Joan watches Marcus scream at the family of dutiful idiots with a dull expression. This is already wearisome. Disappointment is so fucking regular in her life, this is-
Ha.
She knows that trick. Her dad used to do it all the time, when shit was really bad. Try to lead her into certain places in the house or the garage where he'd have a fighter's advantage, like he needed more of one being a hundred pounds and thirty-four years older than her. But even if she didn't have that experience, there's a niggling feeling, an itch in her mind- she sees a figure of shadow behind Marcus in the attic, shaking its head.
She squints, blinks, but it's gone. Probably just stress. Years after Luke died, she thought she saw him everywhere.
Anyway, back to this motherfucker. She rounds on Marcus, stomping her feet, but not getting in grabbing distance. She's best at fighting older men, it's who she grew up fighting, she knows the way they try to play it, the way they always fucking do. "You want me to lay it out for you? Lazyass. I'm dumb, I'm ugly, I'm loud, I'm mean, I'm a flat-chested bitch with a shitty face before the scar and I'm going to Hell. I get it. Fuck off with it."
It's hard to really raise someone to true froth-mouthed rage when their default setting is anger. Anger, and all its shades; anger, annoyance, rage, bitterness, fear, pain, spite, regret, disappointment, everything about this is so fucking disappointing, and it hurts. It hurts like her neck hurts, like her throat hurts, something stuck in it, like the pain on the skin of her throat-
Don't think about that.
"What I don't-" she takes a deep breath, steeling herself for... something. She isn't sure. "Get. Is you. This. Torturing people in attics. You're a smart person. Shouldn't just... believe things 'cause the church says so. Said so. A hundred years ago, Marcus! A hundred fucking years!"
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Ha.
She knows that trick. Her dad used to do it all the time, when shit was really bad. Try to lead her into certain places in the house or the garage where he'd have a fighter's advantage, like he needed more of one being a hundred pounds and thirty-four years older than her. But even if she didn't have that experience, there's a niggling feeling, an itch in her mind- she sees a figure of shadow behind Marcus in the attic, shaking its head.
She squints, blinks, but it's gone. Probably just stress. Years after Luke died, she thought she saw him everywhere.
Anyway, back to this motherfucker. She rounds on Marcus, stomping her feet, but not getting in grabbing distance. She's best at fighting older men, it's who she grew up fighting, she knows the way they try to play it, the way they always fucking do. "You want me to lay it out for you? Lazyass. I'm dumb, I'm ugly, I'm loud, I'm mean, I'm a flat-chested bitch with a shitty face before the scar and I'm going to Hell. I get it. Fuck off with it."
It's hard to really raise someone to true froth-mouthed rage when their default setting is anger. Anger, and all its shades; anger, annoyance, rage, bitterness, fear, pain, spite, regret, disappointment, everything about this is so fucking disappointing, and it hurts. It hurts like her neck hurts, like her throat hurts, something stuck in it, like the pain on the skin of her throat-
Don't think about that.
"What I don't-" she takes a deep breath, steeling herself for... something. She isn't sure. "Get. Is you. This. Torturing people in attics. You're a smart person. Shouldn't just... believe things 'cause the church says so. Said so. A hundred years ago, Marcus! A hundred fucking years!"