She's filthy -- at least she feels it, whiskey leaking out of her pores in cold sweats, dirt and grime leftover from her chores in the stables clinging to her clothes -- and all she really wants to do is wash up and go to bed.
Will I dream again? Will I see his face?
"I didn't mean for it t'happen like this."
She feels rooted to the floor, almost terrified to leave because if she does, she'll have nothing to keep her from withering up and dying.
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She's filthy -- at least she feels it, whiskey leaking out of her pores in cold sweats, dirt and grime leftover from her chores in the stables clinging to her clothes -- and all she really wants to do is wash up and go to bed.
Will I dream again? Will I see his face?
"I didn't mean for it t'happen like this."
She feels rooted to the floor, almost terrified to leave because if she does, she'll have nothing to keep her from withering up and dying.