Special Agent Eric Paulson stood in my doorway, with a goofy smile on his thin lips. He flicked away his still burning cigarette. Snowflakes melted on his grey stubby chin.
“What do you want?” I asked. Bitterness seeped from the back of my throat. I wanted to spit it out, but words fell out instead. “Seven. Years.” He didn’t even call, when my sweet little Anna died. Continue reading “Cursed, not Gifted”