Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

Alice gets it now. Why her sister was always breaking things. Because rage shatters out, not in.

“If you are so fond of living, why reject the gift of life?” “Is it life,” he counters, “if there is never death to balance it? Or is its brevity what makes it beautiful?”

Life is meant to end. It is not for man to decide when.

But when the moment comes, they scream, they fight, they run, and hunger always gets the best of her. Perhaps, if in that vital, final beat they looked at her with want or love instead of terror. But they do not. So she carries on, alone.

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil, plant them shallow but water them deep, and in my place will grow a feral rose, soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”

“One thing you learn when you live as long as we do, is that nothing’s permanent. Who you were isn’t who you have to be.”

“Because you are the kind of bloom that thrives in any soil. And who knows, perhaps you will meet a worthy gardener.”

“The world will try to make you small. It will tell you to be modest, and meek. But the world is wrong. You should get to feel and love and live as boldly as you want.”

When you are happy, a decade rushes by. When you are sad, a minute crawls. When you are lonely and afraid, time seems to lose all meaning. Blink, and a year is gone. Blink, and it has only been a night.

“Isn’t it lonely?” “It doesn’t have to be. After all, loneliness is just like us,” says Ezra. “It has to be invited in.”