On hot summer nights I would lie on the edge of sleep, a thin sheet thrown down to my knees, layers of sweat coating the rest of my body like a grimy clingfilm. I'd smell smoke coiling upwards from the grey linoleum, past indistinct shapes and latticed windows. Through the mosquito screens the same five notes of the Starcraft theme play on a neverending spool, taunting me as I flip irritably back and forth, drying one side of my body at a time, hearing the clock ticking off the minutes to my early morning lesson.
Which is probably why, seven years on, I still balled my fists reading this.
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