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It's a strange thing. Elvis isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed when the island changes back to normal, or whatever approximation of that it usually is; he just knows that things keep going, the way they always have, the way they always do, even when that seems impossible. It takes a little of the weight off, at least at first, but he finds that he misses having a bridge to stand on, a ledge that he could hypothetically throw himself off even if he knows he never would. All that Victorian shit was weird, there are no two ways around that, but at least there was something fitting about the cold weather and the dark shapes of buildings against a slate grey sky. Though it's what he grew up around, he has no idea what to do with all the sunlight and the warmth. It reminds him too much of Anabelle, like she's in all of it, though he thinks it's been actual months since he last laid eyes on her. He's not even sure now if he can remember what she looks like, if the image printed on the back of his eyelids even begins to do her justice (it probably doesn't).
If there is something to be said for all of this, it's the so-called gifts that have supposedly shown up at random, personalized for their recipients. He has yet to really touch the typewriter that appeared on his desk, has barely even written a word since before Anabelle disappeared, but at least it's there, something to use when he works up the energy to put together a story again. In the meantime, the case of clove cigarettes has definitely proved useful. He's always preferred them to regular ones, including from the tobacco grown here on the island, and though he's been willing to settle for whatever he can get, these, he's grateful for. He means to be making them last, but he has one lit now, held absently between index and middle finger, as he sits on a swing, not caring that he probably shouldn't be smoking where kids usually play. For now, it's as good a place to sit as any, somewhere a good distance from his hut. It's too difficult to think there, but he can't bring himself to move.
He's been sitting for he doesn't know quite how long when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, head turning in its direction. Only when he realizes it's Effy — someone thankfully familiar, and still around — does he smile, a slight thing, but genuine all the same. It's something. That's all he can ask for these days. "Hey."
If there is something to be said for all of this, it's the so-called gifts that have supposedly shown up at random, personalized for their recipients. He has yet to really touch the typewriter that appeared on his desk, has barely even written a word since before Anabelle disappeared, but at least it's there, something to use when he works up the energy to put together a story again. In the meantime, the case of clove cigarettes has definitely proved useful. He's always preferred them to regular ones, including from the tobacco grown here on the island, and though he's been willing to settle for whatever he can get, these, he's grateful for. He means to be making them last, but he has one lit now, held absently between index and middle finger, as he sits on a swing, not caring that he probably shouldn't be smoking where kids usually play. For now, it's as good a place to sit as any, somewhere a good distance from his hut. It's too difficult to think there, but he can't bring himself to move.
He's been sitting for he doesn't know quite how long when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, head turning in its direction. Only when he realizes it's Effy — someone thankfully familiar, and still around — does he smile, a slight thing, but genuine all the same. It's something. That's all he can ask for these days. "Hey."
