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little palm. Pain seared through my body, and I screamed with fresh tears springing from my eyes. My little hand shook with pain as he finally released the butt. I looked into his eyes, but he wasn’t looking into mine. He was looking at my other hand, and repeated the action with his hands shaking and his brow sweating. “I love you, Son. And this is for your own good.” But he didn’t, and it wasn’t. Because he loved his chemical more. The sound repeated again and again. The painful memories, sweeping through my mind, reminded me of the past that I wanted to forget altogether. But I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. The sound diminished, and the smell faded. The reel was interrupted abruptly and decisively, and I snapped back into focus. The gates were lifted, and I removed my foot from the brake and moved on. I moved on because that was the only thing that I could do. I could hear the whistle behind me, signaling the climax of the story. I looked at my hands, only to find what I had been trying to get rid of all my life. Scars.

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Profile for The Mill Magazine

The Mill Literary Magazine: Spring 2011  

The Mill Literary Magazine published in the spring semester of 2011 by the University of Toledo with an endowment from the Shapiro fund.

The Mill Literary Magazine: Spring 2011  

The Mill Literary Magazine published in the spring semester of 2011 by the University of Toledo with an endowment from the Shapiro fund.

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