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Weekly Contest #329
The presses downstairs were already rolling for the morning edition. The fluorescent tube over my cubicle still buzzed like it had for the last eight years.I sat there with the white bottle in my hand, rolling it back and forth. Everyone else had gone home. Place was dead.I had said it out loud this time, told my editor and my sister I was done with the pills, and now, sitting there alone, I could hear both of them breathing down my neck.I opened the top drawer, put the bottle inside.On my screen the story I was paid to write sat half done, ...
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