You Chose Us. Now We Have To

Take Away Someone’s Fear, Or Low Intelligence, Or Dishonesty . . . And You Take Away Their Compassion. Take Away Someone’s Aggression And You Take Away Their Motivation, Or Their Ability To Assert Themselves. Take Away Their Selfishness And You Take Away Their Sense Of Self-preservation.

Beatrice," She Says. "beatrice, We Have To Run." She Pulls My Arm Across Her Shoulders And Hauls Me To My Feet. She Is Dressed Like My Mother And She Looks Like My Mother, But She Is Holding A Gun, And The Determined Look In Her Eyes Is Unfamiliar To Me.

I See A Few Hands Stretching Out To Me At The Edge Of The Net, So I Grabbed The First One I Could Reach And Pull Myself Across. I Roll Off, And Would Have Fallen Face-first Onto A Wood Floor If He Had Not Caught Me. "he" Is The Young Man Attached To The Hand I Grabbed. He Has A Spare Upper Lip And A Full Lower Lip. His Eyes Are So Deep-set That His Eyelashes Touch The Skin Under His Eyebrows, And They Are Dark Blue, A Dreaming, Sleeping, Waiting Color.

Though I Know That He Had Something To Do With The Attack Simulation, And With All Those Deaths, I Find It Difficult To Pair Those Actions With The Man I See In Front Of Me. I Wonder If This Is How It Is With All Evil Men, That To Someone, They Look Just Like Good Men, Talk Like Good Men, Are Just As Likeable As Good Men.

I Understand Why She Did All Those Things, But That Doesn't Mean We Aren't Still Broken.