Like a hunted animal, or a racehorse, winning or losing felt exactly alike at this stage, with the same coursing of blood and shortness of breath. Right up to the day when hope in all its versions went out of stock, including the crummy discount brands, and the heart had just one instruction left: run. How they admired their own steadfast lives. Even the teenage cashiers at the grocery would take an edge with her after this, clicking painted fingernails on the counter while she wrote her check, eyeing the oatmeal and frozen peas of an unhinged family and exchanging looks with the bag boy: She's that one. The shame and loss would infect her children too, that was the worst of it, in a town where everyone knew them. She knew her own recklessness and marveled, really, at how one hard little flint of thrill could outweigh the pillowy, suffocating aftermath of a long disgrace. Or so it seemed for now, to a woman with flame-colored hair who marched uphill to meet her demise. A certain feeling comes from throwing your good life away, and it is one part rapture.
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