(no subject)

There's something wrong in the Home. That isn't news, of course. It's been the case for weeks now, and Beverly has spent most of that time, since the first nightmare she had about her father, waiting for the other shoe to drop, talking about it with only a very select few people. Making herself sound crazy wouldn't do any good, after all, and there's no telling who might or might not believe her. She's not used to opening up much as it is, and she hasn't exactly made a lot of friends in the time she's been living here, not quite as much of an outsider as she was in Derry, but still not widely accepted, either. Really, she would have been surprised — and more than a little clueless — if anything else were the case.

At least she hasn't been entirely alone with this now. At least she has Eddie, however faded both of their memories of what happened back home might be. That clown, that thing, It changed shape depending on who saw it. The same fucking thing seems to be happening all over again now, and she doesn't know where to start with any of it, only that the nights she sits upright and has to muffle gasps because she's had a dream about her father that she doesn't remember falling asleep before or waking up after have grown more frequent, and that the sense of unease seems to permeate the entire fucking place. If nothing else, it's proof that it's not just in her head. Then again, it might be better if it were.

Everything carries on, though, in some vague approximation of normal. It all stays in the back of her head, but it isn't overwhelmingly present; she can do normal shit like finally get her turn in the shower without worrying about what might go wrong.

As it turns out, that's a mistake.

Her clothes and her towel folded, she steps under the shower before she turns it on, expecting a burst of cold water before it starts to warm. What comes out instead, the spray seeming so much stronger than it should, is hot and sticky and red, drenching her almost immediately, the taste of copper too heavy in the back of her mouth. The ground slick, her balance off from the sudden shock and then terror of it, she slips, hands fumbling with the edge of the tub just in time to hold some of her weight as she sinks down, scrambling backwards as best she can as if that might get her away from the blood. She should turn the shower off, she should do something, but she can barely see, let alone move or fumble with handles. This time, there are no vines, no voices, but all she can think is that it's just like before, that It is back, her heart hammering against her ribs.

There's a strange noise in the air. It takes her moments longer than it should to realize that she's screaming.

(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."

(no subject)

It's a nice change of scenery, at least. A nice change of crowd, too, if Beverly is honest. The kids in her class in Darrow aren't as bad as the ones at home, at least — no reputation has followed her, the nasty nicknames that occasionally get thrown around less so than the ones she's used to — but things have been uncomfortable lately to say the least, and she could use the break. Of course, that's not why she's here. Come September, she'll be starting high school, and it's customary, apparently, for kids to visit at some point during the school year to get a feel for what it's like before being thrown into the deep end. She doesn't have to do much, just sit and watch and keep her head down, not even bothering to take notes because she's not going to need to know this shit yet anyway. That's probably a good thing, though. Her attention has largely been elsewhere, the Home making it difficult to focus on much of anything except waiting fearfully for what will go wrong next, and getting to mentally check out for a few hours isn't anything she can complain about.

The last bell rings, and she instinctively starts to bolt for the exit before remembering that she's supposed to stop by the office before she leaves, to check in for whatever reason. She reroutes herself, then, before she's gone too far, lingering by the doorway like she's not supposed to be there, when she spots a familiar face inside and starts to smile, a little surprised. "Hey," she says, rocking back on her heels, one hand on the door frame. "Buffy?"