Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

It was bullshit, of course, but it clung to her, somehow both a virgin and the school slut. Her inner thighs still bore the scars of the X-Acto she’d dragged across just to feel anything other than shame.

That’s the power of memory, he supposes. Every one is unique, carved into neurons and strengthened through emotions and senses. It’s why so many adults never move past the music of their youth.