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Nov. 16th, 2021 01:23 amtw: allusions to sexual abuse
Steady as things have been of late, the nightmares still come most nights. That probably isn't the right word for it, anyway. Steady doesn't exactly describe one of her best friends losing a hand in some weird fucking zombie fight. It doesn't, either, encompass what it feels like to be staring down the barrel of her last semester of high school, without a clue what she wants to do next. In a few short months, she'll be 18. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
Maybe that's why these particular dreams come — not ones of a dark future, but of an awful past, rough possessive hands and Are you still my little girl? and she's not, she won't ever be, not again, but in the dreams, she's frozen, and she knows that on some level she always will be. There's no getting away from it, part of her marked indelibly.
When Beverly wakes with a start, it's late, well after midnight and pitch black outside, and she knows there's no sense in trying to get back to sleep. Nights like these, there never is. She gets up instead, putting on a pair of pajama pants and her heavy winter coat, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter already in one pocket. She's careful, as she moves through the house, to be as quiet as she can, letting out a breath like she's been holding it when she finally gets out to the backyard. It probably shouldn't make much difference, but still, the cool, fresh air helps her breathe a little easier as she takes a seat and lights a cigarette, huddled in her coat and waiting to feel halfway present again.
Steady as things have been of late, the nightmares still come most nights. That probably isn't the right word for it, anyway. Steady doesn't exactly describe one of her best friends losing a hand in some weird fucking zombie fight. It doesn't, either, encompass what it feels like to be staring down the barrel of her last semester of high school, without a clue what she wants to do next. In a few short months, she'll be 18. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.
Maybe that's why these particular dreams come — not ones of a dark future, but of an awful past, rough possessive hands and Are you still my little girl? and she's not, she won't ever be, not again, but in the dreams, she's frozen, and she knows that on some level she always will be. There's no getting away from it, part of her marked indelibly.
When Beverly wakes with a start, it's late, well after midnight and pitch black outside, and she knows there's no sense in trying to get back to sleep. Nights like these, there never is. She gets up instead, putting on a pair of pajama pants and her heavy winter coat, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter already in one pocket. She's careful, as she moves through the house, to be as quiet as she can, letting out a breath like she's been holding it when she finally gets out to the backyard. It probably shouldn't make much difference, but still, the cool, fresh air helps her breathe a little easier as she takes a seat and lights a cigarette, huddled in her coat and waiting to feel halfway present again.
