you look different, marcy. look at your hands, look at your face. they quiver, they twitch, they clench their fists, they try to let go of the feeling. but it’s so deep inside, they can’t quite locate it. they can’t even properly identify it. it feels heavy. they drag their feet, but they’re quick safety, home, mina, is closer and closer. they can see a faint glow. it’s the kitchen window, open, with mina mulling about. footsteps pick up, though exhaustion eats away at their poor muscles.
marcy can’t describe what they saw. they just remember the feeling of terror. something in the floorboards, something oozing from the walls, the shattering of glass and a stinging pain across the chest. fingers feel the wounds. deep, bleeding, burning. they don’t know how they got here, even. they pulled up to the house in their car, with their supplies, with a semblance of where they were, and the next thing they remember is …
“ fuck, fuck, my keys. no keys. fuck, ahhh, ” hands fumble around for the carabiner that’s usually hooked to their belt loop. but, nothing. fist against wood, faint and tired they try to knock harder but can barely muster the strength. their stomach begins to rumble and turn. they don’t know how long they’ve been gone. and all they can think is ‘ mina’s going to be so pissed for missing dinner. ’ another knock, more frantic, more desperate. they’re bleeding onto their porch. they clutch their stomach, covering the wound, trying to self-soothe. weakly : “ mina, please let me in. fuck. mina. ”
