All Chapters of The Boy who Circled Time: Chapter 301 - Chapter 310

After being led through several corridors while being held up, Gretel found that her legs were soon able to hold her body. She was able to remove the force of her weight from the man that she had been leaning on, little by little, until she was fully standing on her own. She still kept his grip on the man either way, just in case she ended up tripping and falling on her face the moment she let go. The men around in her, in their grey suits, looked already intimidating enough, never mind whatever they were concealing under their clothing to use on her if she took a step out of line. She knew that they would not be forgiving if, due to her own clumsiness and the weakened state that they had forced her into, she fell and held up the line. She most likely would be yanked up and pushed forward to keep on moving without sympathy or the understanding that she simply would not be able to keep walking, just like what had happened before back when she h

The death of the man in front of Gretel had been harrowing. A simple, clean, silent shot echoed throughout the hall, the quiet deafening all of her senses. She fell to the floor, her legs no longer working, knees buckling underneath her, not at all softening her descent downwards onto the grey. Her clothing blended into the floor; the colour such an impersonal thing, hiding itself within the giant expanse of homogeny, somehow becoming the nothingness, while all the while, standing out in a stark contrast, rejecting what it truly was, all at the same time. The grey of her person acted as it if had the ability and the right to denounce that had just happened, while taking all the credit for it, gleaming brightly as if what had just occurred was honourable, or any sort of expression of victory. Gretel felt as if she were about to be sick, bile climbing up her throat, and threatening to explode out of her, along with all her rage and her hatred, a

The spy did not seem to come across as if he had been cooperative before, hence needing all the extreme torture that he had borne the marks of. Only in his perceived and proper final moments, did he finally crack, suddenly finding within himself a fountain of knowledge and a wealth of information that seemed abundant enough to share about with his torturers. But they didn't listen. They didn't care of what the spy seemed to say to them, his words meaningless and useless, all the same to them, sliding off as if they were oil on water. But there was still no reason to ignore the spy that they had captured. It was most certainly true that when faced with torture and the fear of death, one was more likely to say just anything and everything to escape their fate, but it was also true that the human body displayed signs of lying and untruthfulness more prominently, and it would be easy enough to have a Distant Brain Scan Device running to detect whe

They’re dead, and they were insignificant. Those actions were not my fault. It wasn’t the child’s fault that the adult could not act like an adult and emote properly.” “I know that too, but it doesn’t stop the pain and it doesn’t stop the fantasies of one day, my father returning home and saying that he was sorry. That my mother would leave her bed and be able to take herself again, and that we could have all the things we saw outside: perfect families who celebrated all their celebrations and holidays together in a little house where they could rely on each other for mutual support. Sometimes, I felt like I was acting like the father, even as a child. I watched a lot of TV and repeated back what the dads on those shows said. I’d read books and internalise the morals in them as an idea of what a dad should be. When my Aunt was having a bad day, I’d try making food for her, cleaning stuff up, lifting heavy things when she was more than ten times stronger than

The next morning, Emmet took the groceries that he had bought the previous night and finally placed them inside the kitchen. There had been a note left on the kitchen table. It had been left on several different pairs of perfectly folded up clothing and shoes. Next to them, there was little book full of different recipes and cooking ideas, all done in atrocious and illegible handwriting, with a cartoon girl with wide, giant eyes on second to last page of the book. Emmet stared at it for a moment, turned his head to the side to the little, and wondered who the drawing was of. If he went by the uniform, he could reasonably say that it was Lila, but she really didn’t have the face that was in the drawing. Her hair wasn’t nearly as perfectly styled, or as curly and puffy, and she had quite clear acne scars running all the way down both sides of her face. The eyes were also far too happy to fit her. He flipped the page and then perfectly understood that he had jus