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dated: Oct 5/6

It's been over a week, and nothing has happened. Nothing bad, anyway. Her family is getting used to the idea of her strange, uninvited friends crashing with them. So far, everyone's followed the rules, and most of the people who'd followed her here have enough of a grasp on Sign Language to hold and follow silent conversations.

And thanks to her mom, Regan's able to keep people somewhat entertained with board games that won't make a racket.

But it's still weird. Regan still doesn't know how she's here, or how all of her friends are here, too. She's come home, but she remembers Darrow. She didn't think that was supposed to be possible.

And yet here she is, standing off to the side while she watches all of these people that she's grown to love and care for, trying to adapt to this new, silent life. How long will they be here for? Is this forever?

It's time to get more fish, because the incredible excess of mouths to feed means they're going through their food much faster. Some of the people who'd come along are more than capable of fending for themselves, so Dad organizes them into groups, with whoever he decides is trustworthy and smart enough to keep people safe and quiet to lead each one. Regan can tell Marcus is relieved he doesn't have to go.

But she still wants to. There are enough people that she allows herself to get easily lost into one of the groups, and they make their ways out, each going in different directions. It's just smarter that way. The fewer people going through the same sandy path, the less likely they'll be to make a fatal mistake.

At least, that's the plan.

It's nice to get out of the yard for awhile, anyway. Some people have stayed behind to help Mom and Marcus get more sleeping areas set up. If they start to think this is permanent, then they'll probably have to find a way to house everyone. They can't all cramp into one space. That's a surefire way to get killed. But for now, spreading out beds is a good move. People need their privacy, and their space.

She doesn't know how it happens. She doesn't know the cause. But suddenly, people are trying to scatter, trying to hide.

And there's a creature. They move so fast, it's easy to overlook them, but she sees it. She'd recognize those movements anywhere, she thinks. And her body responds in instinct, hands clamping over her mouth and staying stockstill.

[ Another gathering! As before, jump in at any point in the post that you want to. Be one of the hunting/foraging parties that gets attacked by one of the creatures, or stay at home and maybe have an encounter of your own! Tag each other, tag around, utilize the NPC Abbott family as needed. Whichever group you want Regan to be apart of, she will be, because Darrow is MAGIC and reality is what we make of it XD be the reason the creature hears your group, or be part of a group completely unscathed and just have a nice little vacation trip to the waterfall! As before, any questions you have can be directed here, and I'll do my best to answer them! ]

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Eddie didn't say anything. He couldn't. All he could do was meet Beverly's eyes, which was hard enough, and give her a small, nearly imperceptible nod.

We should go inside, it said. Trust me, you don't want to hear this out here. There were too many people watching. Too many eyes. And those things were always listening.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to head back into the house, his arms still folded tightly around his middle, like he needed to hold himself together.

The response is hardly a reassuring one, serving only to put Beverly more on edge, her hands curling around the hems of her sleeves. She can't argue with that, though. She can sign a little, but none of them is fluent, and inside and downstairs, they'll at least be able to have a real conversation. Whatever this is about — and it's hard to stop herself from listing a bunch of possible worst-case scenarios — it'll be easier if they can actually talk, rather than stiltedly signing out here in the backyard.

Trying to ignore the twisting feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, she nods in turn, then glances over at Jamie as Eddie walks into the house. There's nothing to do but follow along, keeping her breathing calm and her steps even until they're safely in the basement. She exhales then like she's been holding her breath, glancing between the two of them with obvious worry.

"What's going on?" she asks, a shaky bite in her voice born out of fear. "Tell me."

I knew what happened, of course, but I hadn't seen it. I'd only heard Richie's voice suddenly loud and shocking in the heavy silence of the forest. I knew Eddie thought it was his fault, I knew Regan's father was probably with her now. And I knew I had to go back eventually, but not yet. This was more important.

I felt out of place suddenly. As if this should have been a private conversation between Beverly and Eddie. Richie was my friend, too, but it wasn't the same. He had known them both for much longer and they were close in ways I couldn't have been. They had experienced things together and I knew how that bonded people to each other. How it meant something deeper than it might have otherwise.

