The day was assumed to come. One way or another, it was coming, but she kept ignoring it. Living in a fairytale that was her friends and summer outdoors instead of living with the fact that the day could've happened any time she came back home. And when it came, she was convinced it would leave her traumatized for the rest of her life.
Since her body had first started to gain more feminine, curvy features (her bathroom mirror told her so), some rejectable barrier came between Beverly and Alvin Marsh. The barrier was palpable in every sense, and both of them felt it. It made her father agitated. She knew because the slaps and blows became more frequent than they were before. When she was turned away from him, she could feel his eyes boring into her back like two icy beacons that made shivers surge through her veins and there was no shield she could use to prevent the feeling.
Fear.
And it was unstoppable.
Spending time with the Losers would thrust the primal thoughts at the back of her mind, and she would be all beaming smiles and laughs and scoffs and cuffing up the other Losers' heads, the clown included. It was a virtual reality of oblivion irresistible to venture to, like a small kid escaping to their own realm of fantasy away from the real world's cruelty and away from his parents trying to outyell each other in a battle that makes no sense. It provided Beverly with the safety of keeping under control. Not endangering her friends, everything in her life that she ever had, was her priority, and she wasn't going to drill them with pointless stories of her personal life.
Why would they care, anyway?
No, they would. They were her friends.
But there was no need. She could handle her own.
Tsk. Yeah, right...
It was in no small measure her fault that the day happened in the first place. Her guard had momentarily slackened. Beverly became careless, relaxed a little too much. Forgot that she was two people, different outside and inside the house. She lulled her own self into a false sense of security and it would prove to cost her too much. Thinking back, she knew it was the cause of the day, but couldn't help but think that if the day didn't happen, things might've steered to the most unwanted extremities.
Her muscles stiffened the moment she'd unlock the door, uncooperative with her brain, and the mask she kept up until then slipped off just like that. But her brain couldn't help itself, either. The horrid stale stench of the apartment hit her nostrils, but she knew she'd get used to it, like she would every day.
Sky blue eyes zipped across the small dimmed space, easily recognizing every curve and every corner even under the veil of gloom. Beverly stopped. Listened, opened her ears fully to capture any squeak that didn't belong to the usual sounds of the house. Any indicator at all that her father was home. Her father, whom she recognized less and less.
She only just returned from 29 Neibolt, where they all helped Georgie with his Art class project and Ben had a Soc homework to pick a person and write down everything they did that day to estimate the consistency of their habits. He chose Pennywise. (ˮHey, Pennywise, do you mind if I just follow you around and write down everything you do?" ˮNo prObLem! Follow me." ˮ...I'm going to regret this, aren't I?")
Beverly never had a problem sneaking into the house before. The one time she had a bath session with Mike and Pennywise she managed to take a quick shower, change, and bring the still-soaking clothes to the laundry two streets down, then get back with the dry, folded clothes. All before Alvin got home. She had to sit on her bed still shaking of unrestrained adrenaline and leftovers of panic for half more hour. After being released from the police station and gliding under the mild accusations of Mr. Nell, Beverly made sure Bill was alright to ride a bike again before rushing home to wash off the wounds and throw the ruined blouse in the trash. Luckily, the wounds on her palms weren't as deep as they seemed at first, and all she had to do is be careful to keep her hands closed into half-fists every time she spoke to her father.
She was lucky.
But luck is expendable. That's what she forgot.
The house didn't offer any unusual sounds, but it didn't allow her to let her mind still just yet. As quietly as she could, the redhead closed the door, unknowingly releasing a small shuddering breath through her nose. The key chimed sheepishly when it rocked on the string of the necklace.
She strode down the hallway and towards the salvation of her room. Oddly, only after she threw the backpack on the bed and sat down next to it did she feel the relief. But it only came if the apartment was empty. The bitterness of the barrier was nearly nonexistent, as well.
Her room was only a few steps away, when—
"Bevvie?"
She froze mid-step like she got captured in an ice cube, and each individual blood cell suffered the same. Her throat was going dry vehemently fast and she had to suppress the urge to cough.
Slowly, she turned right, facing the living room. The small fan dutifully rotated on the coffee table (how had she missed it?!) and the small TV was on mute. On it, the national bowling competition was in full swing. Clouds obscured the sky from out of the window on the other side, making the shadows seem darker and thicker.
And among the curtains and shadows, there stood Alvin Marsh, imposing and threatening in his height. He wasn't tall enough to out-top Pennywise, but comparing to her, it was just enough. He stood, leaned against the wall, almost leisurely, but Beverly recognized the farce behind it. His hands were hidden in darkness, and they might've been buried in pockets like they usually are, or... or they could've been hiding something.
