M.W. Whitaker

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Lucy took a shower. Her mind was seething. As she dried her long dark hair, she wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. She stared at her reflection. Her brown eyes looked back at her. She could see only vestiges of who she once was. She turned away from the mirror. That nutjob therapist asked her a question that seemed simple, but she didn’t know the answer. The therapist had asked who she was.