Sebastian understands now how his family are more alike than different. Each, in their own way, loves what hurts them. At first you love what hurts you because you don’t know anything else is possible, as though it were intuitive to hold a knife by the blade. You do this long enough and your wounds may not heal but they do grow familiar. You do this your whole life, and the handle becomes a weapon in its own right, the blood-letting extension of your grasp. Now you are no longer so helpless. Now you are a calloused palm wielding a bludgeon, and that’s not nothing. You cannot cut, but you can
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