yeah and? you think i what, gasped and decided you were too dangerous to be about before?
you think i would just let you to rot in your pain because i could get hurt? do you know who the fuck i am?
i am your fucking sister. i don't run away. i run towards you, always
[ She's crying now, because of course she is. Because Sam is not entirely wrong, because they're both on a long circling down the drain od their traumas, and this time it was Sam going through it. ]
you think i would turn away from you for this? that i would be scared of you? if you turn ghostface and come after me ill kick your ass until you're my sister again
[ she doesn't answer for a little while after that. she can't. she can't bring herself to stop crying, can't will her fingers to stop shaking for long enough to type anything out. it's at least another ten minutes before her breaths are steady enough, even though the tears keep flowing. ]
i'm not. you're never cut off i just
i still think it's safer for you if
[ messages keep getting half-typed and only sent due to her fingertips brushing the 'send' button. they stop again for another few minutes, and then: ]
i don't know what you thought but it should scare you. it was too easy. i hate that it was so easy tara
[ She writes an answer, the deletes it. Then writes another one. And another one.
She screams. She insults Sam, she begs Sam to let her in. To accept her help. She writes all of this, several times. But nothing she writes feels real. Concrete. Sincere. It's all just words on a screen, so easy to ignore.
So Tara stands up.
She runs out of her room and finds Sam's. She's in there, she has to be. Tara stands there for a while minute, unsure of what to do, shaking slightly, a sudden burst of insecurity getting ahold of her. Maybe she can't help Sam. Maybe she will only make things worse. Maybe Sam already has people helping her.
Tara starts pounding the door, hard, making the wooden frame tremble as she feels her fists go numb with pain. ]
SAMANTHA MARISOL FUCKING CARPENTER, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW.
[ even during sam’s wildest, most wasted teenage years, christina had rarely brought out her middle name. she’d wondered if it was because she didn’t care enough to, unless she was around people who were there to judge her parenting techniques. she’d heard it more often from deputy hicks than she had from her mother.
tara’s tirade finds sam at the edge of her bed, staring at a phone screen long since gone dark. the room is dim and she’s still in her pajamas and last night’s makeup. there’s a half-empty bottle of vodka within reach on the floor that she nearly knocks over when she stands to open it, blinking blearily at tara when she she comes into view.
for a moment she just stares, eyes still red-rimmed and glassy, smudges of mascara on her cheeks, hair in a messy, unraveling braid. it’s a second before she can bring herself to say anything, afraid of spilling over again when she’d just stopped crying. ]
You’re gonna hurt your hand. [ it’s stupid. but a valid concern with how hard tara’s been pounding at the door. ]
[ Tara almost hits Sam in the chest when opens the door, but she manages to stop in time. So she just freezes there, hand raised, head slowly tilting to the side as she realizes what is that her sister is saying. ]
I...huh?
[ Well, she looks like shit, but Tara wasn't expecting her to sound so...her. Then again, badly pretending the blatant uncomfortable truth staring you in the face isn't there is a Carpenter special. Tara lowers her hand slowly, taking Sam in. ]
God, you're such an idiot.
[ And then she throws herself at Sam, effectively headbutting her as she wraps her arms around her, a vice grip of worry, need and desperation. ]
[ she's not sure what she's expecting. tara had been so angry and upset and sam knows that the distance she's been keeping is a big part of what's behind it, especially now. but she hasn't been able to face her. she's barely been able to face anyone since that day.
but tara flings herself towards her, arms encircling her like a koala, and sam's arms go reflexively around her, reminded of when they were both little and unaware of the extent of their mother's harmfulness and her father's legacy, when tara looked at her like she was the whole world. and sam just - falls apart. she exhales, sobbing, curved over tara's shoulder as she lets herself feel everything she's been trying not to for weeks.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
you think i would just let you to rot in your pain because i could get hurt? do you know who the fuck i am?
i am your fucking sister. i don't run away. i run towards you, always
[ She's crying now, because of course she is. Because Sam is not entirely wrong, because they're both on a long circling down the drain od their traumas, and this time it was Sam going through it. ]
you think i would turn away from you for this? that i would be scared of you? if you turn ghostface and come after me ill kick your ass until you're my sister again
please sam, don't cut me off
no subject
i'm not. you're never cut off i just
i still think it's safer for you if
[ messages keep getting half-typed and only sent due to her fingertips brushing the 'send' button. they stop again for another few minutes, and then: ]
i don't know what you thought but it should scare you. it was too easy. i hate that it was so easy tara
no subject
She screams. She insults Sam, she begs Sam to let her in. To accept her help. She writes all of this, several times. But nothing she writes feels real. Concrete. Sincere. It's all just words on a screen, so easy to ignore.
So Tara stands up.
She runs out of her room and finds Sam's. She's in there, she has to be. Tara stands there for a while minute, unsure of what to do, shaking slightly, a sudden burst of insecurity getting ahold of her. Maybe she can't help Sam. Maybe she will only make things worse. Maybe Sam already has people helping her.
Tara starts pounding the door, hard, making the wooden frame tremble as she feels her fists go numb with pain. ]
SAMANTHA MARISOL FUCKING CARPENTER, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW.
no subject
tara’s tirade finds sam at the edge of her bed, staring at a phone screen long since gone dark. the room is dim and she’s still in her pajamas and last night’s makeup. there’s a half-empty bottle of vodka within reach on the floor that she nearly knocks over when she stands to open it, blinking blearily at tara when she she comes into view.
for a moment she just stares, eyes still red-rimmed and glassy, smudges of mascara on her cheeks, hair in a messy, unraveling braid. it’s a second before she can bring herself to say anything, afraid of spilling over again when she’d just stopped crying. ]
You’re gonna hurt your hand. [ it’s stupid. but a valid concern with how hard tara’s been pounding at the door. ]
no subject
I...huh?
[ Well, she looks like shit, but Tara wasn't expecting her to sound so...her. Then again, badly pretending the blatant uncomfortable truth staring you in the face isn't there is a Carpenter special. Tara lowers her hand slowly, taking Sam in. ]
God, you're such an idiot.
[ And then she throws herself at Sam, effectively headbutting her as she wraps her arms around her, a vice grip of worry, need and desperation. ]
no subject
but tara flings herself towards her, arms encircling her like a koala, and sam's arms go reflexively around her, reminded of when they were both little and unaware of the extent of their mother's harmfulness and her father's legacy, when tara looked at her like she was the whole world. and sam just - falls apart. she exhales, sobbing, curved over tara's shoulder as she lets herself feel everything she's been trying not to for weeks.
months, if she's being entirely honest. ]