hunks of stuffing strewn across the floor, along with the remains of the clock, flung from the wall and broken to almost unrecognizable bits.
So too were the lamps and both small tables that had sat at the ends of the settee,
as well as the bookcase under the front window, every book of which was torn from cover to cover.
Even the wallpaper had been ripped back in dirty, uneven strips.
The only thing left standing was the display cabinet, though its glass doors were smashed and everything inside hurled to the floor.
Conor stood there in shock. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in scratches and blood,
his fingernails torn and ragged, aching from the labour. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.
He turned round to face the monster. Which was no longer there.
“What did you do?” he shouted into the suddenly too quiet emptiness.
He could barely move his feet from all the destroyed rubbish on the floor.
There was no way he could have done all this himself. No way. (… was there?)
“Oh, my God,” he said again. “Oh, my God.”
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