Part 15 (1/2)

He welcomed it with relief, because it was, at last, the punishment he deserved.

LIFE AFTER DEATH.

Conor opened his eyes. He was lying on the gra.s.s on the hill above his house.

He was still alive.

Which was the worst thing that could have happened.

”Why didn't it kill me?” he groaned, holding his face in his hands. ”I deserve the worst.”

Do you? the monster asked, standing above him.

”I've been thinking it for the longest time,” Conor said slowly, painfully, struggling to get the words out. ”I've known forever she wasn't going to make it, almost from the beginning. She said she was getting better because that's what I wanted to hear. And I believed her. Except I didn't.”

No, the monster said.

Conor swallowed, still struggling. ”And I started to think how much I wanted it to be over. How much I just wanted to stop having to think about it. How I couldn't stand the waiting any more. I couldn't stand how alone it made me feel.”

He really began to cry now, more than he thought he'd ever done, more even than when he found out his mum was ill.

And a part of you wished it would just end, said the monster, even if it meant losing her.

Conor nodded, barely able to speak.

And the nightmare began. The nightmare that always ended witha”

”I let her go,” Conor choked out. ”I could have held on but I let her go.”

And that, the monster said, is the truth.

”I didn't mean it, though!” Conor said, his voice rising. ”I didn't mean to let her go! And now it's for real! Now she's going to die and it's my fault!”

And that, the monster said, is not the truth at all.

Conor's grief was a physical thing, gripping him like a clamp, clenching him tight as a muscle. He could barely breathe from the sheer effort of it, and he sank to the ground again, wis.h.i.+ng it would just take him, once and for all.

He faintly felt the huge hands of the monster pick him up, forming a little nest to hold him. He was only vaguely aware of the leaves and branches twisting around him, softening and widening to let him lie back.

”It's my fault,” Conor said. ”I let her go. It's my fault.”

It is not your fault, the monster said, its voice floating in the air around him like a breeze.

”It is.”

You were merely wis.h.i.+ng for the end of pain, the monster said. Your own pain. An end to how it isolated you. It is the most human wish of all.

”I didn't mean it,” Conor said.

You did, the monster said, but you also did not.

Conor sniffed and looked up to its face, which was as big as a wall in front of him. ”How can both be true?”

Because humans are complicated beasts, the monster said. How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?

”I don't know,” Conor shrugged, exhausted. ”Your stories never made any sense to me.”

The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.

”But how do you fight it?” Conor asked, his voice rough. ”How do you fight all the different stuff inside?”

By speaking the truth, the monster said. As you spoke it just now.

Conor thought again of his mother's hands, of the grip as he let goa”

Stop this, Conor O'Malley, the monster said, gently. This is why I came walking, to tell you this so that you may heal. You must listen.

Conor swallowed again. ”I'm listening.”

You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do.

There was a long silence as Conor re-caught his breath.

”So what do I do?” he finally asked.

You do what you did just now, the monster said. You speak the truth.

”That's it?”

You think it is easy? The monster raised two enormous eyebrows. You were willing to die rather than speak it.

Conor looked down at his hands, finally unclenching them. ”Because what I thought was so wrong.”

It was not wrong, the monster said, It was only a thought, one of a million. It was not an action.

Conor let out a long, long breath, still thick.

But he wasn't choking. The nightmare wasn't filling him up, squeezing his chest, dragging him down.

In fact, he didn't feel the nightmare there at all.

”I'm so tired,” Conor said, putting his head in his hands. ”I'm so tired of all this.”

Then sleep, said the monster. There is time.

”Is there?” Conor mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.

The monster changed the shape of its hands even further, making the nest of leaves Conor was lying on even more comfortable.

”I need to see my mum,” he protested.