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400 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 12, 1996










"Eviscerate them, Patrick. Kill them all."
I felt something clench in the center of my chest and then just as suddenly unclench and fill with a gust of chilled air which seemed to hollow out my insides like the flick of a spade.
"He can't kill us both. No one's that good. If he gets to you before me"-she leaned back a bit so her eyes could meet mine-"I'll paint this house with his blood. Every last inch of it."
patrick,
don'tforgettolockup.
I guess my impulse had something to do with growing older, with looking back and seeing very few innocent violences committed against the young, in knowing that every tiny pain scars and chips away at what is pure and infinitely breakable in a child.
Or maybe I was just in a bad mood.
"It'll eat us eventually," Angie said. "The violence."
"I always thought we were stronger than it."
"You were wrong. It infests you after a while."
"You talking about me or you?"
"Both of us."
Being the object of another's hate is relative. If the person who hates you is an advertising exec whose Infiniti you cut off in traffic, you're probably not going to worry much. If Bubba hates you, though, putting a couple of continents between the two of you is not a bad idea.
Well, I was sick of their violence and their hate and my own codes of decency, which may have cost people their lives in the last month. Sick to fucking death of it all.
When I was a boy, I loved my father, and he just kept hurting me. He wouldn't stop. No matter how much I wept, no matter how much I pleaded, no matter how hard I tried to figure out what he wanted, what I could do to be worthy of his love instead of victim of his rage.
I don't think I've ever felt anything like this.
When I tried to speak, my voice was shaky and hoarse and the words were strangled in my throat. My eyes felt wet and my heart felt as if it were bleeding.
"How do you live with yourself, Patrick?"







