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Dec. 3rd, 2017 04:32 am"Swear it," Bill says as he gets to his feet, a shard of discarded broken glass in his hand. "Swear if it isn't dead, if it ever comes back, we'll come back, too."
No one says anything, but no one needs to. They're all thinking the same thing, and Beverly knows it. She doesn't know if what she saw, that glimpse of their older selves back in the cistern, was a premonition or merely the work of her imagination, but it doesn't matter. For now, they've won. The details of it seem further and further away, hazy like a dream, but while they can't bring back any of the kids who were taken and killed, they have that victory. Maybe it will be enough. She hopes it will be enough. But if it's not...
Beverly gets to her feet without hesitation, and within a moment, the others do, too, standing in a circle and watching as Bill uses the sharp edge of the glass to slice his palm open, wincing as he does. One by one, he goes around to all the rest of them — Richie first, then Eddie and Mike, Stan and Ben, until finally he's standing in front of her. She holds out her left hand for him, uncurls her palm, and manages to barely flinch as he cuts hers open in turn, blood dripping hot and sticky and red down her fingers as Bill rejoins his place in the circle and reaches for her. They all follow suit, a silent promise, a pact made in blood, the Losers Club bonded together for good. It's not like it actually makes a difference, really, but she likes to think that there's meaning in it even so, and not just because of what they've all tacitly agreed to. All they're doing is holding hands; she can only imagine some of the comments this might have gotten under other circumstances. But it's about them as much as anything else, a heavy finality in the air, a typical September afternoon carrying the last vestiges of summer weighed down by how much things have changed, how much they've changed.
And for her, at least, it's a good-bye.
For a long few moments, they stand there, clutching each other's hands, until finally, they let go. Stan is the one to break the silence then. "I gotta go," he says. "I hate you."
It looks like Bill might take it seriously — like they all might — except then he's smiling, and the rest of them are, too, and for one moment, everything feels right again, normal. When she thinks back on Derry, this is what she wants to remember — not her father, not the clown, not the cistern, but the seven of them, the others the only real friends she thinks she's ever had, or at least the first in a long time.
If she could bottle up this moment, save it somehow, cherish it, just like the postcard that she knows now was left by Ben, she would. Instead, she'll just have to try to remember.
They gradually start to disperse after that, going back the way they came, sharing intermittent hugs, until finally, it's just her and Bill sitting in the grass, a million words unsaid between them. She wouldn't know where to start; it's a good thing, then, that he does.
"You all packed for Portland?" he asks, finally breaching the subject that she hasn't wanted to yet. She doesn't mind leaving. She's glad to be leaving. That doesn't mean she likes the thought of not knowing if or when she'll see any of them again.
"Yeah, pretty much," she replies, a fleeting look of ruefulness crossing her face. "I'm going tomorrow morning."
"How long will you be gone?"
"My aunt, she says I can stay for as long as I want, so..." Beverly trails off there, thinking she doesn't need to say it outright. She won't be coming back here, not anytime soon. It's not that there isn't anything for her; it's just that she can't live the way she's been living. A fresh start, a different guardian, not having to come home afraid every day, it's worth what she'll be sacrificing in turn, but that doesn't make the latter easy.
Bill is silent, too; he knows what it means. This is it, the end, or an ending, a last chance to say anything they want to. While there are, maybe, things she'd have liked to hear, that isn't really what matters, which is, maybe, what prompts her to speak again.
"Just so you know," she starts, pausing as she glances up at him, "I never felt like a loser when I was with all of you." Instead, for the first time, she'd felt accepted, cared about, not ridiculed or merely the product of rumors. They all came for her when she was taken. That means something, one more detail not to want to let slip through her fingers.
Bill looks away, though, and he doesn't say anything. For a moment, she doesn't, either, until she starts to get to her feet. There's no sense in waiting for something that won't happen. There's probably no sense in starting something they'll never be able to finish, either. "See you around," she says, though they both know that's not true. He does turn to her then, but he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to stop her from going, so she doesn't hesitate anymore, starting back down the same path the others left by, resigned to letting that be their good-bye.
