He knew she wouldn’t be in there – he couldn’t hear the kettle boiling, which she always did first thing – but he’d found himself asking for her a lot lately when he entered rooms in the house.
How did there get to be ‘sides’? You said the guards were on our ‘side’. How did that happen? How did I end up on a ‘side’? – I can’t really explain. Things just happen. Over time, they accumulate. Bad attracts bad. Good attracts good. Eventually there are sides. The members flux, sometimes the boundaries are gray. Good and bad are sometimes not the point. It happens.
The knife is alive. As long as I hold it, as long as I use it, the knife lives, lives in order to take life, but it has to be commanded, it has to have me to tell it to kill, and it wants to, it wants to plunge and thrust and cut and stab and gouge, but I have to want it to as well, my will has to join with its will.
I’m too busy repeatedly counting ketchup bottles and wishing I was dead, wishing I was dead, wishing I was dead, wishing I was dead.
Just because my thoughts and feelings don’t spill out into the world in a shout that never stops doesn’t mean I don’t have them.
Yer alive,” he says, and he is so relieved, so happy, to see me in the middle of all that death where I am alone and alone and alone for ever, he is so happy that I vow to kill him -.
Tam stands and they clear the table, taking the dishes into their kitchen and leaving me and Viola sitting there by ourselves.
A woman my age, living alone,” she said, at least once a day, “if I don’t keep on top of things, who will?
Remember,” he says. “Hope.
I look at the knife again, sitting there on the moss like a thing without properties, a thing made of metal as separate from a boy as can be, a thing which casts all blame from itself to the boy who uses it.
Mrs. Mitchell,” Henna greets, her voice three sizes smaller than a minute ago.
Doing what’s right should be easy.
The sun’s well up now and the sky as blue as fresh meat.
Need a poo, Todd.” “Shut up, Manchee.” “Poo. Poo, Todd.” “I said shut it.
She can smell him now, a smudge of unwashed skin, poverty, extreme loneliness. She takes the can, still holding his hand, unrolling it, running a finger across its weathered palm.
He’s battling the Mayor, across some kind of sand-covered square in front of what looks like a chapel– And I get a sinking feeling of how many terrible things have happened to me and Todd in churches.
When I sit down, he recurls by my legs and falls asleep, farting happily and giving a doggy sigh. Simple to be a dog.
A story never ends at the end. There is always after.
I wish I had 100 years. 100 years I could give to you” – A Monster Calls.
How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?