"Lucy loved killing. It was almost the only thing she found exhilarating, the only thing that made her feel vital, like she still mattered and wasn’t just a spectator to all the sorry, broken-down things and people – including herself – that surrounded and buffeted her every moment. Everything else around and within her felt limp, slippery, like you couldn’t get a hold of it and clutch it to yourself and suck out the beauty of it till it filled your gut with warmth and strength. What was that stupid saying she’d heard somewhere a long time ago? “If you love something, let it go.” What the fuck was that supposed to mean? If you loved something, you should grab it and make it yours, make it a part of you, or squeeze yourself into it until you’re lost inside and never want to get out – like a wet, warm, dark blanket that carries you off to a better place and away from all the stark, glaring, worthless crap all around you. Only killing did that for Lucy, really. Everything else, even if it were pleasant, dragged and enmeshed her into the vast network of a miserable, half-dead world that now seemed as if it were composed only of echoes and smoke. Killing took her out of that, above that: it was an escape, an epiphany, and God did she miss it."