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“I’m trash. From old money.”
“It’s all too loud.”
What happened to the bike?
A single woman even a hair over thirty was a queer thing in these parts.
They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook.
It’s impossible to compete with the dead. I wished I could stop trying.
Every tragedy that happens in the world happens to my mother, and this more than anything about her turns my stomach. She worries over people she’s never met who have a spell of bad chance. She cries over news from across the globe. It’s all too much for her, the cruelty of human beings.
“I’m okay. This place does bad things to me. I feel … wrong.”
“Camille, do you ever feel like bad things are going to happen, and you can’t stop them? You can’t do anything, you just have to wait?”
“I think I finally realized why I don’t love you,” she said.
dream. Marian, her white nightgown sticky with sweat, a blonde curl pasted across her cheek. She takes my hand and tries to pull me from bed. “It’s not safe here,” she whispers. “It’s not safe for you.” I tell her to leave me be.
Something horrible was about to happen.
just like Marian.
My mother killed Marian. My mother killed those little girls.
Would Marian be dead if she hadn’t had Adora for a mother?
“Last night. You saved me. That saved me. If you hadn’t stayed with me, I would have done something bad. I know it, Camille.”
You’re crazy to not think it.
Mother holds child only when she is sick or crying.
After the way he looked at my marked-up body, I knew I wouldn’t.
A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.
sharp objects
