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It was the summer of her 17th year.

Marsha lay in a sweltering room, staring at the ceiling, sweat dripping from her body.

When the sun set, her stepfather would come home drunk and beat her, but she had nowhere to run.

No, perhaps it was more accurate to say she had no will to run.

’Why?’

She wanted to ask.

But every time she thought about it, she was too terrified to open her mouth.

’Does Dad…?’

It was unbearable.

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