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Weekly Contest #294
Francis couldn’t remember the last time she’d lived. It didn’t feel real, her days more empirical than whole experiences themselves. Another morning simmered beneath the scorch of her hatred. One more night of deserving nothing short of the next dawn. Her good eye, hazel unlike the dulled pearl of her left, tracked the alcohol’s curl within the small glass in her gloved hand. She never liked drinking; didn’t do much except hurt her head all that much but the burn of it was grounding. The straw-haired girl pressed the rim to her lips chewed w...
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