Chapter's title is a translated line from one of my favorite French song, "Si jamais j'oublie", by the talented Zaz. This song is initially about Alzheimer's, but I think it fits perfectly with this chapter.
This chapter is a direct continuation of chapter 9, so make sure you've read it.
This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Stan. Your daily support is much appreciated and I hope this one makes your absent heart feels all sorts of things.
Chapter 10 : Remind me who I am, why I am alive
Bea rests her head on Allie's shoulder. She loses track of time and reality, and focuses on the way she feels impossibly safe whenever Allie is around. She closes her eyes and swallows back the sobs that want to escape from her throat. She won't cry, she repeats helplessly in her head. She won't let one single tear out of her eyes because if she does, she might not be able to stop the deluge afterwards.
She's shaking, and Allie puts her arm around her, and she trembles even more at how soft the contact is. It feels like Allie's humanity is trying to comfort her lonely soul.
She tries to speak, but no words can convey her thoughts properly. She breathes in Allie's presence like it is her only source of oxygen. It feels like home, and she learns that it's okay for her to need someone once in a while, that it doesn't make her any weaker.
She removes the cloth from her wound. It doesn't bleed anymore, but the bright thin lines burn sharply as a reminder that she's failed to resist the deathly urge to cut. She knows the cuts will heal, scab, and eventually, itch until she has to fight the need to scratch them. She knows they'll disappear without a trace, as they aren't deep enough to transform into permanent scars. She knows it is the last time, at least for now.
She falls asleep, right there with Allie's arm as her favorite blanket, and Allie's shoulder as her favorite pillow. She is jolted awake by Allie's fingers delicately stroking the inside of her thigh. She tries not to overthink the way her entire body aches. She tells herself that the way Allie never seems to walk away from her darkest demons is beautiful. She feels like she's asking for too much, but she remains immobile in Allie's embrace.
In-between dreams of Allie touching her everywhere and nightmares during which she is attacked by the ghosts of her past, she looks up and finds Allie staring right back at her, blue eyes shining with worries. She smiles slightly, feeling like a small child. She's afraid that she's imagining it all. She melts when Allie's hand reaches for her cheek and cups it gently.
She thinks she wants to kiss Allie, right here and now, in the dark of the night, where no one can see them.
She thinks she should wait because the timing is the worst.
She waits for something to happen, for something to break this moment.
She blushes when Allie slowly leans closer. She feels her heartbeat skyrockets the way it always does. She thinks the whole world can hear the drums playing in her chest. She wonders if it is a crime for her heart to direct the rhythm of the world, but how can she be blamed when Allie's hand is still designing imaginary tattoos on her skin?
When Allie simply lets their breath mix for a moment before she winks and moves back, Bea thinks the blonde might ruin her before they ever kiss.
She thinks Allie reads her mind every time and a part of her wishes things were different. If things were different, maybe she wouldn't be feeling so bare and vulnerable right now. She wants to tell Allie that she might never feel ready. She wants to tell her that if Allie keeps reading her mind like that, they'll never get what they both want.
Every time they get closer, Bea feels like she's being set on fire, and every time they separate, an ice-cold bucket is being thrown at her face.
She shuts her eyes when Allie looks at her with so much intensity that she thinks she might pass out. She isn't sure what stings more, her freshly cut skin, or the heartache she has whenever she thinks of Allie.
She feels like Harry was right.
She'll always be nothing. She has nothing to offer to Allie, but a load of issues that might take years to resolve. She should escape Allie's arms before she can't find the strength to. She should leave before they both end up heartbroken and miserable. She should run before they both murder each other with sweet words and eternal promises.
Gosh, she doesn't want to leave Allie.
She inhales deeply and shifts away a little. They sit with a ridiculously small distance separating them, but it's enough for Allie's heart to drop in her chest.
"Thank you," Bea whispers, reassuring Allie with two words.
"What happened?" Allie asks quietly, knowing Bea wouldn't simply be here without reason.
Bea glances at the clock on the wall and winces internally when she realizes it's almost morning.
Fuck.
She clenches her jaw and looks away.
"You can tell me," Allie says gently, not insisting, but letting Bea knows that whatever it is, she can trust her.
"I ruined everything," she admits with an emotionless voice.
"What?" Allie frowns.
"I met him," Bea confesses. "Harry."
She waits for Allie's screams and blame, but they never come. She waits for Allie to shake her head disappointingly at her, to get up and leave her alone in her misery, but Allie stays. She waits for Allie to call the police, but Allie doesn't do anything.
"Why?" Allie asks, hiding the anger growing inside of her. She should have guessed it was Harry. She'd never seen Bea in such distress before, and even though she has no clue what happened, she won't let him win.
"He wanted to ask me to reconsider the divorce. He wanted another chance," Bea scoffs to herself. Another chance would be the same as signing her death warrant. "I was naïve enough to think that he wanted to have a decent conversation. He only reminded me of why I left him in the first place."
