* Esta sección puede tener spoilers *
The stars seem a lot closer now. Closer than the three hundred trillion miles that separate us. Close enough to touch, for me to touch them, for them to touch me.
If everything was good, then nothing would be good.
What were they thinking? It's an alien apocalypse! Quick, grab the beer!
This is what life on Earth has become since the Arrival. It's an either/or world.
“I'm serious, Cassie,” he puffed. “These are the times when any night could be your last night.”
He leaned over and gave me a hug. Not too tight, not too long. A quick hug. Squeeze. Release. Anything more would seem like a good-bye.
You know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you don't have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn't mean they apply to you.
“The only thing I know is I don't know anything anymore.”
He smiles. It's a good smile, like his face. “It's a very nice bear.”
“He's looked better.”
“Like most things.”
He thinks I don't understand the question. Sarcasm doesn't appear to work on him. If that's true, I'm in trouble: It's my normal mode of communication.
“You're a mayfly. Here for a day and then gone. That doesn't have anything to do with the Others. It's always been that way. We're here, and then we're gone, and it's not about the time we're here, but what we do with the time.”
“I didn't save you,” he whispers, lips tickling my eyelashes. “You saved me.”
But the only thing the Others brought was death.
Prayers and promises. The one his sister made to him. The unspoken one I made to my sister. Prayers are promises, too, and these are the days of broken promises.
The first rule: Trust no one.
I nod, looking up into his eyes. So chocolaty warm. So melty and sad. Damn it, why does he have to be so damn beautiful? And why do I have to be so damn aware of it?
“I had it all wrong,” he says. “Before I found you, I thought the only way to hold on was to find something to live for. It isn't. To hold on, you have to find something you're willing to die for.”
Some things you can never leave behind. They don't belong to the past. They belong to you.
“Put on a human face so no human face can be trusted. The only answer: Kill everyone or risk being killed by anyone.”
I feel myself falling into a completely different kind of wonderland, where up is down and true is false and the enemy has two faces, my face and his, the one who saved me from drowning, who took my heart and made it a battlefield.
She gahers her hands into mine and pronounces me dead:
“Ben, we're the 5th Wave.”
“I ran one time,” I finally say. “I'm not running again.”
The kid called Zombie, who made a promise, and if he breakes that promise, the war is over–not the big war, but the war that matters, the one in the battlefield of his heart.
“Do I need to look at your butt?”
“I've been wondering about your opinion.”
“Enough with the lame attempts at humor.” I slice the material at both hips and peel back the underwear, exposing him. His butt is bad. I mean bad as in peppered with shrapnel wounds. Otherwise, it's pretty good.
“You're a Silencer, aren't you?”
Silence. How ironic.
“I am a shark, Cassie,” he says slowly, drawing the words out, as if he might be speaking to me for the last time. Looking into my eyes with tears in his, as if he's seeing me for the last time. “A shark who dreamed he was a man.”
“Not many of my people agreed with me. They saw pretending to be human as beneath them. They were afraid the longer we pretended to be human, the more human we would become.”
“When you... 'woke up' in Evan?”
He shakes his head and says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, “When I woke up in you, Cassie. I wasn't fully human until I saw myself in your eyes.”
Christ, have I done it again? Run when I should have stayed? Turned my back when I should have fought?
That's the flaw in Vosch's master plan: If you don't kill all of us all at once, those who remain will not be the weak.
Floods, earthquakes, disease, starvation, betrayal, isolation, murder.
What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us.
You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us.
We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo.
And we will be your masterpiece.
Yo todavía no he leído este libro pero a lo mejor me animo. Un besote :)
ResponderEliminar