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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 do...
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