"I didn't see," I started to say, my voice shaking a little. "We were out and I was gathering mushrooms and Eddie and Richie were... they weren't far away. Just... far enough." And none of this mattered. It didn't matter what I had been doing or why. I closed my mouth suddenly, feeling stupid and sick.

Eddie didn't know how to do this. With the door closed, the basement felt impossibly small and stifling, like the walls were closing in on them. Or maybe that was just the way they were both looking at him, waiting for him to speak, when he was so breathless his vision had started to grey out around the edges.

He sat down heavily on the last step, his eyes fixated on a water stain beneath Beverly's feet.

"Richie's dead," he said flatly. He was emotionless for all of five seconds before dragging in a hiccuping breath, his hands flying up towards his face to hide the way his expression crumpled under the weight of it. We're just kids...

"It just... it moved so fast. I'm sorry, Bev. I'm sorry."

"What?" Beverly asks, the word a small little exhale as the breath leaves her lungs. She's frozen like that for a moment, staring at Eddie in stunned confusion, almost as if waiting for some cruel punchline — for Richie to jump out and declare the whole thing a joke, some fucked up forced levity in a nightmare of a world. She knows better than that, though. The look on Eddie's face, or what she can see of it before it's covered by his hands, tells her all she needs to know. They wouldn't joke about something like this, anyway, not with all they've seen and survived. It wouldn't happen.

It just doesn't make sense. They've all been in danger since they got here, and hardly for the first time — she thinks, fleetingly, of swinging the fence post through that fucking clown's face in the dirty kitchen in the house on Neibolt, a memory that comes back to her just long enough to hold onto — but even with as loud as Richie often is, she can't imagine that he's just gone now.

She shakes her head. "No, that's not—" That's not how he dies, she thinks suddenly, but she doesn't know why, and she can't make sense of that, either. It's gone a moment later, anyway. Trying to breathe is getting more difficult, her chest constricting, and she helplessly glances from Eddie to Jamie, her eyes starting to sting with tears. "No. Not Richie." Not any of them. For either of these two, for Stan back in Darrow, the people who've become the family she never had, it would have been the same.

Edited 2019-10-11 01:53 (UTC)

All I could do was shake my head helplessly when Beverly looked at me. I wanted to be able to tell her it wasn't true, that of course not Richie, because that would never happen to him. It would never happen to any of us. But he had been there one moment and then gone the next and Eddie had seen it. Eddie had been forced to watch it happen and that was the end of it.

There was nothing else I could say.

I swiped the back of my hand across my eyes and found the tears had dried up. I was expecting to find tears, but instead I was just angry. I was angry that we had been taken from our home, angry that we were forced to live with monsters, angry that one of them had killed Richie. I wanted to scream and punch something, but all that anger was pointless and directionless.

"It's true," I whispered in a broken voice.

He wanted to say a hundred things. That he was sorry. That they never should've left the farm. That Richie was stupid and an asshole and it was all Eddie's fault.

But he couldn't say anything. He sat, with his face buried in his hands, trembling silently. There weren't any more tears left in him to cry, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Beverly and see all the horror and disbelief he felt reflected back at him in her eyes.

He didn't want to look at Jamie, who was so angry that Eddie could practically feel it.

If she had the presence of mind to consider it, Beverly would be grateful that they brought her inside to tell her this, and not just because they would all have had to fumble through signing the conversation otherwise. In that moment, she isn't thinking about where she is or the rules of this place, except to consider briefly that it's probably incredible that the two of them got back here safely. Keeping quiet here hasn't been particularly difficult for her, at least not as much so as it's been for some. Now, though, it wouldn't even occur to her to try to hold back the choked little sob that catches in her throat, her breath wavering as tears start to spill down her cheeks.

