[For Cook]
There came a point, whether it was on island or off, when Freddie became used to the idea of his life being at a perpetual tilt. When he allows himself to think of it on those terms, he thinks perhaps it began with his mother, that slight listing to one side or the other. Calm moments become tricky, not to be believed; he gets his feet under him only to have the rug snatched away again.
(He thinks, sometimes, that living any other way might feel patently wrong, despite how badly he's convinced himself it's what he wants.)
Effy's locked herself in with her brother, and nothing to be done for it. Island gossip being what it is, he'd learned easily enough the why, but it hardly matters. There is one person who reigns the Effy Stonem hierarchy, and it certainly isn't Freddie. Truth told, he's just glad to place anywhere upon it. What this means, though, is that his days are suddenly long and listless again, and he's got too much time to think.
It always does him in, that. His body isn't made for it, but his mind chews on anyway, gnaws a thing down until there's nothing left, all in search of a remedy for the perpetual vertigo his life has become. Sometimes he thinks the answer is simple, but it never really is.
He's stretched across the bed he shares with his best friend, spindly arms propped behind his head, staring at the underside of their palm frond roof. The tipping point's going to come again soon, he thinks. His feet have felt too steady these last few weeks.
(He thinks, sometimes, that living any other way might feel patently wrong, despite how badly he's convinced himself it's what he wants.)
Effy's locked herself in with her brother, and nothing to be done for it. Island gossip being what it is, he'd learned easily enough the why, but it hardly matters. There is one person who reigns the Effy Stonem hierarchy, and it certainly isn't Freddie. Truth told, he's just glad to place anywhere upon it. What this means, though, is that his days are suddenly long and listless again, and he's got too much time to think.
It always does him in, that. His body isn't made for it, but his mind chews on anyway, gnaws a thing down until there's nothing left, all in search of a remedy for the perpetual vertigo his life has become. Sometimes he thinks the answer is simple, but it never really is.
He's stretched across the bed he shares with his best friend, spindly arms propped behind his head, staring at the underside of their palm frond roof. The tipping point's going to come again soon, he thinks. His feet have felt too steady these last few weeks.