She had forgotten to keep her face in the right shape.
Brianna vaguely remembered screaming, raging, lashing out at things in the dark, talking to herself, asking herself questions no one could answer, clawing the walls until they were torn into deep, ragged furrows.
By the time she finally ran out of strength and slumped against Jacqueline's corpse, gasping, too exhausted to so much as twitch a finger, she almost felt like laughing.
How thoughtful of the host.
As if afraid she might miss something in the middle of her breakdown, the broadcast had played over and over again.
Even though she didn't want to listen, Brianna couldn't bring herself to cross the room and turn the radio off. She couldn't even turn away.
It was like being locked inside an iron box lined with spikes — thrash against the walls and you'd be torn to pieces; hold still and you'd slowly be crushed until you couldn't breathe.
