MARLEY // Max Mayfield

Numb

TW: Brief mentions of conversion therapy and abuse marked with ***  Not graphic, thought I'd just mention it.

They let the tension within the neighbourhoods die down before returning the Turnbows to their house. The Squawk van wasn't the most inconspicuous thing, but they drove with the headlights off and the van in first through the residential area to avoid any noise. The added darkness did them a favour too. The Turnbows were still fast asleep, tied up with rope that Marley hoped hadn't left any marks; they intended to leave them as they were found, not marked up like the victims of kidnapping they were.

Joyce was quiet for the most part, her eyes glassy, Marley assumed from equal parts fatigue and worry. Regardless, it wasn't like Joyce to be so stinted.

The van backed into the unlocked driveway, and Marley began to unload the Turnbows one by one, carrying them up to their rooms. She moved them without effort, tucking them in and gathering the evidence of their monster hunting. The odd viscera was the hardest to clean up. This, Joyce and Marley, did together, slowly loading nails, wooden planks and the ruined wire wheel into the back of the van, alongside trash bags filled with tissues and mop heads.

"Do you have Derek's note?" Marley asked, breaking the uneasy silence between them. They stood in Derek's empty room, staring at the empty bed, ready to place the note they'd told Derek to write, which would explain his disappearance. That explanation being that he was staying at a friend's house. Joyce had an odd expression on her face, bottom lip quivering. "Joyce."

"Won't his mom worry about him?" Joyce asked, her eyes wide as she gestured to the bed, "I -- I mean, he's a young boy, running off in the middle of the night...I don't think it's going to work."

"She's a shit mother," Marley said, leaning against the doorway as she glanced at the walls, covered in expensive paintings and other modern art. There wasn't one portrait, not a big one; she'd seen a few small frames in the living room, but they were false, not one real photo of a family. "She won't even notice he's missing."

Joyce remained quiet, and Marley turned her gaze back into the room. Joyce's fists were clenched, her expression hurt. It was then that Marley realised her mistake.

"That's not what I meant," Marley said quickly and stepped into the room. She reached out hesitantly and took Joyce's shoulder in her hand. "Joyce, I'm sorry. You know that's not what I meant, right?"

"I know," Joyce said and smiled, watery-eyed as she reached up and placed her hand over Marley's. "I know, honey," she swiped her thumb over Marley's knuckles, and Marley felt herself relax. "It's ok, I know you didn't mean anything by it."

"I think you're a great mom, Joyce."

"I didn't know my 11-year-old boy was missing for 8 hours," Joyce smiled sadly. Marley's brows furrowed. 12. Will had been 12, hadn't he? Or was Marley losing it? "And I didn't know you were missing."

"I'm not your responsibility," Marley said quickly.

"You were gone for almost 3 days."

"Joyce. Please," Marley interrupted, her face screwed up in pain. She knew, and she remembered. Nobody had noticed, not one person had looked for her, not Steve, not the party, not anyone. She turned the topic back onto Joyce's own kids. "You gave them everything you could; you worked every ounce of overtime, every holiday, so you could provide for them, you took Eleven in when Hop disappeared. You're a wonderful mom, Joyce."

"I lost Jonathan. I told him to take Will's place, and he ended up missing. And Will...he has these big ideas, putting himself at risk," Joyce trailed off and seemed to catch herself. She smiled at Marley and shook her head. "I'm sorry, honey, this isn't something you should have to listen to."