I’d do it, if that’s what it’d take to prove to my dad I was ready to go solo at eighteen. How many fiends could be hiding in Hidden Creek? This was a crap job-a gimme. These 1136 people had been born here, grown up from those roots, and they’d die here. I could appreciate the rural appeal, without wanting to put down roots. My hair felt molded to my head from the long ride. The light wind slithered across the grass with a hissing sound. Something scurried through the underbrush nearby. Stretching, I listened to the soft sounds I’d missed due to the roar of my bike. Well, it’d have 1137 residents for as long as I was here-which was hopefully not long. How often did this spit-on-the-map Alabama town have to update that sign? Probably not often. After taking off my helmet, I peered at the quaint sign with its fancy, uptight font. I stopped to stare at the sign leading to the town I’d be spending my next few weeks in. Even the cooling breeze, rich with the scent of grassy fields and cedars, wasn’t keeping me awake. The last stretch on the motorcycle always seems the longest. To my daughter, who gave me the strength to shine light into my shadows. These scenes are crucial to the characterization of the mental disorder represented. All attempts were made by the author, who has a personal history of self-harm, to portray cutting as realistic, but not gratuitious. This novel contains fictional depictions of self-harm.
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