Friday, February 10, 2012
I think of how she lives alone, just like me, and how she never had any real family, and how she only has sex with people. She never lets any love get in the way. I think she had a family once, but it was one of those beat-the-crap-out-of-each-other situations. There’s no shortage of them around here. I think she loved them, and all they ever did was hurt her.
That’s why she refuses to love.
Anybody.
I guess she feels better off that way, and who can blame her?
When she sleeps on my couch, I think about all that. Every time. I cover her up, then go to bed and dream.
With my eyes open.
I Am the Messenger, Markus Zusak

Notes

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