ost_whyg
"-O Sorrow-O Sorrow-Time consumes Life,
And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart
Uses the blood that I lose to play my part."
The Enemy, Baudelaire.
When you're fifteen and the world decieves you, all you have left is a novel of scarce sense. It would seem like the dogs have bitten and rumaged over chapters, and your wordds have long since made a story. Christopher owns the list of his tragedies, but their literary source it's unknown to him. The sole fact he knows for sure, is that his friend, James, is alive, and so are James' parents with their infinite kindness. He can't tell if he is alive himself, not yet.