You know the drill. One picture. One hundred words.
Virginia stood as if compelled. She couldn’t move. She wanted to move. She wanted to run for the hills and scream what she saw from her brain. But her feet had rooted themselves to the floor. No one should have to endure this. No one. If she didn’t fall into a catatonic stupor first, the PTSD she would suffer from this moment on could make an African child soldier raised on a steady diet of meth and bloodletting look like the poster child for mental health. No teen should ever catch their parents in flagrante delecto.
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