There's a wrench in his gut at that, a twisting of the blade he himself sunk in to the hilt. He did this. He knows that he did this and he has no one to blame but himself for that, for pursuing a thought that might be painful, but it still burns like a trail of gasoline down his throat.
"They'd love to hate us," he corrects, like the words aren't closing, like there isn't a lump the size of a golf ball he has to speak around to force the words into the air. "But that's kinda the point, yeah?"
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There's a wrench in his gut at that, a twisting of the blade he himself sunk in to the hilt. He did this. He knows that he did this and he has no one to blame but himself for that, for pursuing a thought that might be painful, but it still burns like a trail of gasoline down his throat.
"They'd love to hate us," he corrects, like the words aren't closing, like there isn't a lump the size of a golf ball he has to speak around to force the words into the air. "But that's kinda the point, yeah?"