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"You were so young,” I said. "Too young to be taken from us. Why did it have to happen to you, of all people, when you are so young? Too young to die, I mean."
I pricked her finger to make sure she wasn't just faking, but she didn't even flinch. I pinched her, then slapped her face. Nothing worked.
How many times do I have to explain that she was dead? I looked down at her body, her face turning blue from death, and I wept some more.
She was so dead that I didn't even realize that this section is in the book for two reasons. First, so that I could have Bastille die somewhere, just like I promised. (See, I wasn't lying about this! Ha!)
The second reason is, of course, so that if anyone skips forward to the end to read the last page – one of the most putrid and unholy things any reader can do – they will be shocked and annoyed to read that Bastille is dead.
The rest of you can ignore these pages. (Did I mention that Bastille is dead?)
The end.
