Beverly Hopper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
runtowardsomething) wrote2022-07-23 11:45 pm
runtowardsomething) wrote2022-07-23 11:45 pm
(no subject)
It's strange, how quickly things go back to normal. It would be, anyway, if Beverly hadn't been in Darrow long enough to be extremely aware that that's just how it goes here. Shit happens and people move on. Usually, though, she isn't quite so directly involved. Usually, the insane, fucked up things that go on don't involve her whacking someone in the head with a tree branch after being dragged out of her tent in the middle of the night.
She doesn't know what happened to him after that, if he's alive or dead. She hasn't wanted to find out, afraid of the answer either way. What she does know is that there's a several-second span of time that she doesn't remember, that there was blood pooled on the sand and splattered on her, and that, in those few moments, she was in a different place and a different time, somewhere she doesn't want ever to be again.
All of it is difficult to shake off. She's fine, she's safe; she's been assured, too, that under the circumstances, nothing is going to come of what happened on that beach. Everyone's stories are consistent. They were under attack, and she defended herself the only way she could. That doesn't make it easier to get past, to move on, the way people here seem to so quickly. She still has to live with the thought that that's another death she very well might be responsible for.
Her therapist tells her to try not to think about it like that, but also that it's a process, one that takes work. She can't expect the way her mind works, the things that have been drilled into her from such an early age, to change immediately. So she frames it like that, repeating it over and over in her head: she defended herself, she fought back, she did what she had to do. She tries not to think about the blood.
At least fresh air helps clear her head. Despite the heat, she rides her bike out to the boardwalk, locking it in a bike rack before she climbs up the stairs, going in search of somewhere she can get a cold drink. Company will help, too, and she knows she'll have that here.
[ Feel free to say plans were made to meet up! Anything works~ ]
She doesn't know what happened to him after that, if he's alive or dead. She hasn't wanted to find out, afraid of the answer either way. What she does know is that there's a several-second span of time that she doesn't remember, that there was blood pooled on the sand and splattered on her, and that, in those few moments, she was in a different place and a different time, somewhere she doesn't want ever to be again.
All of it is difficult to shake off. She's fine, she's safe; she's been assured, too, that under the circumstances, nothing is going to come of what happened on that beach. Everyone's stories are consistent. They were under attack, and she defended herself the only way she could. That doesn't make it easier to get past, to move on, the way people here seem to so quickly. She still has to live with the thought that that's another death she very well might be responsible for.
Her therapist tells her to try not to think about it like that, but also that it's a process, one that takes work. She can't expect the way her mind works, the things that have been drilled into her from such an early age, to change immediately. So she frames it like that, repeating it over and over in her head: she defended herself, she fought back, she did what she had to do. She tries not to think about the blood.
At least fresh air helps clear her head. Despite the heat, she rides her bike out to the boardwalk, locking it in a bike rack before she climbs up the stairs, going in search of somewhere she can get a cold drink. Company will help, too, and she knows she'll have that here.
[ Feel free to say plans were made to meet up! Anything works~ ]
no subject
I couldn't help but try and imagine what they all must've been like, or even what my life might've been like if I'd had friends like that. I wouldn't ever take for granted what Wendy was to me, but I know I was way too much for her to handle on her own.
no subject
Thoughtful a moment, she takes another hit from the joint. "They still wouldn't have gotten a lot of it. Never seemed worth getting into."
no subject
"I dunno. Some shit, you're better off not carrying on your own."
no subject
She just prefers not to need to.
"And even then, it's still... I don't know. Maybe it's harder to talk to them about it because they knew me then. Or maybe I just need a lot more therapy."