She still keeps herself small and contained, out of habit as much as anything else, but the relative isolation and safety help. Being around only people she trusts as much as Eddie and Jamie does, too, useless as she feels when they all have to shoulder this. It's still difficult, nearly impossible, to try to process the idea of Richie being gone, after all they've all been through. Their reactions make hers feel more present, though, and once she's started crying, she doesn't know how to stop.

Jamie is closer to her, so he's who she reaches for first, taking and squeezing his hand in some sort of solidarity. When she lets go, it's to cross the few steps between them and take a seat next to Eddie, close at his side on the step. "I'm sorry," she says to both of them through her tears, though she doesn't know why. For Richie, or because they were there, or maybe because she wasn't and couldn't do anything to try to help her friends, irrational as that may be. "Fuck. Richie."

Beverly's hand in mine was warm and reassuring and I thought we were both trembling, but it didn't matter because it was the both of us. It was probably Eddie, too, though I felt like I couldn't reach Eddie or like he didn't want me to. I knew it was foolish to let that hurt me, especially at a time like this, but maybe it was because it was a time like this that it did.

So I squeezed Beverly's hand almost desperately and when it was gone I missed it.

"I'm sorry I didn't... I wasn't close enough," I said, although I didn't know what I could have done. I had seen the creatures now and they were different from the Many-Eyed. They looked stronger, harder to kill, and I had nearly died killing the Many-Eyed that had left my arm scarred with those circular burns. I didn't know what I thought I could have done.

Eddie lifted his eyes sharply to Jamie's face, a crease etched between his brows. What the hell could you have done? But he wondered, and for a split second, allowed himself to blame Jamie for not being there, for leaving him alone to watch Richie die.

Immediately, he felt like the worst boyfriend ever. The worst person ever.

His breath hitched and he turned towards Bev, putting a hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, but beyond that, he didn't know what to do. How the hell could he comfort someone when he didn't know how to accept it for himself?

"Don't," Beverly says quietly, her voice breaking on the word as she looks up at Jamie through red, watery eyes, her head leaning against Eddie's shoulder. She hasn't seen these creatures that she's been told about, but she knows there's probably nothing anyone else could have done without getting themselves killed instead or as well. As much as she wants Richie back, she wouldn't have wanted that, either; she'd be sitting here crying over Jamie if Richie had lived but he hadn't. She gets it, though, the desire to protect one's friends at all costs. If she'd been there, she would have wanted to do something, too.

It's strange to think so, but they were lucky, back in Derry. They had each other, and in the end, that was enough. Here, sticking together, outnumbering their enemy, doesn't do shit.

"We should do something," she adds, the words abrupt in the quiet. "For him. I don't know what, but..." She remembers how scared Richie had been when those posters showed up all over Darrow, declaring him missing like so many of the kids in Derry. At the time, it was unsettling; now it makes her feel like she might be sick. They owe him that, she thinks, to not let that happen now. "I think he'd want that."

I looked up, looked briefly at Beverly, then at Eddie before my gaze dropped down to my hands again. I had dug graves with these hands. I had carved names into stones and bits of wood, anything to remember the boys who died on Peter's Island. I didn't know if what I was about to offer would go over well or not, but I had to do it, and Beverly's suggestion fell in line.

"I want to go back," I said softly. "To... to bury him."

Even if there was nothing there, I knew his glasses had fallen. If nothing else, we could retrieve those and do something.

"If it's okay with you both," I added. It was something I needed to do, but I understood for all Richie was my friend, he was something even more to the two of them.

After I spoke, I braced myself. I didn't think Eddie would want me to go back out there and I wouldn't blame him. Not after what had just happened. But it felt wrong to me, the idea of leaving Richie out there where something so terrible had happened.

"What? No, are you crazy," Eddie said, struggling not to shout, even in the relative safety of the basement. "We can't go back out there. You just saw what happens when we go out there, Jamie, you can't do that."

You can't do that to me, he thought, immediately ashamed of how selfish it was, that he'd rather leave Richie out there than take that risk. Not just for himself, but for Jamie and Bev, too. What if they went out there and something happened to them? Eddie knew already that he wouldn't be able to take it.

