Empty pews in front of her; empty pews behind.
She turns to face the back of the pew and rubs her veiny hand over the scratches - scratches made from his suspenders.
She imagines him sitting there, shifting in the pew, the metal holding his criss-crossed suspender straps in place digging into the mahogany.
Decades of sitting.
Decades of digging.
Decades of scratches left behind..
Like the wooden scars that mark the place where he sat, mental scars mark the souls he mistreated.
She wonders if anyone else knows about the marks.
All that’s left of a life once lived is the destruction left behind.
Is this fact or fiction. Read on to find out.
This is true.
I often think of the marks we leave in life. Are they good? Bad?
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