Beverly Hopper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
runtowardsomething) wrote2018-03-15 09:32 pm
runtowardsomething) wrote2018-03-15 09:32 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
She's in shock, Beverly hears someone say. That must be what it is, why she's gone so quiet, staring straight ahead at something indeterminate ahead of her. All things considered, they probably aren't wrong. At some point, she's been cleaned up, though she still feels grimy like she's covered in blood and is certain that lingering patches of it were missed, drying by her hairline and between her fingers and embedded under her nails. At some point, still something resembling coherent, she'd gotten her phone and called Hopper, not knowing what else to do or where else to go short of sneaking out, which would have been an impossibility when the staff is watching her like a fucking hawk. It's somewhere safe, at least, or presumably safe. Right now, she thinks anywhere would be better than here, and though there are people she would take with her if she could, the small handful of friends she's collected for herself, the most important thing is putting whatever distance she can between herself and the Home.
When she'd first shown up, she thought she was safe here. It was one thing Darrow had going for it — that, strange or not, it was better than home, that there was no one here who was going to hurt her. Something is horribly wrong, though. She's known that for a while, but she's all the more aware of it now, her throat thick and tight and the taste of copper lingering in her mouth even when the front door opens and a familiar figure comes in. The two staff members who've waited with her practically swarm him, simultaneously explaining what's happened and trying to make excuses for it, as if such a thing could even be possible, asking a few questions before they let him sign her out for the night.
Beverly has a small bag with her, just a few pieces of clothing, something to sleep in and something to change into. She gets to her feet and picks it up wordlessly, remaining silent until she's stepped out to the sidewalk, feeling for the first time in — how long has it been? Minutes, hours? — ages like she can actually start to breathe. "Thanks," she mumbles. "For coming to get me."
When she'd first shown up, she thought she was safe here. It was one thing Darrow had going for it — that, strange or not, it was better than home, that there was no one here who was going to hurt her. Something is horribly wrong, though. She's known that for a while, but she's all the more aware of it now, her throat thick and tight and the taste of copper lingering in her mouth even when the front door opens and a familiar figure comes in. The two staff members who've waited with her practically swarm him, simultaneously explaining what's happened and trying to make excuses for it, as if such a thing could even be possible, asking a few questions before they let him sign her out for the night.
Beverly has a small bag with her, just a few pieces of clothing, something to sleep in and something to change into. She gets to her feet and picks it up wordlessly, remaining silent until she's stepped out to the sidewalk, feeling for the first time in — how long has it been? Minutes, hours? — ages like she can actually start to breathe. "Thanks," she mumbles. "For coming to get me."