Few moments Ago,
One month.
That was how long it had been since Jenny had done anything useful with her life, and she was acutely, miserably aware of it.
She sat on the edge of her bed — not quite lying down, not quite upright, occupying the uncomfortable middle space of a person who couldn't commit to resting because her thoughts were too loud to allow it.
Her knees were pulled loosely to her chest, her back curved against the headboard, her fingernail pressed between her front teeth.
She bit down.
Pulled.
Bit again.
The room around her was large by most standards. The house — her mother's house, her house, the house that had belonged to their family for long enough that the walls had absorbed the particular smell of it, wood and faint floral and something underneath both that was simply 'home' — sat at the end of a quiet lane behind iron gates and overgrown hedges.
It was not a mansion. She had always known it was not a mansion. But it was substantial.
