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Visions had blurred a lot lately, memories melted together. There were a lot of things they couldn't tell apart. Like themselves. Or their days. Wake up, grope, eat, work, ache, weld, hurt - or kill - and work, talk, itch, escape, exhale, and fuck. Things had got permanently urgent somewhere along the line, and they didn't know why. Just felt.
But it was always scarlet at first, deep scarlet. Hers on his hands, his in her mouth. Mixed together, rubbed into their sheets sometimes, violently. Or stained on torn collars and sleeves. When something went really wrong, enough to make their hearts pump away at a desperate speed, it would be seeping from here, from there. Too much at once, too much entirely. And an eon of no-no-no's later, of "hush" and "it will be okay", they would be there again, as if it never happened. Biting down again, scratching again and again, and scarlet would flash before their eyes.
* 1 *
* 20 Years Ago - 1979 - Age 17 *
"Thomas!" the brown-eyed dark-haired mother yelled, "Thomas! Your breakfast is ready!"
Scraping the pans with her dull spatula, Michelle Anderson scooped the greasy bacon and sunny-side-up eggs from the pans, and tossed them onto the plastic lime-green plate. Flinging her towel onto the kitchen counter, she yelled even louder. "Thomas!"
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