I was digging my own grave. Slithering, terrifying horror moves through my body as I understand: Emmaline was in my head. She wanted to see if she could get me to kill myself. And even as I think it—even as I look down at the miserable attempt I made to bury myself alive—I feel a dull, stabbing sympathy for Emmaline. Because I felt her pain, and it wasn’t cruel. It was desperate. Like she was hoping that if I killed myself while she was in my head, somehow I’d be able to kill her, too.
