Quotes from Barry Lyga

When I'm with other people, I usually don't think about it. Sometimes, it catches me off-guard, but I usually don't. When I'm alone, it's all I can think about.

The truth is that today I had no destination. For some reason, I just had to ride past her house and see her. But that isn't the sort of thing you can confess to a girl while she is cleaning up from nursing you back to health. Or ever.

I jam my hands into my pockets because otherwise I'm afraid I'll try to hold hers. That's the sort of stupid thing I would do.

I have a bunch of friends with siblings. Half the time they seem to love it and half the time it's like they just wish they could kill them, you know?" Oh. Oh. So... [...] So... So casually. She said it so casually. People say it all the time, those words. "I could just kill him." "I swear, if she pisses me off again, I'll kill her." "Sometimes I just want to kill that guy." The world is filled with invisible, theoretical assassins, [...]

Life is so much easier when you just give people what they expect.

Every night for almost as long as I can remember, I go to bed and I ask the voice in my head, "Is it time yet?" And every time, the voice says, "No. Not yet." [...] that night, the voice did not say "No." That night, the voice said, "Almost. Be ready." And then... And then Aneesa. Aneesa. [...] Tonight, I am afraid to ask the voice. I am afraid of what it will say. I am afraid to hear "Yes" and I am afraid to hear "No.

Sometimes I wonder: Why can't they just see me, not the kid who killed? But then I wonder: Is it because the two are the same? It's bad enough to feel like an outsider. Even worse is when when I wonder: Is this new behavior, or has she been like this all along and I just never noticed? What have I been missing?

Women always cried. It was their last, best weapon. It made boyfriends apologize and husbands fold them in their arms. It made Daddy spend the extra money on the prom dress.

Sometimes I wonder: Why can't they just see me, not the kid who killed? But then I wonder: Is it because the two are the same? It's bad enough to feel like an outsider. Even worse is when I wonder: Is this new behavior, or has she been like this all along and I just never noticed? What have I been missing?

There's an old song that says, "Suicide is painless." I'm not foolish enough to believe that's always the case, but I do know this: Suicide ends pain.

I suppose the thought of it should be comforting to me, the idea that a lifetime is measured not in time, but in understanding.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. The truth is, it was ten years ago, and I didn't know Evan or his family then, and it's my history, not theirs. The truth is, I didn't wield a hunting rifle that day. The truth is, nothing anyone does it says can change what already happened. The truth is, guns are part of the world, of Brookdale, of life, and I can't, won't, and don't fall to pieces every time I see one. The truth is, I don't care about his guns.

I don't know how to quantify the way I am around her, the person I am. When I'm with her, I feel hope. Possibility. It clings to me like a scent.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. The truth is, it was ten years ago, and I didn't know Evan or his family then, and it's my history, not theirs. The truth is, I didn't wield a hunting rifle that day. The truth is, nothing anyone does or says can change what already happened. The truth is, guns are part of the world, of Brookdale, of life, and I can't, won't, and don't fall to pieces every time I see one. The truth is, I don't care about his guns.

I consider it the me-equivalent of the Bible-most likely full of nonsense, but comforting to fantasize about.

Most of us just go on, the walking wounded, dealing with our lives.

She listened to me and didn't try to fix things. She was open and kind, and when she raised her eyebrows, I thought my heart would stop beating in my chest....I treated her like a remedy, not a person.

I could have lied to you. It would have been a lot easier. I could have told you I was gay. Or blamed my dad, or my religion. I could have said that I had a boyfriend back in Baltimore. Because guys will listen when you tell them you belong to someone else. Like, you'll respect some made-up guy, but not me. I thought you were different. I trusted you. I told you the truth.

Barry Lyga is God!

I can't tell Mom. Can't tell her that her insistence on my productivity doesn't matter. That her insistence that I think about my future doesn't matter. None of that matters. I won't be around in the future. The decision has already been made. I won't be around. Whether it's now or in a week or in a few months. It's going to happen. Soon. I'm almost relieved.

My hand throbs with leftover pain. I hit something. Something. Not someone. The flat of my palm, smacking against Ms. Benitez's desk. Now I remember. Her stapler jumped. So did she. "Don't talk about my sister." I blacked out. Went into a fugue state. Sank deep into the static, where sound and light and memory could not find me.

Like life. Last as long as you can. Hold on as long as possible. And there's no shame in losing, because everyone loses. It's just that everyone has a different score. And the scores don't really matter after all. They disappear when you turn off the game.

Does this happen to you a lot?" I think of vomiting at Mom's bringing up Lola. Of the rage that picked me up when Mark said "Jihadi Jane." The time that vanished when I read the YouTube comments. And other times in my past. Times when I go away, but I'm still here.

Bang, they say. Bang. And bang. And bang. I pull my hand into my lap, lest my acid touch sear her. Bang. Guns. Big guns. Yes, I've fired one once. Yes, I'll do it again. But maybe. I look over at Aneesa. Maybe not just yet. Maybe not right away.