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Jul. 8th, 2022 05:21 pmWhen the ferry finally comes, Beverly is exhausted and blood-spattered, still only half-present. She's far from the only person who dealt with such an altercation this weekend, and she doubts she's the only person who walked away from someone who wouldn't get back up. She doesn't regret it — or she wouldn't, if she could actually remember what she did. Those few minutes are still a blank in her mind, a sensation not wholly unfamiliar. She remembers being dragged from her tent, and the sheer panic in being held down; she remembers her hand finding purchase on a tree branch.
The first memory she has after that, though, is of standing on the beach, holding that branch like a club, her hands and face marked with someone else's blood.
Nothing is going to come of it. She's already been assured of that. All the festival-goers have the same story — an unprovoked attack in the middle of the night, fights that very well may have been kill or be killed. Beverly isn't so sure that's actually what motivated her, but it makes no material difference. It was self-defense. No one could claim otherwise.
That doesn't leave her any less rattled as the boat carries them back to the mainland. Someone has draped a blanket around her shoulders, and in the slight dawn chill, she's grateful for it, pulling it more tightly around herself. The t-shirt she was sleeping in is bloodstained, too. She heard a mention of it possibly being needed for evidence, but that's largely irrelevant. It doesn't change anything. She just wants to get home and get the blood off herself.
With phone signals having cut out so early in their stay, she hasn't talked to Hopper since she left. Somehow, though, she knows he'll be there when the ferry docks. It's an odd thing to be assured of, to have faith in, and yet it's true — both that she does, and that he's there.
Tired, relieved, suddenly feeling like she's about to cry, Beverly steps off the ferry back onto solid ground and heads right for him, still wearing the blanket. She doesn't know where it came from. She can figure that part out later.
Cracking the barest hint of a weary smile, she croaks, "So Pyre Fest really sucked."
The first memory she has after that, though, is of standing on the beach, holding that branch like a club, her hands and face marked with someone else's blood.
Nothing is going to come of it. She's already been assured of that. All the festival-goers have the same story — an unprovoked attack in the middle of the night, fights that very well may have been kill or be killed. Beverly isn't so sure that's actually what motivated her, but it makes no material difference. It was self-defense. No one could claim otherwise.
That doesn't leave her any less rattled as the boat carries them back to the mainland. Someone has draped a blanket around her shoulders, and in the slight dawn chill, she's grateful for it, pulling it more tightly around herself. The t-shirt she was sleeping in is bloodstained, too. She heard a mention of it possibly being needed for evidence, but that's largely irrelevant. It doesn't change anything. She just wants to get home and get the blood off herself.
With phone signals having cut out so early in their stay, she hasn't talked to Hopper since she left. Somehow, though, she knows he'll be there when the ferry docks. It's an odd thing to be assured of, to have faith in, and yet it's true — both that she does, and that he's there.
Tired, relieved, suddenly feeling like she's about to cry, Beverly steps off the ferry back onto solid ground and heads right for him, still wearing the blanket. She doesn't know where it came from. She can figure that part out later.
Cracking the barest hint of a weary smile, she croaks, "So Pyre Fest really sucked."
