Reagan Grambusch

“There are timeless stories, powerful enough to have survived through the ages. Read lots of books like these — they’ll be like friends to you. They’ll inspire and support you.”
― Sōsuke Natsukawa, The Cat Who Saved Books

“If I can find that out, and if it adds even one jot of information to whatever else has been discovered about mental retardation and the possibility of helping others like myself, I will be satisfied. Whatever happens to me, I will have lived a thousand normal lives by what I might add to others not yet born.
That's enough.”
― Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon

“What does it really look like?"
"I can show you," he purrs, letting the light settle in his palm. "Say the word, and I will lay your own soul bare before you. Surrender, and I promise, the last thing you see will be the truth."
There it is again.
One time salt, and the next honey, and each designed to cover poison.
Addie looks at the ring, lets herself linger on it one last time, and then forces her gaze up past the light to meet the dark.
"You know," she says, "I think I'd rather live and wonder.”
― V.E. Schwab, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

“Yes, of course," she said, the words rushing out. "You're defending your country." She opened her mouth again, then bit her lip.
"Go on," he said. "Ask what you wanted to ask. I don't bite."
"Well, I suppose I just wondered whether you had... whether you had actually ever killed anyone."
He laughed.
"You know, you do seem much younger than sixteen," he said. "But in answer to your question- yes, I have. More than one." He stopped. There was a new, dark look in his eyes when he continued.
"You can't imagine what it's like. The Libyan heat sticking to you, day in, day out. Nothing but sand and rock for miles. Not a bit of green. All day, crawling in the dust, shooting and being shot at. Men dying around you. You realize, when you see a person die, that there's nothing special about humans. We're just flesh and blood and organs, no different to the pig that have us this bacon.
"So, all day, dust, death, everywhere. I went to sleep each night with dust in my mouth and the smell of blood in my nose. Even here- I'm still finding dust on me. Under my nails, in my hair, caked into the soles of my shoes. And I can still smell the blood. All so that some English girl, sitting pretty in her father's manor house, can ask me if I ever killed anyone.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward