WARNING: Dissociation, implied child abuse, theats of violence and / or sexual violence, and just...Patrick Hockstetter.

Mirror In The Bathroom

mirror in the bathroom, please talk free
the door is locked
just you and me

The sound of her own trembling breath in her ears. That's real. She puts her hand on her chest to feel her heartbeat, quick rabbit pulse thud thud thud, and that's real, too.

The tile floor under her is real, and the wall at her back. The light, the mirror, the bottles on the shelf Daddy put up, aftershave, her nail polish remover, Mom's old cold cream, all of this is real.

There's real, and then there's the blood. The slip and slick and salt taste of it, stinging her eyes, slow drip, and it feels just as real. It all feels real.

But her dad didn't see anything. If it was real, he would have. How couldn't he?

There are only two options here. The one that makes sense is she's losing it. And the other...

The other...

Beverly tries to stand up, but it's too slippery. She crawls on hands and knees through the - the - she crawls and sits in the bathroom doorway, unties her boots with shaky hands and peels off her wet socks. She can't let herself cry.

She walks down the hall gingerly as an old woman, off-balance, so careful not to touch anything. Daddy's in the kitchen, pouring coffee into his thermos. "Bevvie, get my lunch, would you?" he says, and it's not a request. Nothing ever is.

Beverly dutifully makes him two sandwiches the way he likes, one ham and one pimento loaf. She scrubs her hands first, as long as she dares to, but blood still gets smeared on the sink and the refrigerator door, the jar of mayonnaise and the knife she uses to spread it. She has to swallow over and over to keep from gagging.

There's a perfect bright red fingerprint in the middle of one bread slice. She swallows harder, shoves the sandwiches into plastic bags and then into his lunch box as fast as she can.

Daddy runs his fingers through her hair, catching in the congealing mess. It pulls hard enough to make her wince. "Don't forget, I'll be home late now," she nods, even though she'd forgotten about his new shift starting, and he kisses her forehead. She squeezes her eyes shut. "You be good."

His mouth comes away red. Jesus, she's going to be sick.

When he leaves, Beverly listens for his key in the lock, heavy footsteps to trail away and disappear, then covers her face with her hands and allows herself to shake.

She's crazy. God, she's crazy.

(or she isn't, oh god, oh god, she isn't and that's worse)

"Stop it," Beverly says out loud, and digs her fingers into her skin. "Stop it. Get a grip."

She forces herself to breathe deeply, evenly, until she goes still and blank inside, sinks into that black nothing place she goes when things get bad (you're still my girl). In this place, thoughts slide away like water on glass. Like this, nothing matters except the concrete, the immediate.

If this is real, she needs to clean up. And if it isn't...she needs to know that, too.

Two birds, one stone. Beverly goes to her room to find clean clothes, puts them in a plastic grocery bag. She doesn't look in the bathroom. She doesn't think about it.

Autopilot takes her on a familiar path outside, downstairs and two doors to the left. She knocks on the third.

Her heart is pounding in her ears. "Bev!" her neighbor, Nancy Peterson, answers the door with a friendly, if baffled smile, bleached blonde perm in a ponytail and over-sized KISS t-shirt falling off one shoulder. "What can I do for you?"

No screaming. No reaction. Obviously she doesn't see the blood either.

So that's that. She really is going crazy.

Beverly smiles back, hollow inside, and ignores the feel of dried blood cracking on her cheeks. "Hi, Nancy. Sorry to bother you, but could I maybe use your shower? Our hot water's out again," the lie comes easily. It's happened for real twice already this year.

"Yeah, of course, kiddo. Come in, come in," Nancy moves out of the way to let Beverly slip inside, then shuts the door, shaking her head in disgust. "This whole damn building is falling down around our ears, I tell you. It's outrageous."

Nancy heads toward the bathroom, and Bev drifts along behind. Nancy's six-year-old daughter, Cindy, is at the kitchen table with a pile of crayons and a My Little Pony coloring book, concentrating too hard to look up. She babysits for her sometimes when Nancy has to stay late or cover a swing shift at the intake desk for the emergency room. She works at the hospital just like Daddy.

