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Summary
Wounds were supposed to heal with time. Or scab over, at the very least. But all of Stan’s were open and angry and bleeding—they had been for over forty years.
And he couldn’t get used to it. Not anymore. Not when it ran so deep, not when it clawed at him from the inside every second of every day. No amount of pills, or booze, or cheap Stan-Co. bandages could fix what was broken.
Stan was done hurting.
