It was good to have people hate you—it kept you sharp.
The worst part of Leon’s fury was the way he whispered, this terrible tortured hissing from his mouth, giving his words a tone more deadly than a shout or a yell.
The silence in the class was the kind Goober had never heard before. Stunned, eerie, suffocating.
He was stunned by the knowledge that pain isn’t just one thing—it is cunning and various, sharp here and sickening there, burning here and clawing there.
He could taste the hate in his stomach—it was acid, foul, burning.
And, without warning, the anguish of her loss returned, like a blow to his stomach, and he was afraid that he would faint.
I saw how young they were, boys with apple cheeks, too young to shave. Like me.
I drove away slowly, and I kept telling myself desperately that I wasn't saying goodbye.
Whenever you are on the edge of revealing something important in your past, you stall, voicing suspicions of my questions because you are afraid, because you are reluctant to face your past.