Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don’t want to hope for anything anymore.

They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

***A Last note from your narrator*** I am haunted by humans.

He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.