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On the beige hand-crafted night table next to the fluffy-cloud bed, a small clock was tucked next to the lamp. I hadn't noticed it before. It was a plain vision, square-shaped with a white background and a gray border. Breaking through the deafening quiet I could hear the internal tick, tick, tick of the metaphorical second-hand thundering in my eardrums as it tormented me with its casual attitude toward passing time. I began to pace, limping the length of the room back and forth as the sides of my hands started to turn black and blue from beating at the door that refused to budge. Some of my nails were broken to the quick from scratching at the seam, trying to pry it open despite knowing it was impossible. It had been at least an hour since Thao’s death and no one else had come yet to lead...

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