Elizabeth Vargas

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Saffy recognized the monster in her own body. A wild creature, reaching out hungry, starving for annihilation. She glimpsed that same craving in Jenny Fisk—an ask, for suffering. It was the scariest thing about being a woman. It was hardwired, ageless, the part that knew you could have the good without the hurt, but it wouldn’t be nearly as exquisite.
Notes on an Execution
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