The Monsters We Deserve
Page 9
No. All around me …
Breathing.
When did I come here? What did I do? Did Mary find me or did I find Mary? Everything is hard now, everything so hard to think straight, just to think straight for one stupid second, so I know what is what. And I smell something in my presence and there is no doubt that something has forced its way into—
Forced its way into me.
All around: blowing snow and the symbols; triangles on the wood, and the pile of sticks. There’s a date. Writing and a date on the door, and the door is open. The door is open and inside is darkness and breathing.
Push my way in, torch flashing, this way, that … There’s nothing, nothing but breathing filling me, filling me, and the torch won’t even illuminate a foot in front of me; the darkness absorbs all its light and some of mine.
Then I turn, and I see it.
*
Just for a moment, bearing down on me, coming out of the dark. Its face is a shocking apology on which is written its whole story. Every ugly weeping bare muscle that twitches around its eyes, every drawn sinew in its neck describes to me the futility of what Mary wants. And I know that we cannot control the things we create, because people believe what they want to believe. They take what they want from what they read, and what they see, and it matters not one tiny bit if that is not what was intended. And if the idea that they want to believe is actually more powerful than the idea that was created, then yes, that is the idea that will survive. That will be selected. It is natural.
I know Mary’s task is futile. My task is futile. We get the monsters we deserve, and there is nothing Mary or I can do about it.
There is only the creature, forever. There is no fairy tale, ending.
*
The creature towers above me, looming, the back of its naked skull rubbing against the low ceiling of the cellar. It lowers its face, close to mine, and with its seeping eyes, inspects me for three long seconds. I feel the press of fingertip and thumb upon my throat, and its breath on my face, in my nostrils, in my lungs, where crystals of ice have lodged themselves and will never melt. Without saying a word, the creature speaks:
If I can carry this burden, I need have no fear of you. Nor anyone.
I close my eyes, and wait for it to annihilate me.
Then I hear movement, and opening my eyes see it turn, and stride away. Away. It sets out into the world once more.
I follow it to the threshold, still grasping the torch in one hand, shining my feeble light after it. Already, it is invisible, part of the darkness of the night.
My other hand, my cut hand, throbs; and I feel something, I feel something in it, and I look down and see it is the key. The key to this place, this trap.
Then I look at the footprints that brought me here, and I see they were my own.
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About Marcus Sedgwick
MARCUS SEDGWICK is the bestselling author of over thirty books. He has been shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal seven times, among other major prizes. He is the recipient of the eminent Printz Award as well as two Printz Honors, giving him the most citations to date for America’s most notable book prize for writing for young adults.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Zephyr, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Marcus Sedgwick, 2018
The moral right of Marcus Sedgwick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781788542296
ISBN (HB) 9781788542302
ISBN (XTPB) 9781788548380
Images © Marcus Sedgwick and Shutterstock
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