the long life of the fae, it’s almost inevitable.”
“Those memories and echoes of a life lost kept me alive, but to be honest, for the longest time they were just words to whisper to myself in the dark.
I didn’t
believe them until I...
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