The house was full of scratches, scrapes, and rips. Scratched floors, scraped furniture, ripped rugs. Scratched egos, scraped hearts, ripped skin.
Sarah watched with interest as her husband, Ray, purposefully dragged the table to the other side of the room, scratching over scars in the floor again. This was the table where, one day, his obsessive compulsive disorder caused him to scrape 222 one-inch lines into the surface with a spoon handle.
She ripped off the plastic cork cover on a bottle of wine.
A scratched jazz record scraped along the record player, drowning out the slow ripping of fake hardwood.