Lugging the bags of old newspapers -- insulation, to prevent that thing from figuring out where they were -- and those damn drawings down to the curb again and again for the garbage men to pick up is repetitive and soothing, in a way. When Joyce focuses on the dull ache in her arms, she doesn't think about the ache in her throat, from being choked. When she keeps her attention on shoving the shredded paper into bags, she doesn't think about teeth and claws, shredding their way through Bob's flesh.
She almost doesn't hear Sam, at first, busy looping up the clothesline they'd used to tie Will to the chair (he has bruises on his arms, his wrists, across his chest, she's seen them, she's seen and she'd thought she didn't have energy left to feel grief, but that aches.). But she looks up, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn in weary resignation, and stops.
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Date: 2019-08-04 03:34 am (UTC)She almost doesn't hear Sam, at first, busy looping up the clothesline they'd used to tie Will to the chair (he has bruises on his arms, his wrists, across his chest, she's seen them, she's seen and she'd thought she didn't have energy left to feel grief, but that aches.). But she looks up, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn in weary resignation, and stops.
"...Sam?"