Nancy has a soft, faded pink-striped towel waiting for her. There's no blood in their bathroom. She hadn't known she was afraid there would be. "Love the new 'do, by the way," Nancy says on her way out, and ruffles her sticky hair. Beverly tries not to shudder. "Tres chic!"

Bev strips off her filthy clothes in a hurry, stuffs them inside the empty plastic bag she'd brought her clean things in. She ties the handles to seal it, because even if she knows the blood is just all in her head, it's...better.

She shampoos her hair three times, mechanically scrubs every nook and cranny with pink Avon soap that smells like roses until her skin is flushed almost as pink. She lets the spray beat against her face, lukewarm water running to cold now, and honestly has no idea if she's crying or not.

Nancy's at the stove when she comes out. It smells like Manwich tomato sauce. "Better now?"

"Yeah," Beverly says. "Thank you."

It makes her feel guilty, how nice Nancy is to her. There aren't a lot of people in Derry who are nice to her anymore. "No sweat, kiddo," Nancy shuts off the burner. "Hey, I heard your dad's stuck pulling twelves. They still haven't found anybody?"

She nods. Night shift had been decimated when two guys took off (disappeared, some people said) and Wayne Ripsom...well. After Betty, he wasn't in any kind of shape to work. Until replacements were hired, everybody left in maintenance had to work twelve-hour shifts to cover.

"That's rough. Beaucoup overtime at least," she can feel Nancy's eyes on her, and doesn't dare look over. If she does, everything is just gonna come spilling out, she knows it. "You wanna stay for dinner, kiddo? It's sloppy joe night," Bev hesitates, grip tightening on the plastic bag with her dirty clothes. She can see the bloody shadow inside. What else is she gonna start seeing? "I just got a new batch of samples in, too. We can have a little makeover party. Come on, what do you say?"

Nancy sells Avon as a side gig. She gives Beverly a lot of free stuff - 'samples', she says, or things that people returned, and some of them probably are, but Bev is pretty sure more of them are things Nancy buys her. Maybe she feels sorry for her because she doesn't have a mom, or maybe she's lonely and likes having somebody to talk to (being an unmarried single mom in Derry isn't a lot easier than being the school slut). Whatever the reason, it's...it's really nice.

Beverly swallows the lump in her throat. "Okay," she agrees. Not like there's anything but a silent empty apartment waiting for her (and the blood, all that blood that isn't really there, the voices).

So she ends up sitting at their dinner table, even though she's never felt less hungry in her life. She struggles to force down a few polite bites while Nancy asks her how she's doing, what her summer plans are, and Cindy chatters about the Gomez kids' new kitten down in 1A.

Cindy breaks into sudden giggles. "You got sauce in your ear, sillyhead!"

Beverly touches her ear, then looks at her fingers. Not sauce. Blood. She freezes, pulse thumping all through her body like a drum, and slowly holds up her hand. "Is that it?" her voice sounds warped to her own hearing, half-speed and far away and so, so calm.

"Duh," Cindy rolls her eyes.

Cindy sees it. Cindy can see the blood, too, and that means -

That means maybe she isn't imagining it. Maybe she isn't crazy at all.

It's not as comforting as you might think.

Beverly eats without tasting anything, talks without any idea of what she's saying, while her brain whirs and whirs. After dinner, Nancy brings out her little turquoise case of sample lipsticks, all tiny perfect chisels of color with names like Amorous Rose and Apricot Breeze. Nancy gives her a 'returned' jar of Peach Soft Musk lotion to match the perfume she gave her for her birthday in April. It's her favorite, sweet peach and something fresh and spicy green like bell pepper or grass, but it might as well smell like sweat socks right now for all she can appreciate it. Her mind is very much somewhere else.

(if it's real, why can't Daddy or Nancy see anything? Where did it come from? What is it?)

Dread builds the later it gets and the closer she gets to having to leave. By 11:00, Cindy's fast asleep on the couch, and Nancy's yawning. She has work early tomorrow, Bev knows, and feels guilty again. "I should probably go," Beverly mumbles, and in a way it'll be a relief not to have to keep pretending everything is normal.

