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April 11, 2008
Footsteps out on the landing make you freeze. A split second assessment decides they’re most definitely heading towards your room. Shit. You leap off the bed, throw the covers over the tell-tale items, and pull your clothes back into place. You contort your face into a completely unnatural expression of angelic innocence and perch cross-legged at the end of the bed, waiting.

The shame and embarrassment if she knew would be unbearable. A mundane conversation (you barely remember it), followed by a sigh of relief when she leaves. Rolling back your sleeve, you marvel that the blood never soaked through.