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Weekly Contest #349
The cold always begins at my heart. It knows the way by now, and it is learning new roads. Tonight it has finally reached my throat. The dawn comes grey and indifferent through frosted glass bouncing off the glass. I do not look at my face. The mirror and I have never been friends. I have spent a lifetime learning the art of not looking, at my reflection, at the ones who looked at me, at anything that might look back. But here, in this silent hour, I find I cannot look away. I look at my throat, where her mouth has been a hundred times, and ...
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