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ii. About The Destruction Of An Island
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It's the afternoon after the hurricane settled and the weather won't stop screaming about Blair Cameron.
Her name was the thunder, her name was the wind. And she destroyed the island all at once. She could write about it, maybe, on the crumbled paper of her black and white composition notebook under the latest book she had been reading (Jeffrey Eugenides's The Virgin Suicides) on her nightstand. There was an ashtray right besides it, her fingertips grazed it when she held out her hand. Like stardust, the cigarette-ash spread around her room and sparkled under the strong sunlight that slid past the chasm in her chiffon-soft curtains. For the first time in a while, it was after 12A.M. and Blair wasn't smoking.
She wrote about the destruction of an island in the back of her mind, absentmindedly, as she pulled herself out of bed and poorly tried to tangle her limbs from the heavy covers. Wheezie left a trace on the foot of her bed, where she spent a couple hours when the storm was at its peak. She wouldn't admit that she was scared, but it's okay, because neither would Blair.
Rage smoothened, the door slammed behind her. The air smelled like the natural phenomenon's aftermath and the sting that came with that gnawing feeling that home might not go back to what it previously was. It stuck to the bare skin of her stomach, where her crimson bikini straps were tied around her belly. But Blair didn't have to worry about that, she knew, Figure Eight had a tendency to get back on its feet in less seconds than it took to flicker her flame onto the tip of her cigarette. Marlboro, this time, and there was no lipstick that would leave stains on the soft brim. The Cut, however . . . Why was she thinking about it? She didn't care if the houses uprooted and ended up in the marsh that leaked into her backyard. For all she knew, the south side had been wiped away by the hurricane. Hopefully the boy she hated went along.
Since seven in the morning, the Cameron Estate had been flooded by people Ward called to help bring Tanyhill back to its previous, preposterous glory. She peered out the window hours ago and frowned at the sight of Rafe hopping on his dirt-bike and driving away. She shrugged when Ward asked where he was going and went back to rummaging through the ice-filled fridge (until the generators take over and they can empty out the makeshift cooler) for something sweet to bite on.
Sarah was outside, trying to push the birds away from the mice down near the dock like Sarah does. An environmentalist with a heart of gold who didn't have much more in common with her sister but their eyes, hair and family name. She took Blair's tennis racket and the younger girl had absentmindedly let her because she was too busy helping Wheezie try to get the WiFi working when she leaned against the cold counter with a pout. Unlike Sarah, Wheezie had her own worries which consisted of; posting pictures of herself on Instagram then stalking the comment section, annoying her sisters and brother and slithering around to get all the gossip.
