More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
But I was addicted to the pain. That book—my book—on the shelf in my apartment was a needle I returned to time and time again, pricking my finger on it no matter how much it hurt, because somehow the sting was never enough.
Memories were demons, and no amount of therapy or booze or anything stronger could exorcise a certain one from the home it’d made in my bones.
“you get an event that cuts everything in two. Like an axe splitting wood. And there becomes a before and an after.”
It’d taken years for me to realize I might’ve been missing some…usual components to my genetics, but I wasn’t a sociopath. I felt guilty about things,
like littering or running the AC with the door open to the heat. I had meaningful relationships. I was pretty normal, really. Apart from killing the occasional human, of course, but no one’s perfect.
Maybe fear wasn’t something you fought. Maybe it was something you armed yourself with.
In fact, I highly recommend you keep a little anti-acknowledgments list, as it were, of people you’d love to thank for making life difficult. For making you who you are, whether by spite, defamation, negligence, or indiscretion.