But the thought of being alone right now is terrifying.

"Use our shower anytime you need, honey," Nancy tells her at the door. "And if it gets a little too creepy by yourself at night, or you ever, you know, you want to talk about anything, whatever it is, you can always come over here, you hear me? Always," there's something about the way Nancy emphasizes that, the way she's looking at her, which makes Beverly feel like she can see inside her. "I mean it. If it's late, just call and I'll let you in, okay? You can crash on the couch whenever you want."

Daddy would kill her if he heard she'd stayed over at Nancy's - he thinks she's a slut and a busybody, which is worse - but it's good to have the option.

Beverly trudges up the metal and cement stairway slowly, warily, moonlight playing all kinds of weird tricks on her eyes. She doesn't exactly want to go back home, but she doesn't want to hang around outside either, not with all those kids going missing...and worse.

When she gets to their door, she puts her ear to it first, holds her breath while she listens. Nothing.

Moment of truth now. Beverly bites her lip, cautiously swings the door open.

Inside is quiet except for Daddy's metal fan in the living room. The few lights she'd left on just make the apartment seem dimmer, the shadows darker.

She shuts the door and bolts it behind her, and everything suddenly feels very final. This is it; Daddy won't be back 'til after 8:00. Nine hours of being stuck here by herself gape in front of her like a deep black pit, and god, she hasn't wanted her dad since she was little, before Mom died, but she does now.

The phone rings, and she startles, claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp.

The only people who'd be calling this late are Daddy or Nancy. Unless it's a trap. Images of blood dribbling from the phone's mouthpiece flicker in her mind, the cord changing into ropes of hair and winding around her again, dragging her toward whatever was -

The phone's still ringing. Beverly swallows, mouth dry as salt, and creeps into the living room. Both her hand and voice are shaking when she answers. "Hello?"

Nothing but the sound of someone (something) breathing on the line, then a raspy voice: "Are you alone?"

Fuck. Oh god. "Who is this?" her heart is beating so hard, her skull is throbbing.

"How many dicks did you suck today?" hissing now, laughing, and blood rushes to her face. "Got room for a couple more?" more laughter, boys laughing, and a rustling sound she realizes is the phone being passed.

Then there's a loud, long belch, and just like that, she knows exactly who and what this is. She clenches a fist. "Why don't you assholes keep blowing each other instead," she snaps, and hangs up.

Of course. That psycho shithead, Henry Bowers, and his psycho shithead friends have been crank-calling her whenever they get bored all year, and now that it's summer, they have plenty of time on their hands. Like it wasn't already bad enough what they say about her.

What the hell did she ever do to them? What did she ever do to anyone in this goddamn town?

She's so sick of this bullshit.

Rage is hotter, stronger than fear, and Beverly uses that, storms around turning on every light in the living room and the kitchen, stalks down the hall to slam the bathroom door shut. On impulse, she grabs the poem from on top of the laundry hamper where she left it.

She cleans it the best she can, wiping blood off with a damp paper towel. It's stained, and the ink is pretty smudged, but you can still make out what it says. My heart burns there, too. Something warm and tender unfolds in her chest, softens the angry fist of her heart.

The phone rings again.

Jesus, get a life! She wouldn't answer at all, except it still might be Daddy checking on her (checking that she's where she's supposed to be). She finishes hiding the postcard in an old threadbare pair of panties at the back of her underwear drawer, then heads out to pick up the phone, tries not to sound as pissed off as she feels. "Hello?"

"Hey, Red," the voice says, and it's not Henry. Only one person calls her that.

Her skin crawls. Patrick Hockstetter is the weirdest, creepiest...emptiest person she's ever met. Girls like Gretta talk shit and hassle her, maybe more when they can get away with it, and guys like Henry grope her and snap her bra in the hallways, tell everyone she did them, but Patrick -

Patrick scares the shit out of her.

Hey, Red, he'd say when she had no choice but to pass by him at school, and brush his spidery fingertips over the back of her neck. What's the big hurry?

