If I could bury myself alive with my bare hands, I would, but what would it fucking matter when I already have? I buried myself with my own fury, my own stubborn pain, and I might have carved a cancer from the world, I might have made it a safer and better place with Cashel’s death, but I cut myself apart to do it. I cut other people apart. I took a saw to any chance of happiness and didn’t stop even when I got to gristle and bone.
