[ Lila Kyle does not ponder about how long it has been since she was last at home. There is no home to go back to — no pale yellow nursery, no manicured lawn, (no dead things in the driveway, smudges and smears, all red and black in the noonday sun). There's no Brad either and no baby left in her belly. Just a tumor that doesn't wither or grows, that neither lives nor dies but demands to be fed. A hole bore straight through the very center of Lila; a hole with no bottom, no beginning or end, making her a void, a black space, from head to toe.
She forgets this, of course, for the sake of the baby. (The baby that isn't a baby at all, but the memory of one, the hope of one, all shriveled and small like the rock that sags down her gut; empty as she is.) She imagines that the world has not ended, that the people haven't died and that society has broken like waves dissolving into mist against the virus' stony shore. A monster or a corpse, those are the only choices left, though Lila pretends there is another way.
The house with the pale yellow nursery and the gory drive is long gone, abandoned and given back to the earth, but Lila imagines this place with its stone walls and its wooden rafters and candlelit windows is that house, is that home. (Lila's home. Here at Collinsport.)
As to where the family has gone, the one that gave this town its name — who can say? Those that haven't been ground into bonemeal are given over to the virus and lose themselves to the flocks of the Twelve. But not Lila, who wanders aimlessly through the overgrown garden in a nightgown she found in the master bath. No, her blood is special and so she remains.
At the sound of the gate creaking upon its rusted hinges she turns, her voice light. (Honey, I'm home.) ]
Brad— Brad, is that you? [ One would never guess from the tone of her voice that the world had come to an end. ]
[ the fact that it's deserted comes as a shock. the collinwood of quentin's memories has caretakers, people putting in blood and sweat for the estate's upkeep. periods of negligence, of course, but the good-hearted and meticulous family of 1850 and 1972 seem to have disappeared without a trace. the town doesn't miss them. the town is too quiet and slow and nearly empty to miss them, but quentin doesn't think about it. the world itself is physically there, isn't it? and it will be there, and as long as it's there, he'll be there as well. whatever affects them doesn't affect him.
and all of his attachments in collinsport, maine left him long ago. perhaps the witch still lives, perhaps not; either way, quentin knows better than to go seek her out. knows better than to find her and let her put a collar on him like some lapdog. a century of that was too much, and having an acquaintance isn't worth giving up the sweetness of the freedom he has now.
he hears her first, voice trailing through a window mysteriously left open and rusted to the point where it won't shut anymore - the water stains on the carpet show the majority of the damage. and then he turns and sees her and his feet carry him backwards and for a moment he can't breathe.
she isn't kitty. that he knows. she isn't kitty or that sweet governess or even the woman whose portrait still hangs in the drawing room, crooked and paint peeling. but it's still with trepidation that quentin approaches the window once more. he leans forward, allowing his head and shoulders to hang outside, and he holds the windowpane up with one hand should the rust disappear and it come crashing down on him. ]
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She forgets this, of course, for the sake of the baby. (The baby that isn't a baby at all, but the memory of one, the hope of one, all shriveled and small like the rock that sags down her gut; empty as she is.) She imagines that the world has not ended, that the people haven't died and that society has broken like waves dissolving into mist against the virus' stony shore. A monster or a corpse, those are the only choices left, though Lila pretends there is another way.
The house with the pale yellow nursery and the gory drive is long gone, abandoned and given back to the earth, but Lila imagines this place with its stone walls and its wooden rafters and candlelit windows is that house, is that home. (Lila's home. Here at Collinsport.)
As to where the family has gone, the one that gave this town its name — who can say? Those that haven't been ground into bonemeal are given over to the virus and lose themselves to the flocks of the Twelve. But not Lila, who wanders aimlessly through the overgrown garden in a nightgown she found in the master bath. No, her blood is special and so she remains.
At the sound of the gate creaking upon its rusted hinges she turns, her voice light. (Honey, I'm home.) ]
Brad— Brad, is that you? [ One would never guess from the tone of her voice that the world had come to an end. ]
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and all of his attachments in collinsport, maine left him long ago. perhaps the witch still lives, perhaps not; either way, quentin knows better than to go seek her out. knows better than to find her and let her put a collar on him like some lapdog. a century of that was too much, and having an acquaintance isn't worth giving up the sweetness of the freedom he has now.
he hears her first, voice trailing through a window mysteriously left open and rusted to the point where it won't shut anymore - the water stains on the carpet show the majority of the damage. and then he turns and sees her and his feet carry him backwards and for a moment he can't breathe.
she isn't kitty. that he knows. she isn't kitty or that sweet governess or even the woman whose portrait still hangs in the drawing room, crooked and paint peeling. but it's still with trepidation that quentin approaches the window once more. he leans forward, allowing his head and shoulders to hang outside, and he holds the windowpane up with one hand should the rust disappear and it come crashing down on him. ]
What're you doing out there?