As the monster’s hands gently but firmly guided him towards his mum, Conor saw the clock on the wall above her bed.
Somehow, it was already 11.46 p.m. Twenty-one minutes before 12.07.
He wanted to ask the monster what was going to happen then, but he didn’t dare. Because it felt like he knew.
“If you speak the truth,” the monster whispered in his ear, “you will be able to face whatever comes.”
And so Conor looked back down at his mum, at her outstretched hand.
He could feel his throat choking again and his eyes watering.
It wasn’t the drowning of the nightmare, though. It was simpler, clearer. Still just as hard.
He took his mother’s hand. She opened her eyes, briefly, catching him there.
Then she closed them again. But she’d seen him. And he knew it was here.
He knew there really was no going back. That it was going to happen, whatever he wanted, whatever he felt.
And he also knew he was going to get through it. It would be terrible. It would be beyond terrible. But he’d survive.
And it was for this that the monster came. It must have been.
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