Entry tags:
(no subject)
It isn't that she's here. It's that she's back. Even if she hadn't already had these niggling, bone-rattling feelings of déjà vu, the signs are everywhere. There's even a photo of her and Neil, beaming like total fucking dorks, in a frame that she remembers buying.
It's been coming back to her in bits and pieces, like a puzzle filling itself in.
There's a girl here. Her friend. Gwen can see her dark hair and the curve of her nose. She can see a forest of umbrellas in front of a lake. A van lifted from the water, but that isn't Darrow, that's a dream. For a moment, those memories overlap Camp Alpine memories — a metal barrel, a forest of pine overlooking the frozen lake it's been hiding in — and Gwen isn't sure if she's sobbing or laughing when she realizes how similar their lives ended up being after all.
Hilde. That's her name. The more Gwen thinks about her, the clearer she gets. Hilde and Gwenny, they'd been inseparable with their naturally rhyming names. Gwen's been walking the city all afternoon, trying to find more of those puzzle pieces, and her feet start taking her towards the Children's Home like it's instinct. She stops short, though, and frowns up at the street sign, then turns and instead starts walking a different route.
This is right, she thinks. Hilde doesn't live at the Home anymore. She lives with...
Gwen doesn't even want to say the name. She doesn't have a problem with this Bill, but the name still sits sour on her tongue. Still, she goes there, keeping her left hand in her pocket so she doesn't have to swing it too much. The stitches are still a little numb, but she doesn't need to make it any worse.
Well, any worse than she already is by wandering the city instead of resting with her arm pillowed beside her. She just couldn't sit still. Not knowing what she knows, not feeling what she feels. Maybe that's a character flaw, but she isn't going to worry about that right now.
Right now, she's looking up at a townhouse door, stepping up to ring the bell. She feels nervous, but it isn't totally a bad feeling.
It's been coming back to her in bits and pieces, like a puzzle filling itself in.
There's a girl here. Her friend. Gwen can see her dark hair and the curve of her nose. She can see a forest of umbrellas in front of a lake. A van lifted from the water, but that isn't Darrow, that's a dream. For a moment, those memories overlap Camp Alpine memories — a metal barrel, a forest of pine overlooking the frozen lake it's been hiding in — and Gwen isn't sure if she's sobbing or laughing when she realizes how similar their lives ended up being after all.
Hilde. That's her name. The more Gwen thinks about her, the clearer she gets. Hilde and Gwenny, they'd been inseparable with their naturally rhyming names. Gwen's been walking the city all afternoon, trying to find more of those puzzle pieces, and her feet start taking her towards the Children's Home like it's instinct. She stops short, though, and frowns up at the street sign, then turns and instead starts walking a different route.
This is right, she thinks. Hilde doesn't live at the Home anymore. She lives with...
Gwen doesn't even want to say the name. She doesn't have a problem with this Bill, but the name still sits sour on her tongue. Still, she goes there, keeping her left hand in her pocket so she doesn't have to swing it too much. The stitches are still a little numb, but she doesn't need to make it any worse.
Well, any worse than she already is by wandering the city instead of resting with her arm pillowed beside her. She just couldn't sit still. Not knowing what she knows, not feeling what she feels. Maybe that's a character flaw, but she isn't going to worry about that right now.
Right now, she's looking up at a townhouse door, stepping up to ring the bell. She feels nervous, but it isn't totally a bad feeling.
honey I've changed so much since I last saw ya
It’s over.
It’s really, finally fucking over.
Gwen still has a little bit of a headache from crying, her last call with Mom ringing in her ears and her heart. It had felt so good to hear her voice one last time, but it’s left a fresh ache, too, like a sore muscle.
And, fuck, does she have plenty of those already. Now that the adrenaline is really wearing off, she can feel every bruise and gash that she’s gotten over the last umpteen hours. Her arms feel like lead where she lets them rest across her lap. If it weren’t for Dad and Finn in the truck behind them, she might slide across the bench seat and just lean her weight against Ernie’s side. He’d probably let her.
It’s fucking tempting.
Instead, she sits there, picking at her own nails, trying to work up the courage to tell him what Mom said about Robin. He’d like to hear it, she thinks. But he’s driving, and he’s an emotional guy — she’s always liked that about him, that he isn’t afraid to feel his feelings. The last thing they need is for him to get teary-eyed behind the wheel. The storm is over, but the snow is still thick as they leave Camp Alpine.
And after the last two nights, they’re all tired enough that the slightest distraction might send them kareening off the road.
When they reach the stop sign at the end of the lane, she’s finally worked up her nerve.
“Ernie, listen,” she says. “I need to tell you something. Right before we left, the phone rang.”
She looks over at him, taking a beat to gauge his reaction to that. Except he isn’t sitting beside her anymore. Gwen’s eyes widen, and she feels the car start to roll forward without his foot on the brake.
“Shit!”
