I hear the footsteps behind me. I can’t stop myself from checking. How am I to know for sure? I’m not sure why I even check, let’s be honest, it’s not like I am about to run away, at least not successfully. As I look over my shoulder, I don’t see a serial killer, but a boy. A cute one at that. The boy doesn’t look at my limp as I walk or even my prosthetic legs — no — his eyes look at my own. I blush at the foreign intimacy of it. Read more…


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