Bokelskere.no

Han fikk en nesten uimotståelig trang til å strekke ut armene og svinge seg svimmel over åssidene; det var bare tanken på Julie Andrews som forhindret ham i det.

He stared at Avery's socks and felt an odd sense of wonder. Socks were so normal. So mundane. How could someone who pulled on socks in the morning be a serial killer? Socks were not hard or dangerous. Socks were funny; foot mittens, that's what socks were. They made a knobbly hinge of your toes and became comical sock-puppets. Surely anyone who wore socks could not truly be a threat to him or anyone else?

By the time the hole was dug, Steven knew he would carry on, even when the point was not merely to keep to keep himself warm. Digging had given his life purpose. It was a small, feeble purpose and was unlikely to end in anything more than a gradual tapering off into nothingness. But purpose was something, wasn’t it? A small, mean voice somewhere nagged that it meant nothing. It all meant nothing. But here was another, stronger voice in Steven. It had no answers, only another question, but it was this question that kept him digging until well after an unseen sun set in the invisible sky. If it all meant nothing, why did it matter so much?

As he crossed the car park, Steven peered idly into the cars. Sometimes people left dogs in their cars on hot days. Steven dreamed of finding a dog in a car on a hot day and being forced to smash the window to rescue it, then taking it home with him, secure in the knowledge, he'd saved it from stupid, underserving people.