Well, that was a relief. Except now Irene actually had to pick up the fingers. Was she squeamish? Nah--okay, maybe a little. Irene could smash and pick up and throw away cockroaches no problem, but you kinda figure that this was a couple tiers higher. There was a reason they wanted to get the fingers out of sight, after all.
Irene closed her eyes as she reached for the fingers with her bandaged left hand--didn't want to make skin contact with the fingers, after all-- and felt around, missed, felt around again, felt her fingers brush against her--the--fingers, shrieked, sent the fingers flying. Tried again, looking this time, still using her bandaged left hand to pick them up. That was a dumb mistake. Picking up your fingers with the hand the fingers had once been attached to sends your mind into weird places, gets you started thinking about how you're throwing away a part of yourself and how maybe Irene should've had a bit more sentimental attachment to the two little meat sticks. For fuck's sake, they're not gonna give you AIDS, Irene. You can touch them. It's not like you had a problem with them back when they were still attached to your hand.
Er. Fuck. Shut up, brain. Shut. The fuck. Up.
Just don't look at it. Easy. Pretend it's a cockroach--Irene usually tried not to look at the cockroach when she was throwing it away, anyways, so--see? She could almost believe it now. Cuz she was trying to convince herself that it wasn't a cockroach-- just a bit of trash she'd found on the floor. Not that she could convince herself that she was just throwing out a piece of trash, mind. That's why you don't look.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs now. See? That wasn't so bad. Five steps. Four. Three. Easy there. Irene held her breath as she opened the door, flung the fingers out as far as she could, saw them land, decided that that wouldn't do, ran to the fingers, and kicked them--frantically, almost viciously, until they were hidden in some bushes. It'd be some time before she'd feel comfortable looking at those bushes.
Exhale. Irene clomped back up the stairs, trying to get the thump thump thump of the blood pulsing through her ears to slow down. In. Out. Both through the mouth. Not that that fact was relevant or deliberate. Irene was a little too distracted to realize that she should've focused on some specific placebo breathing technique. Not until she'd already gotten back to where Eris and Alice were still hanging around, their eyes expectant.
What was Irene planning? Nothing. Planning meant long term meant thinking about getting off the island meant strategizing meant--nope. We'll cross that bridge, figure out that answer if we ever get to it. For now, Irene wasn't planning anything. Definitely not.
"That depends. How long ago was it that KK left?"
"How good do you think you are at tracking?"