#✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . ❛ 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙖 ( answered. )
✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . “ you’re not fine. and you don’t have to pretend that you are with me. ” , @ghostfame
𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤. that damned book. the likes of which gale had sworn she wouldn’t write. foolish of sam to believe her words as truth, for gale never preceded them with on the record.
the letters that make up that sentence in page 27 are permanently stamped against the wrinkles of her brain, against the backs of her eyelids to which she’s reminded of with every blink, every thought. 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙨 — as article after article and reddit post after reddit post about how gale’s statements match the vitriols that the conspiracy theorists were spewing about her would ping in her notifications.
tara’s voice brings her from out her stupor, and she glances away from yet another headline, 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙖’𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙢 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙖𝙢’𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙞𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 — tears welling in her eyes, quick to spill over onto her cheeks. it had been weeks since tara had found her, sobbing and clenching gale weathers’ latest book, 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗮𝗺 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗽𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝗺’𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁. sam raises shaky hands to quickly swipe at her cheeks in desperate attempt of ridding herself of the evidence of her torment, her weakness.
❝ i’m sorry, ❞ sam chokes out, ducking her chin in order to avoid those dark brown eyes ; ❝ she knew us, tara — she was there, she saw who the real killers were, and yet . . . unstable? a born killer? ❞ sam swipes at her tear filled eyes before,
❝ what if she’s right? ❞ sam asks miserably, gaze doing anything to avoid finding tara’s own, ❝ what if she’s right and — and no matter what i try to be and how hard i try to be it, i’ll only end up exactly what they think i am. what if there’s just no more point in trying? in going on? what if she’s right and it’s just best for everyone that i go. ❞ she shifts, gaze down as she leans into tara’s side, resting her temple against tara’s shoulder, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚊’𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 : ❝ i’m so tired, tare. and i’m just — i’m so sorry. ❞
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✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . i thought i'd lost you. ( from cash 🥺 ) @goofily
𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 — 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐡’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. it’s a kind of pain that squeezes between her ribs the way no blade from a ghostface ever could, puncturing her heart with a force no ghostface could ever wield. 𝚜𝚊𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔, mindful of the bruised skin as she brushes the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone,
❝ but you didn’t, ❞ she assures him, ❝ you didn’t, okay? i’m here, and i’ll be okay. i promise. ❞
the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor seems to chirp in agreement to her claims, 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣’𝙩 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩. sam smiles up at him, her thumb continuing to brush back and forth along his cheekbone in rhythmic strokes. sam pauses a moment before she pulls her hand back and places both palms on either side of herself against the stuffy hospital bed, sucks in a breath before she hoists herself so that she’s closer to the edge of the bed, 𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗲𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
once she deems herself situated, she looks back to cash as she pays the now empty space beside her. ❝ come on, ❞ she tells him. ❝ you must be exhausted. you need to rest, too. ❞ she says, 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎. she holds her arms out towards him, fingers extending his way, the face of pleading reflecting in her dark eyes,
❝ please? ❞
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👫 <3
send a 👫and i’ll write four headcanons i have about our muse’s relationship
for the five years that sam and tara were apart after sam had left home, sam wrote letters for tara for every special occasion she had missed. for every birthday, for every holiday, every new grade she would be going into, school dances she had no clue if tara would even be attending. she wrote her first letter, one for tara’s birthday, with the intention on mailing them to her — but just couldn’t. so instead she kept them all safe & stored away in a box, the act of writing them becoming therapeutic, and never losing hope that one day, she’d be able to face tara and give them to her. when tara’s birthday comes up after the killings they’d survived, the first one they’d celebrated together in years, one of sam’s presents to her is that box — gift wrapped, with the letters inside organized from first written to last.
every saturday night is sisters night. it’s become tradition, with sam picking up greasy take - out on her way home from work ( always getting extra for chad & mindy whilst they do their own thing ) , and tara in charge of the movie selection. they’ll watch two movies at the least, with sam making quips about the movie and the characters in attempt to make tara laugh. it’s become sam’s favorite thing, and despite it being a weekly occurrence, sam looks forward to each sisters night as though it’s been ages since the last.
sam went into purchasing and reading gale weathers’ new book 〝 requel : terror returns to woodsboro 〞 with hesitancy. she has some resentment after gale had told her she wouldn’t write a book about the murders, but wants to give gale the benefit of the doubt, considering she did play a part in saving her and tara’s lives. when she reads how gale describes her ( insinuating what the conspiracy theorists believe ) sam has a complete breakdown. grabbing whatever’s closest and hurling it at the wall as she sobs. it’s tara who rushes to her, who holds her and tells her that it’s all bullshit, who rips the page that describes sam from out the book and tears it up. sam would’ve drowned in that sea of despair if it wasn’t for tara being her life preserver.
sam’s overprotective nature over tara did not start the day she got that phone call from wes, but the day their ( now estranged ) father placed the newborn tara into five year old sam’s eagerly awaiting arms. as soon as she was placed in her arms, sam booped her little nose and swore to her, chest puffed out with all the bravado a five year old could muster, that she’d never let anything hurt her : not ghosts, nor bugs or boogeymen. and to this day sam berates herself that she wasn’t able to keep that promise she made to that little cooing bundle all those years ago.
