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Nov. 23rd, 2017 04:34 amIt's more than a little strange, how everything seems increasingly far away. Perhaps stranger still is that she doesn't seem to be the only one for whom that's the case. Having Eddie here helps on that front, as well as many others — with the two of them here, maybe they can't forget, not entirely — but try as she might to hold onto it, what happened in Derry feels more and more like a dream than anything she actually lived.
A few things, though, stand out as real, and Beverly refuses to let herself lose sight of them. The blood that spurted out from her sink and coated her bathroom. The crack when she'd hit her father in the head, knowing that he would never try to touch her again. Bill's cheek under her hand, sticky from the cut he'd put there. There's a scar now, a jagged little sliver across her palm. She hopes it doesn't fade. If anything could serve as a reminder of that summer and the promise they made to each other, it's that.
Cold as the weather is — a far cry from the summer she remembers leaving behind — she peels off her gloves and sticks them in her jacket pocket, tracing a fingertip across that line on her palm and drawing in a breath before she bends down, picking up a rock by her feet. The park is all but empty at this time of year, apparently, and she's glad for it. Living in a goddamn Children's Home has afforded her next to nothing in the way of privacy, and while it's still several steps up from living at home before here, most of the kids at least a shade nicer than the ones she went to school with, it's nice, relieving, just to have a few moments to herself. At least they let her wander a little, as long as she's back by curfew, which in itself brings with it a few hazy reminders of Derry and missing children.
People still don't seem to give much of a damn when someone up and disappears, but at least there's that.
The surface of the lake is nearly — close, but not quite — frozen, chunks of ice floating, but she gives the rock a hurl anyway, sending it skimming across the surface as best as the weather will allow, smiling a little to herself when she actually gets some distance on it. Then she bends down for another to try again, not yet noticing someone else on the path nearby.
A few things, though, stand out as real, and Beverly refuses to let herself lose sight of them. The blood that spurted out from her sink and coated her bathroom. The crack when she'd hit her father in the head, knowing that he would never try to touch her again. Bill's cheek under her hand, sticky from the cut he'd put there. There's a scar now, a jagged little sliver across her palm. She hopes it doesn't fade. If anything could serve as a reminder of that summer and the promise they made to each other, it's that.
Cold as the weather is — a far cry from the summer she remembers leaving behind — she peels off her gloves and sticks them in her jacket pocket, tracing a fingertip across that line on her palm and drawing in a breath before she bends down, picking up a rock by her feet. The park is all but empty at this time of year, apparently, and she's glad for it. Living in a goddamn Children's Home has afforded her next to nothing in the way of privacy, and while it's still several steps up from living at home before here, most of the kids at least a shade nicer than the ones she went to school with, it's nice, relieving, just to have a few moments to herself. At least they let her wander a little, as long as she's back by curfew, which in itself brings with it a few hazy reminders of Derry and missing children.
People still don't seem to give much of a damn when someone up and disappears, but at least there's that.
The surface of the lake is nearly — close, but not quite — frozen, chunks of ice floating, but she gives the rock a hurl anyway, sending it skimming across the surface as best as the weather will allow, smiling a little to herself when she actually gets some distance on it. Then she bends down for another to try again, not yet noticing someone else on the path nearby.
