Prologue 3: Legacy


But it's not as if I was alone.

The person that stared me down in the mirror each day didn't appear overnight. I alone didn't sculpt her stony features. She had been a masterpiece, shaped and carved and molded by the hands and tongues and words of many.

They had sketched her, laid out a rough draft to review, revise, to edit. They had erased imperfect lines and smoothed out sharp edges. Then they brought her to life and coaxed her into the press, where she was pounded out into cookie-cutter pieces, lacquered, and then set out to dry in the sun.

They had made her their legacy.

I made her their shame.


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