Three weeks ago, he'd followed her into the girls room, backed her into the sinks before she could run or grab something to fight him with or even scream. He'd trapped her there with his long, lanky body, and flicked his lighter on, held it an inch away from her face. The reflected flame had been the only light in his pale dead eyes. "I got something to show you, Red," he'd grinned, and she didn't know if he wanted to rape her or burn her alive or something even worse.

If third period hadn't ended and sent a wave of girls flooding in, she doesn't know what would have happened. She never wants to find out.

"Wanna know a secret?" Patrick croons, and she breaks into a cold sweat.

It's like she's back in that girls room, frozen with terror, staring up at his rictus grin and the terrible void of his eyes.

"Come to the bathroom, and I'll show you," Patrick sing-songs, and he sounds...strange, like a tape that keeps slowing down and speeding up. "I'll show you how."

The hair stands up on her neck. She doesn't understand. "How to what?" she hears herself ask as if in a dream, a nightmare that's pulling her in where she doesn't want to go but she can't stop.

"How to float," Patrick whispers, then he's laughing and laughing and laughing, spiraling wildly into hysteria.

He's still laughing when she slams the phone down.

Jelly-legged, Beverly grabs the aluminum bat Daddy keeps by the door in case one of their junkie neighbors tries to break in, then sits on the couch, ramrod straight. Patrick's crazy laugh keeps echoing in her head, so she turns on the TV to drown it out, switches from some kids show to late night reruns of Magnum PI.

Whatever is going on, she won't ever be caught out that way again. Too scared to fight back, to even move.

Bev waits for something else to happen - more voices, a knock on the door - but nothing does, and somewhere in the long delirious hours, unbelievably, she actually dozes off, sitting upright and still clutching the bat.

The phone rings for a third time, and she jerks awake, heart pounding. Daylight is seeping through the blinds, and she glances at the clock. It's just after 8:00. "H...Hello?" she answers.

"Hi, baby," Daddy's voice, and she grips the bat tighter.

"Daddy?" she doesn't know why she asks that. It's his voice. Who else would it be?

"Were you expecting somebody else?" like he can hear her thoughts, suspicion darkening his tone. "Is that why you're up?"

Shit. "No, Daddy, of course not," she answers quickly, rubs grit from her tired, burning eyes. "I fell asleep on the couch, that's all."

"Mm," he doesn't believe her, she knows. He never believes her. "Listen, Bevvie, I can't talk long. There's a problem here, something with the sewer lines, and I won't be able to leave until it gets fixed."

Horror churns in her gut. "How long is that gonna be?"

"Hard to say. A few hours, maybe longer."

"Oh," she chokes. The desperate, insane urge to blurt out everything to him hits her, overwhelming, almost uncontrollable, and she has to bite her lip hard enough to bruise to keep from doing just that.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," Daddy says, softened now. He must hear how upset she is, and thinks it's because she misses him. Beverly bites into her lip harder, bites down on some brittle manic yelping sound like a laugh.

Jesus Christ, she's really cracking up.

After they say their goodbyes and she promises to be good, yes of course Daddy, Bev just...sits. There's a scream stuck in her throat, a feeling like she's ready to crawl out of her skin, tear out her hair, or cry.

She stares sightless at Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt on the TV, and has never felt more totally, hopelessly, crushingly alone than she does right now.

In this moment, she wants more than anything to tell someone - anyone - what's happening, but there's nobody. She has nobody. There's no one who can help her. Who could she go to? Nancy, who hadn't seen a damn thing? A fucking six-year-old girl? Who would listen to a word of this crazy shit?

Sudden as a lightning bolt, missing posters on a wall flash through her brain, cheap library copies of historical documents, newspaper articles.

She exhales, sharp, open-mouthed.

It's a stupid idea. The dumbest. Insane. She barely knows any of them, and they'll think she's nuts. She thinks she's nuts.

Beverly drops the bat with a thud, stands up to look for a phone book.

What other choice does she have?

NOTE: I wondered where Beverly got cleaned up before the Losers arrived, if her bathroom was still a total bloodfest.