Nella stood by the creek and she said the word again and again. Home. How could it mean anything but what was here before her? The inky water, black at night. The swallows, lost somewhere between flight and sky. What had she even been thinking two hours ago, or was it five, when she had stood by her father’s bed and she had said that she was bringing him home? Was that what she had told him? Was that how she had said it? She felt so deeply wrong, so incredibly foolish, so childish. And then there had been that awful moment – she tortured herself with the memory of it now – when he had realised what she was saying and she had seen something in his eyes – was it pity? How she wished to disappear right here, right now, not to wilfully harm herself or to cause her own death but simply to disappear, to fade away. She had wished for it before, this exile, but never with such force, such heated desire: to go, to end, to stop being.
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