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✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . “ i’m afraid if i start crying, i just won’t stop. ” , @nancewheelr
𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 — a fear whose face she could instantly point out in a crowd, and sympathy jabs a finger into the beating tissue of her heart. sam wants to reach out, to offer comfort in some way — a hand on her shoulder or a hug against her side, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙯𝙚𝙣, 𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙨. instead, all she offers is a curt bob of her head.
❝ i get it, ❞ she offers, 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚜. ❝ really, i do. but you can’t just hold it all in like this. it’s not healthy, ❞ sam awkwardly raises one hand, an exasperated smile on her lips : ❝ believe me, i know. ❞ sam’s hand drops along with her gaze, a sigh flaring her nostrils, ❝ and what i also know is that holding this shit in doesn’t make it go away. it’s a tricky bastard, stubborn, and it finds other ways of getting that release — the kind of ways in which usually involve hurling breakable objects at the wall and screaming at poor customers whose latte orders are too annoyingly complicated. and once you go down that road, it’s very hard to turn around and veer off it. ❞
sam hesitates a beat before taking a step forward towards nancy, hesitates two beats more before her hand reaches out to grasp nancy’s own within it. 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙢 𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙, and she hopes it’s presence is nonetheless soothing to nancy in some capacity as she finds the strength to raise her chin and look into nancy’s eyes, fighting the urge to reel her hand back as though the touch burned.
❝ just cry, okay? it’ll stop, eventually, and ‘til it does i’ll be right here — you won’t be alone. ❞
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✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 13. for one muse to fall asleep on the other after breaking down , @ghostfame
𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐚’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨. there’s a gratitude there, it’s presence awkward and odd, at tara having broken down. for it meant a cathartic release that she was certain tara was overdue for. sam had been quick to have gathered tara in clambering arms as soon as the first sob escaped, 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙖 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 — as though she simply couldn’t if sam was there so desperately attempting to hold every piece in place.
at tara’s sudden silence, 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚋, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 — but the relief that flooded her when she saw that tara had only fallen asleep was enough to knock that panic from off where it perched, kept its empty grasping fingers from taking hold of her heart.
tara’s since slouched slightly against sam’s side, and sam’s certain she can’t be comfortable. and so, with the arm that isn’t still wrapped around tara, she reaches for the throw pillow on the opposite side of the couch, laying it on her lap and smoothing out the fabric. once it’s to her satisfaction, sam oh so gently begins to guide and shift tara ‘til her temple was against the pillow, gently shushing & reassuring her any time she stirred from the movement. one hand on tara’s arm, sam grabs the throw from off the back of the couch and drapes it over tara’s sleeping form, 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘢’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘩𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘵����𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
( they were, back when they were kids, sam hopes that act of comfort is akin to riding a bike — a skill that’s never lost, just rusty )
sam continues to stroke her fingers through tara’s hair, tries to ignore the tremor that’s overtaken them at every motion — 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗼𝗺 𝗹𝗶𝗽 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀. seeing her baby sister so distraught was a sight she’d run into ghostface’s blade in order to never again witness, in order for tara to never again experience. she prays tara’s too exhausted to notice the tremble in her words as she tells her,
❝ it’s okay, just sleep, tare. i’m here, and i’ll be right here when you wake up. i promise. ❞
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✆ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . “ you have to talk to someone, eventually. it doesn’t have to be me, but. you need to. ” / from kirby @sourfilm
𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. she doesn’t need to turn to face it, for she already knows what words await on its tongue : that sam is now acting in the same manner she had scolded tara for. ❝ i just — i don’t see the point. ❞ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝗮𝗺 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗮 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗰𝗼𝗳𝗳. her eyes deflect from kirby’s own, lands on the ring her fingers anxiously fiddle with. ❝ it’s not gonna do any good. not for someone like me, anyways. ❞ sam admits in a sigh, chest deflating with the motion.
❝ i’m not tara, or mindy or chad, gale or sidney — or you — i’m not a victim, at least - not in the sense of the word that the public associates with. to them, a victim is someone innocent, someone completely undeserving of whatever bullshit they’ve had to go through — i’m the daughter of billy loomis, i’m never gonna be seen as someone innocent and undeserving of the bullshit i’ve been through. ❞ 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧, 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙧𝙗𝙮’𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣. she isn’t quite sure what she’s more terrified of finding if she raises her gaze and meets that green, fear or pity.
❝ the last therapist i saw said he was going to turn me into the authorities, said i was a danger to the public. and i’m sure that he would’ve if he wasn’t murdered. the shrink before him told me it was best we saw other people, like it was some shitty date or something, was totally waiting for him to follow it up with the whole it’s not you it’s me thing. if the people whose whole profession is to talk and listen without prejudice or judgment can’t do so with me, then who can? ❞
the ring that sam still lays her focus on begins to blur, a familiar sting paining her eyes. she swallows hard, teeth sinking into inner cheek in attempt to keep those damned tears at bay, 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎. ❝ so it doesn’t matter who i talk to, it’s all gonna be the same. the same look in their eye, the same distrust, the same fear. i appreciate the concern, kirby, really i do — but i think that’s just how it has to be. ❞
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