She wonders if she would still be alive if she'd stayed with Harry.
She wonders if she would have ever met Allie.
She imagines spending her whole life by Harry's side and shivers.
"You said it was bullshit, right?" Allie smiles nervously. "You didn't let him sneak his way back into your life?"
Allie is more than convinced that Bea would never go back to Harry, so why is there still a part of her that is scared that she won't ever see Bea again? If only she could make that part disappear, her life would be a million times easier.
"I would never want him back," Bea replies pensively. "I've had enough of him. It's just…"
She thinks of his words and the way she can't get them out of her head. Will she ever be able to forget them? Will she ever be able to live without them? Or are they a part of her now, a new organ stuck inside her body and beating along her heart? She wishes a surgery existed to remove all those rotten parts of herself that still believe in Harry's words.
"What did he do? I will kill him, Bea, I won't let him hurt you," Allie threatens.
"No, you won't go anywhere near him," Bea grabs Allie's hand. "Promise me."
"I'm not scared of him!" Allie protests. "You think I'll let him throw shit at you without doing anything? I've seen worse than him."
"You should be scared! You don't know what he's capable of. He'll hurt you just to hurt me. Right now, he doesn't know you exist, and I plan on keeping it this way."
Bea drops Allie's hand, suddenly feeling self-conscious and selfish. She's putting Allie's life in danger and if she needs to coldly walk away to keep Allie safe, she'll do it in a heartbeat. Even if it kills her in the process.
"Don't you want him to pay for what he's done?" Allie asks in disbelief, interrupting Bea's gruesome thoughts.
"No," Bea answers with conviction. "I don't. Do not do anything. Are we gonna have a problem?"
It almost sounds like a threat, and Allie flinches back, wondering why Bea would try so hard to protect a man who doesn't deserve to be protected.
"Bea," Allie licks her lips, unsure how to say it in a way that won't make the other woman dash through the door. "he won't get to me."
"You're damn right, he won't! I won't let that happen," Bea shrugs. "So you stay away, alright? Stay as far as you can from him, I can deal with it."
Allie purses her lips, but doesn't reply. She wants to tell Bea that, obviously, she's having trouble dealing with it if she's hiding in this place with a knife in her hands, but she keeps her mouth shut, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.
"What did he tell you?" she asks instead.
The truth, Bea thinks, nothing but the fucking truth.
She feels like she's back to the starting point. Like the past month and a half never existed.
"Debbie went to talk to him," she says painfully. How does she admit that she's a complete failure? "He told me I was a bad mother. He told me I was useless. because Debbie is…"
She can't even say the words without feeling like she might fall to the ground and never get up again. She wants to scream so loud that the words will break and turn to dust at her feet, and never haunt her again. She wants an earthquake to shake her universe until it is born again without its ugliness.
"Because you were right. She told Harry," Bea lets out. She should have listened to Allie instead of blaming the wrong person. "You were right, Debbie's using. Her boyfriend is helping her."
A lone tear slips from her left eye. It burns all the way down to her neck.
"She's becoming like me," Bea murmurs. "manipulated by some man who can't take care of her. This is what I did to her. I'm not a good mother. I never was, and this is the proof."
"She has a boyfriend? In the States?" Allie smiles encouragingly for Bea to continue. If Bea keeps talking, maybe it will distract her enough from the fact that she wants to run out of here and kill Harry with her own hands.
She could take a knife, but it would be messy. She could use her own fists, but she wouldn't be able to hide her battered hands afterwards. She could get access to a gun, but really, that'd be more trouble because she'd need to deal with some unpleasant people first. She could hit him with a car, but she'd need to make sure it can't be retraced to her. She could set his house on fire, but she'd need help, and fires aren't exactly the subtlest way to get to someone.
Really, there are so many ways she could hurt him, and she's going through every single one of them in her head, even if Bea has asked her to stay away.
"Brayden," Bea replies. "You should have seen her when she talked about him. She's in love with him. She believes he's right for him, but if he's really making her take all this shit, then he's not. He's destroying my little girl's life. Harry knows."
"Don't let his words get to you, Bea. You're not what he says," Allie insists. "And cutting isn't… it's not going to help."
"I don't know who I am anymore," Bea answers slowly.
She's confused between her many identities, and many strengths and weaknesses, and she isn't sure whether she has enough faith to believe in herself anymore. She'd thought she'd gone a long way, but apparently, it will never be far enough from him.
She wants to go back to that night at the diner, when she could just pretend to be invincible while she laughed with Allie.
She wants to go back to that day at the beach, when she would run in the sand and dance with the waves, and feel nothing but love.
She wants to go back to the first night she met Allie, when she couldn't differentiate teal from green, when she was offered a granola bar to calm her growling stomach, and when she didn't yet about today.
"I wish I wasn't right," Allie says slowly. "I wish I'd been wrong about Debbie."
Bea nods. So does she.
