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He glanced at her, flashing a crooked, apologetic thing that was probably supposed to be a smile.
“If our past shapes us, our memories decide who we are.” He frowned, a slight edge of annoyance slipping past the kindly demeanour. “No. We decide. We aren’t the past. We are our choices. We are the choices we make today. Anything else is dodging responsibility.
If the Filth was the bad part of town, the Scab was its gangrenous limb.
The morning sun pissed in through filthy windows.
face looked like the gods shaped it from soft iron with a crude ballpen hammer.