"Jamie, he fucking died out there trying to keep me—" His voice broke, becoming more strangled and terrified by the second. "To keep us safe. You're seriously talking about going out there again?"

"We can ask Regan's dad to go," Beverly cuts in, trying to keep her voice as calm and even as possible. As strange as she's felt around Regan's parents, it's the best suggestion she's got, what she hopes will be a reasonable compromise when she can understand both sides of it. Had Jamie only been asking her, she would have agreed to go back out with him in an instant, figuring it's the least she could do for Richie, when she wasn't there to try to help in the first place. But she would have expected no other response from Eddie, and though she gets the sense that there's something she's missing here, something she hasn't been told, she can't fight him on that given what he's just seen. Of course he would want them to stay here. There has to be some way they can honor Richie while still staying safe.

She wants to know the rest, what Eddie meant when he cut himself off, but now doesn't seem like the time to press for details. It's heavy enough knowing that Richie is gone.

"He'd be going back out anyway, right? Maybe he can get... And we can do it here."

I wanted to point out that I'd done things more dangerous than that before. I'd swum with sharks, battled pirates, fought against the Many-Eyed, and I knew it was different, I knew these creatures were foreign to me, but I also knew it would be wrong to leave Richie there. Even if all we could find was his glasses, it would just feel wrong. Forever.

Beverly's suggestion cut through my thoughts, though, and I nodded. Quickly, I looked to Eddie, my eyebrows drawn together in the question. Would that be okay? I hoped it would. It was a compromise, it meant we would all stay here in relative safety, though I knew it was more than possible for those creatures to come here, too.

"We can do it here," I agreed and my voice cracked and fell apart on the last word.

"Yeah, sure, Regan's dad can go," Eddie said, quickly latching onto the suggestion, because it would mean they wouldn't have to go back out into those woods. They wouldn't be asking him to do anything he wouldn't already be doing, anyway. It would be fine.

"Then we can..." He trailed off, looking around the basement, as if there might be an answer there. The only person he'd even known to die was Georgie, and even then, there'd been Bill with his unwavering hope that his little brother might one day come back. And with that thought, Eddie wondered— God, he wondered... Had anyone ever survived getting attacked by one of those things? Was it possible? What if they'd just left him out there?

But Eddie had seen them, seen their teeth, seen the wicked looking claws on their impossibly long limbs, and all the blood left behind...

"Oh God, I feel sick," he whined softly as he leaned down, doubling over his knees, his arms folding over his head.

As much as anything can be right now, it's a relief when they both agree. At least it's some sort of plan. Whatever is out there — and that really isn't a thought she wants to think too much of that — at least they'll be able to do something for him, even if it's too little, too late. An actual funeral might be out of the question, but they can come up with some sort of marker, maybe. Just thinking about it and the odd finality of it makes Beverly have to hold back a fresh burst of tears, but then Eddie is talking about feeling sick, and she tries to keep it as under control as she can. She turns towards him instead, resting her hand against his back like he'd done to her a moment ago, a little tentative and unsure of herself in a way that she hasn't been with physical affection around Eddie in a long time.

She can't tell him it's okay, because it fucking isn't. Their being in this place, Richie being gone, none of it is the least bit alright. Nothing she can do or say can change that. She knows that too well. Being here for him probably won't do anything, either, but it's all she's got. Helpless, she glances up at Jamie, as if doing so might give her some idea what to say, but she's still at a loss.

"We'll ask him later," she says softly, trying to keep her voice from wavering too noticeably. It doesn't really work. She's afraid, she realizes, in a way that has nothing to do with the monsters outside, only she isn't sure why. Old instincts, maybe. Regardless, it's not something she really wants to examine. Now, when she needs to be here for her friends, isn't the time. "And try to find something that we can use to... I don't know, put his name on, or something."

