It's amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me - such bullshit.
They say the cure is about happiness, but I understand now that it isn't, and it never was. It's about fear: fear of pain, fear of hurt, fear, fear, fear - a blind animal existence, bumping between walls, shuffling between ever-narrowing hallways, terrified and dull and stupid.
That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.
Let me tell you something about dying: it's not as bad as they says. it's the coming-back-to-life part that hurts.
Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
It's the rule of the wilds. You must be bigger, and stronger, and tougher. A coldness radiates through me, a solid wall that is growing, piece by piece, in my chest. He doesn't love me. He never loved me. It was all a lie. "The old Lena is dead." I say, and then push past him. Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.
You must hurt, or be hurt.
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