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Feb. 22nd, 2019 03:47 amThe apartment is empty when Beverly gets home, a fact for which she's more than a little relieved. As safe as she feels here and as grateful as she is for that, she isn't sure how much she'd be able to talk about yet. For one fleeting moment, she'd felt nearly invincible, knowing that what used to happen to her isn't anything she'll let happen to her again, or to anyone else if she can help it. She'd walked away with the upper hand. It's only since then that panic has started to set in, a residual effect that makes her feel like she's coming out of her own skin. By the time she locks the door behind her, then double- and triple-checks it, she can barely breathe for how tight her chest is, lightheaded and queasy and unable to shake the feeling that she'll never be clean again. She wouldn't be able to explain it if she tried. She doesn't want to have to try, at least not until she's pulled herself together a little. Hopper should probably know that there's someone at the Home who makes the girls uncomfortable enough to have earned the moniker Creepy Tim, but it isn't like anything happened. There's nothing so weird or wrong about touching her shoulder and her hair. He didn't look at her in a way she she hasn't been looked at before.
Maybe that's part of what's so unsettling. If it was nothing, as she feels fairly certain it was, then there's no reason she should be this upset about it.
Taking full advantage of being home alone, she grabs a towel and locks herself in the bathroom to shower. She doesn't know, then, how much time passes, only that she turns up the water almost as hot as it will go and stands under the spray, scrubbing her skin and hair, until it runs too cold to stand. It still doesn't feel like enough, doesn't erase the memory of Creepy Tim's fingertips against her ear as he pushed her hair back or her father's face hovering over her. She can't stay in the shower forever, though, as nice as the idea seems in the moment. Her skin is flushed and raw when she emerges, and she still feels sick, but she dresses in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants and curls up on the couch, her knees held to her chest, until the front door opens. Her hair is still damp.
"Hey," she says, trying not to seem too obviously like something is wrong. "Do any exciting policework today?"
Maybe that's part of what's so unsettling. If it was nothing, as she feels fairly certain it was, then there's no reason she should be this upset about it.
Taking full advantage of being home alone, she grabs a towel and locks herself in the bathroom to shower. She doesn't know, then, how much time passes, only that she turns up the water almost as hot as it will go and stands under the spray, scrubbing her skin and hair, until it runs too cold to stand. It still doesn't feel like enough, doesn't erase the memory of Creepy Tim's fingertips against her ear as he pushed her hair back or her father's face hovering over her. She can't stay in the shower forever, though, as nice as the idea seems in the moment. Her skin is flushed and raw when she emerges, and she still feels sick, but she dresses in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants and curls up on the couch, her knees held to her chest, until the front door opens. Her hair is still damp.
"Hey," she says, trying not to seem too obviously like something is wrong. "Do any exciting policework today?"
