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Sometimes I’m sixteen again.

He’s smoking a cigarette, rolling the filter around in his teeth. The smoke escapes through the driver’s side window. “Where to?” He knows I’ll always say yes.

His jaw’s as sharp as glass and I’m half expecting his fingertips to bleed every time he slides his fingers over the stubble.

Hand between my legs. I try to run but can’t. He strikes. He holds me down. I’m bleeding when they find me the next morning.

The little things bring it all back, put me back in the car, swimming in cigarette smoke. I drink most nights.

 

 

 

Byron Kimball is a freelance writer from Salem, Oregon and Western Oregon University student. Previous work of his can be found at 100 Word Story Anthology. He is in the process of completing his first novel. When he’s not writing, he’s spending far too much time in front of the computer and wishing he was hiking.

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