It's incredibly static, but it does something I like a lot. I can't recall if this was intended to be part of Voirrey's interviews or retirement. I am keenly aware that I have not been concentrating on sharpening the conflict. Otherwise it is just pretty prose.
VOIRREY: I never returned home. Not in any real sense. I tried to keep in touch with my sister and her children.
I walked a lot. Read a lot.
I look back and I see a simultaneous retreat from the world and a stripping of identity. All so no-one would connect me with him.
VOIRREY: My mother, who had such wonderful talent for reading other people, missed what was happening under her own roof. She missed the festering resentment and yearning.
I don't know if she loved my father
I don't know. Was she relieved when she died? A little, I think. He'd been ill a long while before he passed. I'd like to think that brother made his peace with him before the end. They were stubborn bastards. Too proud the pair of them.
I miss them, I do. I miss them all. They were the only family I had. The closest I had to friends, outside of my dogs.
Inside of a dog, it's black as pitch.
My friendships only went so far. People get too close, get curious. Ask questions and put two and two together and get the right answer.
They ask me about him and I become his, his creator, his ward, his master, his victim. Whichever.
Am I the girl dreaming of the mongoose? Or the mongoose dreaming of the girl?
I can't seem to wake up. When I sleep, I dream of the farm.