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Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The ice clutched in my little fingers melts too quickly, just as it soon as it begins to help sooth the burning, it cruelly liquifies and slides carelessly to the aged mattress, making a crude tainted puddle.
It’s school holidays in 1996, a bright sunny day in the middle of nowhere, known to us as the shack. My sibling and I are carefree, singing our favourite song ‘Ironic’ by Alanis Morissette and taking turns swinging back and forth as high as we could on the big swing near the dark farm shed.
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