[The first thing she does after staggering to her feet is stare. The ocean is jewel blue, and the light glancing off it from the open sky above makes her eyes water, but she just can’t blink. Not yet. She needs to breathe it all in, let it find its place in her.
It doesn’t take. Her lungs are paralyzed, her body frozen. It’s just water soaked to her skin and sand in the sides of her practical loafers — $39 at Target, a good deal at the time. Not at all what she’d have worn today, if only she’d known.
The landscape stretches out on all sides of her. She is dwarfed by the unknown, and she has nothing but the clothes on her back, her car keys in one hand, a radio in the other. That alone is of little concern; she doesn’t need things as much as she needs a sense of realness: there is no adrenaline surge to distract her from how wrong this is.
She drops her things to the sand and puts her hands on herself immediately — her hips, her stomach, her chest, inventorying her own body. ]
Oh my god. [Her voice is soft, almost babyish. It’s finding itself rapidly, growing intense with repetition:] Oh my god, oh my god.
Network
RA151N: Hi. Is anyone out there?
RA151N: If you can read this reply immediately.
RA151N: SOS
RA151N: SOS
RA151N: SOS
RA151N: SOS
[She’ll keep going, if you let her.]
Exploring
[Shauna is out of place. She would look at place in the slightly outdated kitchen of a modest suburban home, or running errands in a Ford Windstar, or on the sidelines of her child’s soccer practice meet. But don’t let the slightly oversize blouse and mom jeans confuse you: she is not, absolutely not a soccer mom. She is just stressed, and it positively radiates off her, her lips pursed, her gaze tense. Unblinking. Sad.
She stares you down, hands at her sides. There’s already muddy smears on the knees of her jeans, dirt under her nails. She draws a deep breath, as if to steady herself. There’s a shred of impatience on her voice.]
Shauna Sadecki (2021) | Yellowjackets
[The first thing she does after staggering to her feet is stare. The ocean is jewel blue, and the light glancing off it from the open sky above makes her eyes water, but she just can’t blink. Not yet. She needs to breathe it all in, let it find its place in her.
It doesn’t take. Her lungs are paralyzed, her body frozen. It’s just water soaked to her skin and sand in the sides of her practical loafers — $39 at Target, a good deal at the time. Not at all what she’d have worn today, if only she’d known.
The landscape stretches out on all sides of her. She is dwarfed by the unknown, and she has nothing but the clothes on her back, her car keys in one hand, a radio in the other. That alone is of little concern; she doesn’t need things as much as she needs a sense of realness: there is no adrenaline surge to distract her from how wrong this is.
She drops her things to the sand and puts her hands on herself immediately — her hips, her stomach, her chest, inventorying her own body. ]
Oh my god. [Her voice is soft, almost babyish. It’s finding itself rapidly, growing intense with repetition:] Oh my god, oh my god.
Network
RA151N:
Hi. Is anyone out there?
RA151N:
If you can read this reply immediately.
RA151N:
SOS
RA151N:
SOS
RA151N:
SOS
RA151N:
SOS
[She’ll keep going, if you let her.]
Exploring
[Shauna is out of place. She would look at place in the slightly outdated kitchen of a modest suburban home, or running errands in a Ford Windstar, or on the sidelines of her child’s soccer practice meet. But don’t let the slightly oversize blouse and mom jeans confuse you: she is not, absolutely not a soccer mom. She is just stressed, and it positively radiates off her, her lips pursed, her gaze tense. Unblinking. Sad.
She stares you down, hands at her sides. There’s already muddy smears on the knees of her jeans, dirt under her nails. She draws a deep breath, as if to steady herself. There’s a shred of impatience on her voice.]
So… um. Have you ever done this before?
[She is already hungry.]