❝ Y’ were drivin’ us ‘part; But y’ only laughed at me - It's over, th’ tables turned- An’ all a’ the bridges burned- ❞
He sings along to the record, voice off tune, comforted by the singer’s voice as he takes a needle to the soft, tender flesh peeled from tonight’s dinner. Thick, normally clumsy hands are dead still as focus is centered on making the stitches just right. He has the head where the skin was taken beside him, already having the brain taken out and stored by the Cook.
He hears thuds outside, telling him to stop singing that ‘stupid shit’, while his mama slept. He’s too loud, too gruff, too soft, too quiet- he’s just too much to his family, all except mama and Nubs, maybe Bobby too, but he ain’t been around for a long damn time. Bubba, Jed, whatever you called him, he was just both too much and not enough for his family. He was his mama’s baby though, that was always true. He lets his voice fade off, still listening to the music until the record had finally stopped. He can’t work without noise- but it HAD to be noise he could control.
He pushes his chair away from his work bench and stands, slowly opening the door and deciding to head out where he can hear some noises he liked: The nearby creek. Running water. Maybe if he was lucky a friend might join him. Or at least a familiar face.
