Work Text:
Sometimes the memory of the thing hurts more than the thing itself.
Ominous footsteps, threat inferred in the silence, rattling doorknob, horror-movie holding of breath.
The placidity of the operator, by the time help comes it'll all be done, I don't want to know how.
The second time, security bar trembling as much as her but neither giving in. Fury at a mother's gift having to be this.
The third, will it ever end?
Some mornings there are shadows under her eyes reflecting the ones she saw moving under the door.
It's over.
The bar is put away; at hand.