When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. A shiver slid down inside her.
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