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“I think so, kid.”
Maybe people with dark souls aren’t all bad. Just because they’re dark, that doesn’t mean they’re not redeemable. That doesn’t mean there isn’t good in there.
“I love you,” I whisper, sliding my lips across his. He presses his mouth tightly against mine. “I love you, too, baby girl. Be safe and kill them if you need to,”
Glenda has an odd smell to her. I’ve never smelt poison berries on anyone before, but I’m thinking she’s like Zade—like me. Another one of those people who have blackness residing in their souls, but not completely consumed by it.
Another sad part—I don’t have any make up in here to hide behind. In here, my face is bared to the world. It feels like walking into war without any armor. Without a sword and shield, and heavy metal to protect my body. I just feel… vulnerable.
“The outsiders—people that think they’re normal—they don’t understand people like us. We see the world for what it is. This Earth is layered, just like an onion, and we’re only living in one of those layers. Us—we see the other layers. The energies that exist in this world and all the ugly and evil that comes alongside it. These layers are thin and strong entities can walk through the cracks, into other layers and wreak havoc. “They say it’s all in our head. But I think they’re just suppressed. The things we see—they’re not in our heads. They’re in our faces. In our lives. And sometimes, in
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“Did I do what, dear?” “Did you kill your family? Because they were demons?” She smiles—almost a tired smile. “Honey, they weren’t my family. They were Satan’s.” That’s all the confirmation I need.
Glenda’s like me. She sensed the rot. She knew it to be true. And she got rid of them. “I’m glad you’re here, Glenda.”
Crazy people are the most interesting people in the world if you’d just let them be who they are. Medicating and drugging people until they’re mindless zombies would make anyone depressed, you dumb bitch.
Normal? What does normal even mean? Normal is subjective.
“I wouldn’t say they live normal lives, Dr. Rosie. Seeing things you aren’t capable of might be normal to them, but it certainly isn’t the same definition you have declared as normal.”
“Sibel. We found your henchmen.” Whiplash. She's jerking me back and forth. I can’t keep up. “Okay, and?” I snap. “Have they been apprehended?” Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Sibel,” she starts again. “They’re mannequins.”
“Tell me what you mean. Now.” She stares at me, seeming to contemplate if she should continue. She sighs again, but humors me. “All of the men that match the description of your henchmen—they’re mannequins. They are mechanical mannequins that move, but they're not… living.”
“There were traces of your DNA found on the mannequins, Sibby. Along with sex toys.”
How can you tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing, just because you can’t see it, too? Why do the shortsighted people get to claim what is and isn’t sane?
