Front Desk Woman; Volume 7

She winced at the not-yet-healed stitch pulling at her ripped vagina, but there was zero pity within him. He only seemed to relish in it. He looked satisfied – like a man who’d won something immensely important. A marathon maybe, or the Powerball.

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Front Desk Woman; Volume 6

“A captor,” she said finally. “In my own home. Mindlessly spinning my wheels to get through the torturous day and even more excruciating night. There would be no end unless I took my life.” She looked down at a patch of brown grass with heavy tears weighting down the bottom rims of her now-red eyes. “I’d planned to take my life tomorrow morning as soon as the sun peeked through that skinny slit in the oak.” She pointed. “Right there.”

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Front Desk Woman; Volume 4

The floor length mirror was a liar. A taunting, scowling thing. Hurtful, hateful, heartache inducing. Though the mirror had never been truly kind, actually, she’d been a filthy bitch since Pansy’s thirteenth birthday, but now? She spit daggers through reflective glass – the serrated kind that twisted and stayed put right where it’d landed.

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Front Desk Woman: Volume 3

“You’re breastfeeding, right?” Somebody told Pansy, but she couldn’t remember who. “Well then, you can’t drink that extra large caramel macchiato,”

“Is that a long neck beer?” Asked another random judgment-coated-unsolicited-advice-giver. “You can’t have that!”

“A marathon? Psha. You won’t feel like doing that after giving birth. Try that elderly, gentle yoga class at the Y instead.”

“Looks like you’re having trouble zipping your favorite boots. You know your feet will never go back to the way they were, don’t you? While we’re chatting, nothing will go back. Nothing!”

“It’s all over for you, Mama,” someone simplified everyone’s counsel directly and succinctly. “Life as you know it, over!”

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