There was at least two things John had learned from this experience, and those two things were that lambs were surprisingly noisy; and most household kitchen knives really are just not sharp enough
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SHIT FUCK WHAT THE HELL FAFHJDLHUEHEUIHEUFHEI FUCKING WHAT DID I JUST DO THAT FOR FUCKING SHIT OR SHE'S LOST IT JESUS MOTHERFUCKING ADHFIDLHGDUYE*o GODDAMNIT, WHATGod I need to punch someone in the face
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Traveling with a pinpoint makes immeasureable distances a tertiary thought. It's the trite little twist of metaphysics that makes John tired, the way it's now completely inescapable that he's traveled so many miles and hasn't moved a goddamn centimeter
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You can't protect us from things that suck. I know he's worse. I know he's the worst thing that's ever happened to you, and to us. He's your personal hell. Hell can happen to anyone. The fact that it doesn't is just fucking luck for everyone else. I'd rather be here. I'd rather have something to need this badly that I'm not going to leave someone
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Awake, he's not sure he can take it. He feels scalded inside; he can taste char at the back of his throat. He lost and he's lost. To slink home, lick his wounds, and start over again sounds like the shittiest idea he's had since deciding to come back to the war
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His stuff fits into two boxes, which are stored neatly in the closet. He forgot his toothbrush, but it's not likely anyone will notice given recent events (except perhaps Christmas, unexpectedly disconcerted by the lack of people in the house, and who will thoughtfully dowse the bristles with cat spit in anticipation of John's return
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