“8”

“8”

TheShortStoryArchives

Story titled “8”, Part One Of Four

“8”

He always told my mama that I was pretty.

Pretty.

I remember thinking pretty meant delicate. Like flowers or silk. Something soft and benevolent that the earth provided to remind us of the beauty that surrounded us.

When you are in the moments of your last days, you see your life flashing before your eyes. You see you and your family opening Christmas presents, you see yourself playing with friends at school, and you may even see yourself being birthed into your mother and fathers arms. Such beautiful moments that you see in a sea of continuance. But when your life is ending, you are reminded that those moments are soon to be over. I felt this happening the minute my uncle placed his hands on the lower end of my 8-year-old body, and even though I grew in physical form to be a…

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