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“Oh, Flora,” Jodi says, “you’re still young. You’re still under the illusion that the world is not mysterious.”
She has reached the ultimate lethargy, and it is surprisingly freeing. Her anxiety has kept her in fight-or-flight mode for so long that now the pendulum has fully swung the other way—absolutely nothing matters, everything is pointless, effort in any regard is a total waste. And it’s lovely. It’s weightless.
Her mother is latched to her brain like a leech, slowly sucking the good out of her and replacing it with a swirling, sinister matter.
