Knock knock knock.
Ashley’s hands are an itchy scarlet and cracked at the knuckles and fidgeting, coarse from icy desert gales and over-washing. This unclean thing simmers underneath the skin and counts the waxing hours down to the full white face of an apathetic moon. Her eyes are lost and witching like the sidereal realms of the outer dark of the night and she is burdened with the creeping stress and blanched like some forlorn drowned bride. She had become desperate with no answers for a cure and come back to the man who’d initially refused to help. She cannot ask her family and she is alone and she’s desperate and at the bottom of the world.
The sloppy man feels bad for her that much is obvious with his firebrown puppy eyes in the early days columns of light and heavyhearted behind the grease-smudged, thick lenses of his aviators…
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