I was nodding, though I didn't trust my voice, not at first. Instead I waited for a few moments, then pushed away from the wall where I was standing and went to crouch in front of Beverly and Eddie where they were sitting on the last step. I wanted to do something, I wanted to be able to comfort them, to be comforted in return, but I had never done this with anyone else before. The grief of losing my loved ones had always been mine alone, something shared by no one else on the Island and certainly not Peter, so my mourning had always been quiet. Private. This was the first time anyone else I knew had ever been hurt over the same thing I was.

I didn't know what to do.

I just sat there, my arms over my knees, looking at the ground between the three of us. Then I said, "I can carve something. Into a stone or some wood. If you want me to." It wouldn't be the first time I had done something like that. I knew how to make it look nice.

Eddie wanted to scream at them not to coddle him. Not to talk to him like he was a baby. He wanted to just scream, at no one at all. They were trying so hard to be calm, so reasonable and Eddie wanted to tear things apart.

Deep down, he knew Jamie felt the same. Bev, too. But he couldn't help but resent them, a little, just for a moment. He wanted to be selfish in his grief. It was his, and they were talking about headstones and funerals and doing something Richie would've wanted.

Richie would've wanted not to be fucking dead.

"Whatever," he sniffled wetly, wiping a hand miserably across his cheek. "Yeah, we can do that. There's some wood out behind the house, I think."

"Yeah," Beverly agrees, the word coming out as little more than an exhale. Limited as their options may be here, she still thinks there ought to be something, little difference though it will actually make. Richie is still gone. They're still stuck in this place, impossibly far away from the lives they had before. She still has to try with every bit of strength she has not to think about the last time she was party to a conversation like this. Though she was too young to do any actual planning and suspects that she wouldn't have been listened to even if that weren't the case, she remembers what it was like in a way that's somehow both hazy and vivid, and it's the last fucking thing she wants on her mind right now. Things are bad enough as it is.

She hates that she's so worried and uncertain even around two of her closest friends, but once the feeling, familiar as it is, has taken hold, it can't be so easily shaken off. There's nothing she can do and nothing she can say to make this any better. That would've been the case for anyone, she knows, but it's hard to deal with all the same.

At a loss, she does the only other thing left to her: She tells the truth. "I don't know what else to do."

It never got any easier. I had lost so many friends and besides burying them and marking their graves, I never knew what to do. Every single time, I felt utterly helpless and this was no different. I couldn't comfort myself, I couldn't properly comfort either of them and I felt like I was stuck back in the deep, dark hole that the Island had turned out to be.

"I don't know either," I admitted, then sat down on the floor and rubbed my eyes. They were dry now, but they burned and I didn't think they would stay that way for long.

"I don't know," I said again.

Eddie stood abruptly, and while he wanted to stomp, wanted to throw things and scream, he stalked quietly up the stairs and out of the basement, without a word.

He was shaking by the time he made it out into the yard. There was more space, the rolling plains of the frame and the sky stretched above them, but it felt weirdly oppressive, like it was all closing in on them, the shadows too big and dark and every little sound gripping tightly at his throat.

There was wood out back, and rocks, too. Noticeably few tools, but they didn't keep anything around that might make too much noise. He picked up a wooden 2x4, weather worn and bleached from the sun.

Beverly wants to call out after him, but although she's hardly in a very present state of mind, she's just aware enough to stop herself from doing so. Instead, after looking worriedly over at Jamie, she follows along instead, keeping Eddie within her sight but hanging back a little. She doesn't know what to do or say or sign when absolutely nothing will make this better; she doesn't know what comfort he might want or need when, in the past, that's tended to look a certain, frightening way to her. That's not Eddie, of course, not by a fucking long shot, but as much as she hates herself for it, she can't help thinking about the only other person close to her to die and everything that happened after. It doesn't exactly provide a good template for how to handle something like this.

Because of that, it's hard not to feel like she's done something wrong, though she wasn't there and couldn't have known what would happen. Keeping a distance, she wraps her arms around herself, absently — and quietly — scuffing the toe of her boot against the ground until she leans over to pick up a rock near her feet.

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