cyclical immortality

Roger dragged me back here soon after David was born. I wanted to stay in Phoenix. I was happy in Phoenix (and warm) but he was getting anxious. His inheritance was dwindling, and Roger insisted on maintaining an expensive lifestyle ("What would Liz say?" What did I care what Liz would say? When did I ever?). The three of us could have gotten along on a modest budget. It could have been cozy. I would have been happy living anywhere - anywhere but Collinwood. 

It's damp and dreary, and I prefer the heat of a bright sun on my face to that damned constant windwhipped sea spray. You can't even walk outside without being battered by the wind. And that wind - that mournful, shrieking wind that climbs up the cliffs, never alive, but never dying. The ocean has its freezing hands everywhere in this house. Mold thrives, wood cracks, and I can never seem to get warm enough, no matter how many fires I build. Not that I suppose it matters any more.

I keep finding myself back here. I don't know why, really. I could go anywhere. Back to Phoenix, maybe. Or maybe Egypt - I've dreamed of going to Egypt. But David is here. I could never leave David. 

I'm never leaving David again.