Beverly didn't dare breathe when he smirked.
"Where have you been?"
His voice was quiet, but chilled her to the bone. There was something else beneath it that she couldn't yet decipher.
"Out-outside", she said, realizing with fright how her voice wavered even as she tried her best to pour control into it. For goodness' sake, she doesn't stutter! Bill does!
"Is that right..."
She only glanced left and right, mouth sealed. The fan kept whooshing.
Then, "Come on over here."
Her feet moved on their own before she thought of stopping them and Beverly meekly stepped to the center of the room, clutching the strap of her backpack. Close enough. The barrier was back on, thicker and reeking stronger than ever before. It made her sick at the bottom of her stomach.
If Alvin Marsh was displeased by any of it, he didn't show it. "Now. I'll ask you again — where have you been?"
"I— to- to the library, I needed something for school", she said quickly. Too quickly.
"School is out."
"It's for next year."
Silence befell both of them. The fan seemed too loud. She stared at him, he stared at her. He knew she was lying, and she knew it. For the first time in her life, Beverly realized, she dug out a hole and fell into it herself, and it's become too deep to reach out for help. No one can pull her out now. She's on her own.
And she is afraid.
Her father smirked again and gave his head a single disbelieving shake. The motion was followed by a small huff. "You look at me in the eye... and lie to me."
Beverly remained frozen and quiet, not daring to move or speak. Whatever she said next would've been pointless.
Unhesitant, Alvin stepped out. "So I suppose not telling me about this... is also a form of lying?"
He lifted something in his hand and Beverly choked on her breath.
It was the postcard. January embers. A beautiful haiku written for her by Ben Hanscom and she didn't need his words to know, and he didn't need to know she figured him out. One accidental glance at his notebook handwriting while they were doing homework in the library was an answer enough for her.
No.
No, anything but that.
She unconsciously recoiled, tripping over her own feet. The backpack fell off her shoulder and crashed on the table. It hit the coffee cup and sent it crashing on the floor. Precious brown liquid dispersed over the scraped floor.
"It- it's just a poem", she stammered. Her voice cracked and was a few intervals higher, filled with panic. "It's nothing, I swear, Daddy, ple—"
Beverly could never see it coming — the blow came too fast. Her face flew back and she staggered, nearly falling over. Tears sprung to her eyes and her left cheek flared. Tingles of pain did their dance across her skin and made a gong rattle in her head.
"You worry me, Bevvie", came the voice from somewhere afar. Before she managed to register it, another punch aimed for her stomach knocked the breath out of her. Black spots swam before her vision. Losing the balance, she fell on her behind, hard, and her arms flew protectively around her abdomen. Gasps and cries flowed out of her mouth in equal measure.
"You worry me a lot."
Alvin swung a shoed foot and kicked her in the same place, emitting a grunt out of the girl. Beverly could barely breathe, and her insides burned like she swallowed a fistful of embers. She tried propping herself up on her elbow, but slipped on the spilled coffee. All the while, Alvin talked. And while his words were meant to be harsh, the calmness and low volume that resided in them made it ten times more horrifying.
"Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I don't know you meet with a group of boys every day since school was over? Did you think I'd never find out? All this sneaking out of the house particularly when I'm resting in the afternoon."
She needed to get up. She had to, if she valued her life. That glimmer in his eyes. It never mattered that she was his daughter. To Alvin, she was always a piece of meat to be thrown on the grill whenever he desired. If she stayed on the floor she would prove just that.
And pieces of meat get eaten.
With a half-wheeze, half-grunt, she planted her palms against the dirty floor to push herself up.
A shoed foot met her face and sent her crashing back down onto the parquet slick with her own sweat. Her whole head exploded on impact, first by the kick, and then by the collision with the floor. Her jaw felt like it cracked open, pain surging through her cheekbone and eye socket. She couldn't breathe or see.
As the world slowly came back around and the pain turned into a circular vortex of consistency wrecking her every nerve, Beverly could distinctively recognize her father's voice. It was blurry, like it was coming from underwater, but she quickly swam back up to consciousness, her body responding to adrenaline-filled fear rather than anything else.
"I guess I gotta prove to you", her father's voice oozed into her ears. "That you're my girl. Nobody else's. Mine… Come to think of it, I should've done this earlier. Maybe you wouldn't have been sneaking off like that. Maybe you would've learned your lesson. Nobody's going to have you, Bevvie. You are my girl."
Disoriented as she was, Beverly managed to support herself up on her palms and look over her shoulder. She would've yelped, but all that came out of her was a gurgle. A bit of saliva dripped from her slacken mouth.