She slides across the bench the way she’d only just been contemplating a second ago, but this time, it’s to jam her left foot down on the brake pedal. She grabs the steering wheel kind of instinctively. She doesn’t know shit about fuck when it comes to driving, but she doesn’t want the wheels to spontaneously fucking swerve, either. She looks for Ernie like he’s somehow going to be there, in her seat. But of course he isn’t. He’s gone.
No, it’s not that he’s gone. She’s gone. Gwen has this dizzying whirl in her head, like deja vu on fucking roids. This has happened before. She doesn’t know when, and she doesn’t know how, but this has happened to her before. She throws the car in park and climbs out, and before she’s shut the door she already knows she isn’t going to see Dad or Finn in the plant’s truck. Her breath is coming faster as she looks around for them anyway. She’s at the end of a road, the nose of the Impala facing a city she wants to say she’s never seen.
Except that feels like a lie.
Behind the Impala, the road stretches. A sign above the stop sign reads ‘Harbor BLVD,’ and she has another one of those dizzying swoops. She grabs onto the side of the car, trying to steady her breathing.
Maybe it’s blood loss, she thinks inanely. She needs stitches, after all. Maybe she’ll look down at her arm and see her coat sleeve drenched black with her own blood. Or maybe she’s so exhausted she’s dreaming while she’s awake. Maybe she’ll look in the passenger side of the car and see herself there, lolling glassy-eyed against the window. Except she looks, and she doesn’t see that at all. The car is empty: no Ernie, no her. Not even their bags and pillows.
“What the fuck is going on?” she asks, looking around like anyone will fucking answer her. But there isn’t even a car waiting impatiently behind her. The cross traffic is steady, and she’s not in their way, and nobody is stopping to see why a teenage girl is standing beside an empty fucking car.
What the fuck is going on?
It’s really, finally fucking over.
Gwen still has a little bit of a headache from crying, her last call with Mom ringing in her ears and her heart. It had felt so good to hear her voice one last time, but it’s left a fresh ache, too, like a sore muscle.
And, fuck, does she have plenty of those already. Now that the adrenaline is really wearing off, she can feel every bruise and gash that she’s gotten over the last umpteen hours. Her arms feel like lead where she lets them rest across her lap. If it weren’t for Dad and Finn in the truck behind them, she might slide across the bench seat and just lean her weight against Ernie’s side. He’d probably let her.
It’s fucking tempting.
Instead, she sits there, picking at her own nails, trying to work up the courage to tell him what Mom said about Robin. He’d like to hear it, she thinks. But he’s driving, and he’s an emotional guy — she’s always liked that about him, that he isn’t afraid to feel his feelings. The last thing they need is for him to get teary-eyed behind the wheel. The storm is over, but the snow is still thick as they leave Camp Alpine.
And after the last two nights, they’re all tired enough that the slightest distraction might send them kareening off the road.
When they reach the stop sign at the end of the lane, she’s finally worked up her nerve.
“Ernie, listen,” she says. “I need to tell you something. Right before we left, the phone rang.”
She looks over at him, taking a beat to gauge his reaction to that. Except he isn’t sitting beside her anymore. Gwen’s eyes widen, and she feels the car start to roll forward without his foot on the brake.
“Shit!”
She slides across the bench the way she’d only just been contemplating a second ago, but this time, it’s to jam her left foot down on the brake pedal. She grabs the steering wheel kind of instinctively. She doesn’t know shit about fuck when it comes to driving, but she doesn’t want the wheels to spontaneously fucking swerve, either. She looks for Ernie like he’s somehow going to be there, in her seat. But of course he isn’t. He’s gone.
No, it’s not that he’s gone. She’s gone. Gwen has this dizzying whirl in her head, like deja vu on fucking roids. This has happened before. She doesn’t know when, and she doesn’t know how, but this has happened to her before. She throws the car in park and climbs out, and before she’s shut the door she already knows she isn’t going to see Dad or Finn in the plant’s truck. Her breath is coming faster as she looks around for them anyway. She’s at the end of a road, the nose of the Impala facing a city she wants to say she’s never seen.
Except that feels like a lie.
Behind the Impala, the road stretches. A sign above the stop sign reads ‘Harbor BLVD,’ and she has another one of those dizzying swoops. She grabs onto the side of the car, trying to steady her breathing.
Maybe it’s blood loss, she thinks inanely. She needs stitches, after all. Maybe she’ll look down at her arm and see her coat sleeve drenched black with her own blood. Or maybe she’s so exhausted she’s dreaming while she’s awake. Maybe she’ll look in the passenger side of the car and see herself there, lolling glassy-eyed against the window. Except she looks, and she doesn’t see that at all. The car is empty: no Ernie, no her. Not even their bags and pillows.
“What the fuck is going on?” she asks, looking around like anyone will fucking answer her. But there isn’t even a car waiting impatiently behind her. The cross traffic is steady, and she’s not in their way, and nobody is stopping to see why a teenage girl is standing beside an empty fucking car.
What the fuck is going on?