Page 91 of The Man Made of Smoke

Because I could never be fast enough.

Nobody could.

I kept looking at the closed door. It occurred to me whatarrogancethe Pied Piper must have had to leave the boy out here like that. There had been moments when the boy had been wandering the rest area all but unattended as well. It was hard to imagine possessing that degree of confidence and control. I had no idea what the boy had gone through before that afternoon, but it must have been terrible enough for him to see his captor as all-powerful. For it to be impossible for him to fight back by then.

I looked at the boy.

What did he do to you?

He broke me down. That’s enough for you to know.

I’m sorry, I thought. I’m so sorry.

You will be. All of you will.

But there was an itch in my subconscious, and I forced myself to run back through my thoughts, trying to work out what had caused it. The sense of control—that was it. The Pied Piper’s behavior that day appeared arrogant and brazen, and there had been no obvious need for him to take the risks that he had. But nothing he did would have been unnecessary; in his own warped mind, there would have been a reason for everything. And that included the way he had put the boy on display. It had been done for a purpose.

Nobody sees, I thought. And nobody cares.

That’s right. None of you saw me. None of you cared.

And that’s why I’m hurting you now. To punish you all.

I stared back at the boy. His eyes were full of hatred, and I could feel that same emotion mirrored inside me. The guilt and self-disgust rising to the surface, threatening to overwhelm me. I did my best to fight it back down. Because however keenly I felt it, what the boy had said—that’s why I’m hurting you now—wasn’t the whole story.

No, I thought. That’s not quite right. Because all of us did the wrong thing that day, and I can understand you hating us for that. I hated myself for it and I still do. But that’s not why you’re doing this, is it?

The boy didn’t reply.

I looked at the closed cubicle door again, chasing the idea.

You give the people you attack a choice, I thought slowly. They can do the right thing or the wrong thing. You reward them for doing the wrong thing—it’s only if they do what’s right that you punish them. And at that point you hurt them very badly, don’t you? The violence is ferocious and out of all proportion. You areragingwhen you kill.

I looked back at the boy.

But it’s notthemyou hate, I thought. It’s you.

The whistling stopped.

And immediately, the boy’s demeanor shifted. All the fury seemed to leave him, and in my mind’s eye he was just a child again, one who looked even smaller than before. Emaciated. Frightened.Broken down.

And then he began crying.

Nobody seesme, he sobbed.Nobody cares aboutme.

You in particular?

Yes! I didn’t matter to anyone. Nobody loved me enough to look for me. Nobody missed me. I meantnothingto the world. He was teaching me that I was worthless. That I didn’t deserve to be saved.

And he was right, wasn’t he?

No, I thought. He wasn’t. You were never worthless.

I want to believe that.

The boy wiped his nose with a trembling hand.

I’ve tried so hard to. I’ve told myself that it was your fault—all of you—and I’ve done my best to hate you instead. But it’s me that’s disgusting. It’s me!

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