By the time she's a good distance away, she isn't expecting Bill to come running after her. She definitely isn't expecting him to pull her close and kiss her, soft and sweet and everything she's hoped for. They aren't in third grade anymore, and this isn't a school play. No, it's something real, and before she can help herself, she's smiling broadly, paying no mind to the blood on her hand when she reaches for his face to draw him into another kiss. It's still short-lived, but a little more sure this time, and at least, if nothing else, they'll have had this. At least she gets to know that it wasn't just her after all. It's worth having done this knowing that she might not see him again for a long time to have someone look at her the way Bill is looking at her now. No one else ever has before.
Hand still on his cheek, she looks at him for a long moment, smiling again this time when she says, "Bye." Even then, she hesitates, wanting so much to make it last while she can. She doesn't need to say anything, though, doesn't want him to, so finally, quickly, she turns away, leaving before she can regret having to do so. He couldn't leave her with a better good-bye than that. She'd like to hope that maybe the same is true for him, too.
It's all she can think about as she hurries away, her lips still warm and all the rest of her, too, until suddenly she isn't anymore. The air isn't the warmth of late summer; it's freezing, her unclothed arms drawing tightly around herself, and the once-green trees are now bare. Hell, even the path, she doesn't recognize. This definitely isn't the way back into town. What it is, though, she doesn't have the first idea. All Beverly knows is that she doesn't trust it, going completely still where she stands, her eyes wide like she's waiting for something to happen. It can't be real, but if that's the case, then what does that mean?
She really doesn't want to think about the first possibility that comes to mind.
As a mother with a young child walks past, Beverly is about to ask for help, only the woman picks up her pace as soon as she opens her mouth to speak. Well, she might not know where she is, but some things haven't changed. She'd roll her eyes, except she's still lost and confused and really damn cold, starting to shiver as she continues forward along the path. Maybe she'll find someone more willing to be helpful. Just in case, though she knows full well that going back the way she came isn't going to be a possibility, she glances over her shoulder, hoping to see Bill still behind her. He isn't there, though, which means none of the others are likely to be ahead of her.
She's in this alone, apparently. And though Beverly tells herself that she's faced far worse things than this, whatever it is, she can't keep how unnerved she is from showing in her expression.
No one says anything, but no one needs to. They're all thinking the same thing, and Beverly knows it. She doesn't know if what she saw, that glimpse of their older selves back in the cistern, was a premonition or merely the work of her imagination, but it doesn't matter. For now, they've won. The details of it seem further and further away, hazy like a dream, but while they can't bring back any of the kids who were taken and killed, they have that victory. Maybe it will be enough. She hopes it will be enough. But if it's not...
Beverly gets to her feet without hesitation, and within a moment, the others do, too, standing in a circle and watching as Bill uses the sharp edge of the glass to slice his palm open, wincing as he does. One by one, he goes around to all the rest of them — Richie first, then Eddie and Mike, Stan and Ben, until finally he's standing in front of her. She holds out her left hand for him, uncurls her palm, and manages to barely flinch as he cuts hers open in turn, blood dripping hot and sticky and red down her fingers as Bill rejoins his place in the circle and reaches for her. They all follow suit, a silent promise, a pact made in blood, the Losers Club bonded together for good. It's not like it actually makes a difference, really, but she likes to think that there's meaning in it even so, and not just because of what they've all tacitly agreed to. All they're doing is holding hands; she can only imagine some of the comments this might have gotten under other circumstances. But it's about them as much as anything else, a heavy finality in the air, a typical September afternoon carrying the last vestiges of summer weighed down by how much things have changed, how much they've changed.
And for her, at least, it's a good-bye.
For a long few moments, they stand there, clutching each other's hands, until finally, they let go. Stan is the one to break the silence then. "I gotta go," he says. "I hate you."
It looks like Bill might take it seriously — like they all might — except then he's smiling, and the rest of them are, too, and for one moment, everything feels right again, normal. When she thinks back on Derry, this is what she wants to remember — not her father, not the clown, not the cistern, but the seven of them, the others the only real friends she thinks she's ever had, or at least the first in a long time.
If she could bottle up this moment, save it somehow, cherish it, just like the postcard that she knows now was left by Ben, she would. Instead, she'll just have to try to remember.
