“And now it’s for real! Now she’s going to die and it’s my fault!”
“And that,” the monster said, “is not the truth at all.”
Conor’s grief was a physical thing, gripping him like a clamp, clenching him tight as a muscle.
He could barely breathe from the sheer effort of it, and he sank to the ground again, wishing it would just take him, once and for all.
He faintly felt the huge hands of the monster pick him up, forming a little nest to hold him.
He was only vaguely aware of the leaves and branches twisting around him, softening and widening to let him lie back.
“It’s my fault,” Conor said. “I let her go. It’s my fault.”
“It is not your fault,” the monster said, its voice floating in the air around him like a breeze. “It is.”
“You were merely wishing for the end of pain,” the monster said. “Your own pain. An end to how it isolated you.
It is the most human wish of all.” “I didn’t mean it,” Conor said.
“You did,” the monster said, “but you also did not.” Conor sniffed and looked up to its face,
which was as big as a wall in front of him. “How can both be true?”
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