Esme didn't notice that she'd cut her finger on the hook, holding it oh-so-tight in her left hand. When it slipped from it back to her side after the memory was done, it dripped blood onto the floor. She was staring, staring at the door.
The sounds she made then were indescribable--it was screaming, but screaming and moaning and crying mixed with something guttural from the bottom of her lungs. She picked things up from the table in the living room, guns, stakes, shears, and threw them, not caring where they fell, wanting to bring the whole fucking building down, wanting Vlad, idiot man, not going back fast enough not pulling him out and he wouldn't even have been there if he hadn't killed his family in the first place
It goes beyond that, though, beyond the aspects of it that make her angry. It's the whole of it, the truth of it, what she cannot deny: Vlad was telling the truth. And it echoes in her head, shattering her pieces into yet smaller pieces--Vlad didn't kill Emil. He even went back for him.
That had been no vision, and she knew visions from visions. No, that had been memory, that had been fact, been idiocy, been--
She lost track of words, of thoughts, and became a kaleidoscope of anger and helplessness and grief, sinking to the floor.