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at my signature.
Tasha Jackson.
Twenty-two.
Naive.
Trusting.
Stupid.
I felt compassion for that girl.
She thought she was loved.
She thought she was safe.
She had to die so I could live.
I picked up a silver lighter.
Flame jumped blue and orange.
I held the corner of the paper to it.
It caught instantly.
Fire curled the edge.
Words blackened.
Legal jargon vanished.continue reading …
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