How to Escape Sadie Giddis 1.
Let your hands graze that white, capricious
popcorn ceiling, although your fingertips may find its abrasiveness unnerving, and think again of the asbestos itching for a chance to fill your lungs. 2.
Pick up your thick cotton bag, distended
by items your younger self packed: a faded ibuprofen bottle, a roughly patterned knife, corrugated blade and all, and your breath, which flees your mouth when he speaks, his low voice like rum splashing in a mug, stolen coins clattering inside a knapsack, massive skull and crossbones fluttering in the wind. 3.
Wince at the bile taunting your throat, so
journey to a grubby gas station set ablaze with neon signs, where a middle-aged woman greets you unceremoniously at checkout, her hair darker than a single thought.
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