Alvin was unfastening the belt on his trousers. His fingers were fondling with the button, lazy, but precise. Almost promising. Beverly should've been more appalled and disgusted at the bulge tenting in his trousers, but somehow, the fact left her entirely passive. Rather, its consequences were what truly concerned her.
With a grunt, she pushed herself forward, army crawling forward as she fought against dizziness and weakness. Her life was at stake. She couldn't allow discomfort to win because then she was definitely going to lose.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Beverly desperately tried to ignore him and made another crawl forward. She didn't know exactly where. To her room, to the bathroom, outside, anywhere is better than here.
Then she saw it.
A shoehorn in the bucket near the exit to the main hallway. Brass and heavy, with a rubber tip.
It didn't hold any particular use, though. Beverly would stomp her way into her sneakers every morning and she wasn't sure if her father ever got out of his own shoes. It was probably a leftover from some sense of normalcy a long time ago when her mother was still alive and life still had its logic.
And now it's here, in front of her. And a plan is building up in her mind that will put it in its exact use.
"What are you doing, Bevvie? Come here, like a good little girl."
Beverly heard an unmistakable sound of a fly being zipped open. It's all it took for her to move.
When she next started crawling, it had more will, more energy. A goal. Her head was protesting, pain trying to stop her at every movement, but she persisted. It was probably when she was within the reach of the shoehorn that her father took note of her intentions.
"What are you—"
Beverly reached out with a grunt, almost a scream. Gripped the cool, brass handle.
And suddenly, she became somebody else. Some strange energy jolted from the object and through her body, electrifying her muscles. And then the pain was no more. Just pure, angry, shivering adrenaline.
Before Alvin could blink, Beverly turned around with a furious roar, cuffing the man painfully across the face with all her strength. The man let out the strangest sound; a small gasp, the tiniest moan of pain before he spun halfway, falling onto the ironing board and toppling it over with a huge crash.
Beverly jumped up like a ballerina from the floor. Now she felt light as a sparrow, but strong as steel. She gripped the shoehorn with both hands, waiting for her father to stumble back to his feet.
She took swing after swing, uncaring where it was directed. And the man couldn't defend himself. He couldn't even capture the handle. Every bit of it responded to her like an extension of her own arms. All of her hate was simply pouring through her arms from her entire body, showering onto the man whom she loathed with every fiber of her being.
"I am not your girl", she growled at some point as he was attempting to crawl away down the dim hallway, begging for her to stop. "I will never be your girl!"
Bleeding, panting, aching all over, Alvin couldn't believe his mind. His own daughter, usually timid and reserved, getting unleashed like a dying star. He was supposed to have her in his grip, literally and figuratively. She was supposed to be submissive to him, responding to him as he wished her to.
But he was the one looking up at her, lifting his arms to shield himself from her beating. Unthinkable. Absolutely incomprehensible to Alvin Marsh's shallow mind. She was standing there, feet cemented apart on the floor, heavy shoehorn hung firmly in one hand, the tip of it bloodied. She breathed deeply, chest heaving from behind the dress, pure rage brightening the blue of her eyes.
She had no right. No right.
Alvin was about to summon all authority he had, show her who's boss, and make her pay dearly for what she had just done when another darkness unfolds in the hallway. It rises from behind Beverly, enormous, unfolding like a flower. It straightened and stilled in the form of a clown in frilly carnival clothes, hands held close to its body, contours of the outlines solid and firm. It stood still behind the girl like a dark guardian angel.
And Alvin Marsh felt fear like he'd never felt it before. Ice cold, boring into him with long, clawed fingers. Depriving him of any sense of authority or predatory dominance he might have still had in him.
He screamed.
The shadow lunged and so did Beverly, guided by the shadow's gentle, but decisive hand.
When Beverly came to, she sat a bit farther down the empty hallway, silent save for her desperate sobs. All that remained of Alvin where he last sat was a wide smear of blood on the wall. The brass shoehorn lay forgotten and dismissed on the floor, the tip of it glistening red in the nearby weak source of light.
Beverly cried in the earnest; relief, fatigue, joy, anger, fear, and sadness, all mixing into one and needing to get out, get out before she exploded or went mad.
There were soft clothes, pressing into her and she gripped them like a lifeline, buried her ginger hair into them, the jingles it chimed bringing her comfort in a way the man she once called father never could.
And she cried. She cried until she had no tears left, and Pennywise was right there. He held her, silent, but watchful, his entire being finally still, resting in the knowledge that she was now safe. Beverly was safe.
And that's all that mattered now.
Things couldn't go for worse anymore.
They could only go for the better.
And they would.
For everyone.