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Chavi died, declared the official report, between nine and ten Monday night. The rest of our family died around midnight, only it took a while to know for sure.
The public steals tragedies from victims. It sounds strange, I know, but I think you may be one of the few people who’ll understand what I mean by that. These things happened to us, to our loved ones, but it hits the news and suddenly everyone with a TV or computer feels like they’re entitled to our reactions and recoveries.
It doesn’t matter that I know it’ll make me sick, that the concrete pain doesn’t actually make the emotional pain any better. It doesn’t matter that I’ve learned again and again and again that it doesn’t help. It just matters that it feels like it should.
Bliss kicks him in the ankle, more annoying than painful, and it isn’t hard to imagine a yappy little ankle-biter dog with her curly hair.
Moments I have to admit that she probably has sociopathic tendencies and simply chooses not to use her powers for excessive evil. And I am my mother’s daughter.
“He had a knife. Well, obviously. He likes the stabby stabby.” “More like the slicey slicey.”
“I’m too old to sit on the floor,” he tells her. “I’m older than you are.” “You devour souls to stay young.” “True.”
Because there’s the law, and there’s justice, and they’re not always the same thing.
