taking in the destruction of the sitting room in disbelief, almost refusing to see what was really there.
Conor couldn’t even hear her breathing. And then she looked at him, her mouth open, her eyes open wide, too.
She saw him standing there in the middle of it, his hands bloodied with his work.
Her mouth closed, but it didn’t close into its usual hard shape.
It trembled and shook, as if she was fighting back tears, as if she could barely hold the rest of her face together.
And then she groaned, deep in her chest, her mouth still closed.
It was a sound so painful, Conor could barely keep himself from putting his hands over his ears.
She made it again. And again. And then again until it became a single sound, a single ongoing horrible groan.
Her handbag fell to the floor. She put her palms over her mouth
as if that was all that would hold back the horrible, groaning, moaning, keening sound flooding out of her.
“Grandma?” Conor said, his voice high and tight with terror. And then she screamed.
She took away her hands, balling them into fists, opened her mouth wide and screamed.
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