But I took stupid Bluie and kind of cuddled with him as I fell asleep.
I still had one arm draped over Bluie, in fact, when I awoke just after four in the morning
with an apocalyptic pain fingering out from the unreachable center of my head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I screamed to wake up my parents, and they burst into the room, but there was nothing they could do to dim the supernovae exploding inside my brain,
an endless chain of intracranial firecrackers that made me think that I was once and for all going,
and I told myself—as I’ve told myself before—that the body shuts down when the pain gets too bad, that consciousness is temporary, that this will pass.
But just like always, I didn’t slip away. I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown.
Dad drove, talking on the phone with the hospital, while I lay in the back with my head in Mom’s lap.
There was nothing to do: Screaming made it worse. All stimuli made it worse, actually.
The only solution was to try to unmake the world, to make it black and silent and uninhabited again,
to return to the moment before the Big Bang, in the beginning when there was the Word,
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