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In by Chris on August 26, 2010 at 10:59 pm

The flashbacks, the sweat-drenched nights, the inability to speak without stammering had all washed away with the settling passage of time. It had taken years, but she no longer felt torn by the darkness, the knotted-muscle knife of that night.

Yet the physical wound barely healed. In restaurants and plazas men and women edged away from her. The scar looked as if it were wrenching her face apart, and from behind it she could see the molten nervousness of those with sunglasses or rouge or mustaches. They glanced at her and then felt their hands uncertainly. She felt such compassion.


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