It was the last week of summer, and I was at my cousin's when it happened. Sweat pooled down my back, and the nerves in my right shoulder twitched. Faint pins pricked along my face, but I ignored them. It'll go away soon. They always do.
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My dad picked up a navy-blue dress shirt, ironed to a crisp. He eyed it for a few minutes, turning it around, upside down, then he checked the tag and wrinkled his face.
“Too expensive”, he muttered to my mom.
The big, bright red sign read “$50 and less!”
I shattered to pieces.
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Being awake at 6 am is almost a feat in itself. Sunbeams begin to weave through the clouds, and this pisses me off, because what good is sneaking off in the dead of the night when it’s not even the dead of the night? My flair for theatrics has been thwarted by my vanity, as I have spent far too long applying “natural” makeup and choosing the perfect pair of underwear, because heaven forbid I get caught wearing granny panties on the day I throw myself off a bridge
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Snow crunched underfoot as Malcolm walked through the trees. These woods were familiar. He knew the paths the deer took. He knew where to wait for them.
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