The lullaby started without permission.
I didn't try to stop it. Didn't try to push it down or bury it or pretend it wasn't there. The melody rose from my throat, soft and broken, the same distorted Brahms that Gabriel had usedduring our sessions. The same notes that had once made my shoulders drop and my jaw go slack and my mind go quiet.
But it was different now.
The lullaby didn't control me anymore.
I controlled it.
I'd reclaimed it.
Note by note, breath by breath, killing by killing.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I've been thinking."
"About the memories."
"About the ones that don't fit."
"About the ones that contradict each other."
"I've decided it doesn't matter."
"I've decided to stop trying to sort them out."
"Real or not real, they're mine now."
"I'm keeping them."
"All of them."
"Even the ones that hurt."
"Especially the ones that hurt."
I'd stopped trying to sort real memories from false ones.
It had happened gradually—or maybe suddenly, or maybe somewhere in between, time had stopped meaning anything. The effort of separating truth from invention had been exhausting, consuming, a weight that pressed down on me every waking moment. And for what?
What did it matter if Gabriel had really said those words?
What did it matter if Sasha had really existed?
What did it matter if Rue had really been there, or if I'd imagined her, or if she'd been someone else entirely?
The memories were mine.
They were part of me.
And I was done fighting them.
"You're broken."
Matt's voice, from weeks ago.
