though we're all pillars of salt now, it was worth it for the view
It doesn't take long to figure out when it happens. For two months, Elvis has gone to sleep beside Anabelle, the two of them curled up together, tucked away from the rest of the island in their hut on the isolated stretch of north beach, sunflowers just outside their window. It's like he imagines it would have been at home, based on what she told him, except despite how reluctant he'd be to admit it, it's better here. There are no newspaper headlines, no reporters flocking around his house; her mother and stepfather aren't here, there are no beauty pageants, and he doesn't have to worry about his lack of a mortician's license or finding another way to make money. Nothing's ever perfect, and there are still times he wakes up while it's still pitch-black out remembering too vividly how that rope felt around his neck, keeping the air from his lungs, and days he feels like he can barely move for how much he misses his dad, but all things considered, they've got it pretty damn good. Even he's been able to acknowledge that.
In spite of himself, he's gotten used to it, too, learned to rely on her in a way he never quite managed back home. That's why, when he finds himself in an empty hut at the end of the day, and then lying in an empty bed, he knows something's wrong. Anabelle has always been more social than he is, but usually, that's involved dragging him places and keeping him busy, not leaving him here alone and not this late. There are other worst case scenarios, of course (she could be hurt or worse than that), but those aren't the ones he comes back to; nothing's ever as simple as that. He waits, or he tries to, but then he thinks about something he was told once, that the things a person showed up with usually disappear with them, and goes to look for his mother's dress, only to find that it isn't there.
The worst part is, he isn't actually surprised at all.
It's a chilling feeling, though, like ice or something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach, old but not unfamiliar. He's felt like this before, standing on the porch in the rain watching his father's body being driven away and in the couple of days that followed, an emptiness that comes with the knowledge that he doesn't have anything left, an odd sort of restlessness going along with it. The last time he lost someone like this, he nearly made the worst mistake he ever could have. Now, he thinks about Anabelle and the tears in her eyes when she pressed her fingers to the bruises on his neck, the way she told him a long time ago to call her if he ever thought about doing what he nearly did, and this time, though there's no miracle to be found, he won't let it go that far again.
The walk to Eden's isn't a short one, but he thinks that might be for the best, too, giving him a chance to pull himself together somewhat, the cool, clear night air not actually doing a thing to clear his head, but in theory, it would have been nice. By the time he gets there, it's late but not too late, and he stands back after he knocks, hoping it's Eden herself who comes to the door and not the girl who lives with her. He really doesn't want to have to explain this to a stranger.
In spite of himself, he's gotten used to it, too, learned to rely on her in a way he never quite managed back home. That's why, when he finds himself in an empty hut at the end of the day, and then lying in an empty bed, he knows something's wrong. Anabelle has always been more social than he is, but usually, that's involved dragging him places and keeping him busy, not leaving him here alone and not this late. There are other worst case scenarios, of course (she could be hurt or worse than that), but those aren't the ones he comes back to; nothing's ever as simple as that. He waits, or he tries to, but then he thinks about something he was told once, that the things a person showed up with usually disappear with them, and goes to look for his mother's dress, only to find that it isn't there.
The worst part is, he isn't actually surprised at all.
It's a chilling feeling, though, like ice or something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach, old but not unfamiliar. He's felt like this before, standing on the porch in the rain watching his father's body being driven away and in the couple of days that followed, an emptiness that comes with the knowledge that he doesn't have anything left, an odd sort of restlessness going along with it. The last time he lost someone like this, he nearly made the worst mistake he ever could have. Now, he thinks about Anabelle and the tears in her eyes when she pressed her fingers to the bruises on his neck, the way she told him a long time ago to call her if he ever thought about doing what he nearly did, and this time, though there's no miracle to be found, he won't let it go that far again.
The walk to Eden's isn't a short one, but he thinks that might be for the best, too, giving him a chance to pull himself together somewhat, the cool, clear night air not actually doing a thing to clear his head, but in theory, it would have been nice. By the time he gets there, it's late but not too late, and he stands back after he knocks, hoping it's Eden herself who comes to the door and not the girl who lives with her. He really doesn't want to have to explain this to a stranger.