Chapter 22 of Inkheart is just murdering me. Gorgeous example of show don't tell with Meggie's trauma, it's heartwrenching. She's scared of strangers—a smile isn't a smile anymore, surely that person wishes her harm—a lump underneath someone's coat has her wondering if his belt bears a knife as dastardly and sharp as Basta's. All she can think of is going home and hiding away. Just look at this:
Ever since Meggie had seen Basta hold his knife to Mo's throat it had seemed as if there were a stain on the world, an ugly, dark burn mark still eating its way toward them, stinking and crackling.
Page 228. That's exactly what such condensed trauma (such as being kidnapped, in Meggie's case) feels like, especially once you're safe again. You got away, you survived—nothing will ever be the same. You can't turn off the part of your brain that feels as though it is being hunted.
And no one can convince you that the red of strawberries isn't the same as the red from your father's arm that a dog tore through.
Cornelia Funke is such a magnificent writer, it's no wonder I've looked up to her for all these years.