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She takes his hands again, clings to them like she clings to the idea that they could put this all behind them.
The last time she took his hands, he plunged hers in blood. She can feel it between them, their shared crime still stained there like Lady Macbeth, tormented by the spot she couldn’t scrub away. But it doesn’t have to be that way for them; they can turn away from this bloodstained path and embrace one another instead. No spots to haunt them, just a normal teenage life.
(Just shadows at her periphery and voices in her ears.)