She sat in her garden and screamed.
She screamed again.
She dug her nails into her palms and burrowed her feet into the soil, pushing up little uneven mounds of dirt.
She pushed off from the rock upon which she was sat and ran across the garden until she hit the privet hedge on the opposing side.
She sank down to the earth in a rustling of leaves and a snapping of twigs, the whispering of beetles in her ears.
Alice McLullich yelled out questions and answers and accusations.
Alice looked down at her hands and saw the marks the nails had left.
She inspected the soles of her feet and saw the scratches the stones had put there.
She curled up on her green patch of grass, shadow cast across her figure in the evening light by the twigs criss-crossing above her, and winced as she felt the pain of the wound a sharp branch had torn down her flank.
She shut her eyes and tucked her limbs into herself, using the breeze as her blanket.
Alice McLullich sobbed, but nobody heard it.