They gradually start to disperse after that, going back the way they came, sharing intermittent hugs, until finally, it's just her and Bill sitting in the grass, a million words unsaid between them. She wouldn't know where to start; it's a good thing, then, that he does.
"You all packed for Portland?" he asks, finally breaching the subject that she hasn't wanted to yet. She doesn't mind leaving. She's glad to be leaving. That doesn't mean she likes the thought of not knowing if or when she'll see any of them again.
"Yeah, pretty much," she replies, a fleeting look of ruefulness crossing her face. "I'm going tomorrow morning."
"How long will you be gone?"
"My aunt, she says I can stay for as long as I want, so..." Beverly trails off there, thinking she doesn't need to say it outright. She won't be coming back here, not anytime soon. It's not that there isn't anything for her; it's just that she can't live the way she's been living. A fresh start, a different guardian, not having to come home afraid every day, it's worth what she'll be sacrificing in turn, but that doesn't make the latter easy.
Bill is silent, too; he knows what it means. This is it, the end, or an ending, a last chance to say anything they want to. While there are, maybe, things she'd have liked to hear, that isn't really what matters, which is, maybe, what prompts her to speak again.
"Just so you know," she starts, pausing as she glances up at him, "I never felt like a loser when I was with all of you." Instead, for the first time, she'd felt accepted, cared about, not ridiculed or merely the product of rumors. They all came for her when she was taken. That means something, one more detail not to want to let slip through her fingers.
Bill looks away, though, and he doesn't say anything. For a moment, she doesn't, either, until she starts to get to her feet. There's no sense in waiting for something that won't happen. There's probably no sense in starting something they'll never be able to finish, either. "See you around," she says, though they both know that's not true. He does turn to her then, but he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to stop her from going, so she doesn't hesitate anymore, starting back down the same path the others left by, resigned to letting that be their good-bye.
By the time she's a good distance away, she isn't expecting Bill to come running after her. She definitely isn't expecting him to pull her close and kiss her, soft and sweet and everything she's hoped for. They aren't in third grade anymore, and this isn't a school play. No, it's something real, and before she can help herself, she's smiling broadly, paying no mind to the blood on her hand when she reaches for his face to draw him into another kiss. It's still short-lived, but a little more sure this time, and at least, if nothing else, they'll have had this. At least she gets to know that it wasn't just her after all. It's worth having done this knowing that she might not see him again for a long time to have someone look at her the way Bill is looking at her now. No one else ever has before.
Hand still on his cheek, she looks at him for a long moment, smiling again this time when she says, "Bye." Even then, she hesitates, wanting so much to make it last while she can. She doesn't need to say anything, though, doesn't want him to, so finally, quickly, she turns away, leaving before she can regret having to do so. He couldn't leave her with a better good-bye than that. She'd like to hope that maybe the same is true for him, too.
It's all she can think about as she hurries away, her lips still warm and all the rest of her, too, until suddenly she isn't anymore. The air isn't the warmth of late summer; it's freezing, her unclothed arms drawing tightly around herself, and the once-green trees are now bare. Hell, even the path, she doesn't recognize. This definitely isn't the way back into town. What it is, though, she doesn't have the first idea. All Beverly knows is that she doesn't trust it, going completely still where she stands, her eyes wide like she's waiting for something to happen. It can't be real, but if that's the case, then what does that mean?
She really doesn't want to think about the first possibility that comes to mind.
As a mother with a young child walks past, Beverly is about to ask for help, only the woman picks up her pace as soon as she opens her mouth to speak. Well, she might not know where she is, but some things haven't changed. She'd roll her eyes, except she's still lost and confused and really damn cold, starting to shiver as she continues forward along the path. Maybe she'll find someone more willing to be helpful. Just in case, though she knows full well that going back the way she came isn't going to be a possibility, she glances over her shoulder, hoping to see Bill still behind her. He isn't there, though, which means none of the others are likely to be ahead of her.
She's in this alone, apparently. And though Beverly tells herself that she's faced far worse things than this, whatever it is, she can't keep how unnerved she is from showing in her expression.
