She stroked the cards with her fingers; she tapped them like her ritual timpani drums. The light from the window barely penetrated the interior. I couldn’t see the cards. But she laid them out. And she played me.
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I’m waking up alone in the bathroom stall of the nightclub, and all I can see underneath the stall door and the floor are my rapist’s bare feet. He doesn’t move, just waits for me to come out.
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