"But since we have determined that I'm always right," Allie smirks, "I think it's time you know the truth."
Bea throws a confused look at Allie, whose eyes turn serious and humble.
"You're Bea Smith." Allie smiles, turning so she can face Bea directly and seal their eyes together. "You think you're weak, but you're a survivor. You think you're boring, but I could listen to you talk about dust all day and I'd still be trapped under your charm. You think you're stupid, but you're planning your future and thinking of details I couldn't ever think of. You think you're ugly, but you forget that I could stare at you for hours and you'd only get prettier."
Allie pauses.
"You think you're a bad mother, but Debbie is a brilliant young woman and it's all because of you."
Allie looks around them at the emptiness, like she's telling Bea the secrets of the universe and she wants to make sure no one can hear them. It's vaguely amusing, but Bea couldn't care less. She wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.
"You think you're useless, but I wouldn't be alive without you today."
Bea stops breathing for a moment.
"You think you're nothing, but you're everything to me."
Bea wants to say something, but Allie keeps talking.
"You think you're unloved, but…"
I'm falling deeper in love with you every day.
Allie lets the unspoken words travel from her mind to Bea's.
"That's who you are to me," Allie grins widely.
Bea loves who she is when Allie is here.
But the question remains in her brain, who is she, when Allie isn't here?
She'd thought she'd found herself, but she's only realizing now that she hasn't.
"Is it really how you see me?" she thinks out loud.
Allie nods like it is the most obvious fact in the world.
She glances at the clock once again and Allie notices it.
"Should we go?" Allie asks. She doesn't expect Bea to answer her almost love declaration. After all, Bea probably has a thousand things in her mind.
"Yeah. It's time I have a talk with Debbie," Bea sighs.
She doesn't tell Allie that they might be kicked out of Wentworth now. Not only has she spent the night out without warning anyone at the shelter, but her daughter is also taking drugs.
There's no way they'll let them stay.
"Will you be alright?"
Allie's voice is laced with worries. She's managed to help Bea tonight, but what about next time? She really hopes there isn't a next time.
"I think I will be," Bea replies.
She smiles until she arrives at Wentworth and faces the door.
"Thank you," she tells Allie with sincerity in her voice.
When Allie pulls her in a warm hug and promises to see her later, Bea imagines a world where they would never have to say goodbye.
Will Jackson is already waiting for her when she returns to Wentworth, past six o'clock in the morning. He lets her in and asks for her to come in the office for a few minutes. Bea knows too well what is about to happen.
Before he opens his mouth, she sees in his kind eyes that he doesn't want to do this, but he has no choice. She acts like she understands when he tells her with a sad voice that, according to the house's procedures, she must find a new place to stay within the next three days.
"You spent the night out, Liz told us that your daughter was here while she was high, and you are showing us a behavior that we do not tolerate here, I'm sorry."
"I didn't know about Debbie," Bea protests. "And I needed some alone time."
"I think we've bent the rules a lot for you before. We can't anymore," Will declares.
She is given a list of other shelters to contact during the day to see if they have any available space. She is told that if she finds an apartment and signs a lease, they'll keep her until she moves in. She has five days to find where to go.
She argues that they can't throw them away in the streets if she doesn't find a place, that it's cruel and unnecessary. Will replies that this isn't up for discussion. She didn't come back here last night, and it doesn't matter why. She knew the rules, and that they have always been very clear about them. Bea can't deny it. She knew them, she was well aware of the conditions for her to stay here.
She feels like she's truly ruined all her progress within a few hours, and that Debbie might hate her even more than she already does.
She'll need to focus on searching for a place to move now, if she doesn't want to find herself in another shelter. She'd hate that. Wentworth has been amazing for her, but she doesn't want to be the person that visits many shelters for months before she finds an ounce of stability in her life. It's too hard.
She hears Harry's words in her mind, calling her a bad mother and telling her she's ruined everything, again.
She hears Allie's voice yelling over his, telling her she's smart, and beautiful, and loved.
She tells herself everything will be alright.
They go to the movies after breakfast, because Bea figures it can't hurt to spend some good time with her daughter before she breaks the news that they're getting kicked out of the shelter soon.
She thinks it might lessen the blow, and then she remembers that it doesn't really matter. After all, it's a matter of days before Debbie leaves to go back to her boyfriend, to the gear that Bea would rather not know about, and to the twisted version of the American dream.
She laughs at the things that are happening on the giant screen, and she beams when she notices the carefree way Debbie follows, but her mind is preoccupied by the upcoming conversation she must have with her daughter. She spends half of the movie watching the characters without really caring about them, and the other half spying on Debbie's reactions to the story. She dozes off at some point, the lack of sleep finally catching up to her.
She is woken up by a piece of popcorn being thrown at her face by a blissful Debbie, and she chuckles along, loving this perfect moment.
It feels like a boring, normal, average morning, and it's all Bea has ever wanted. When they leave the movie theater and come back to Wentworth, Bea thinks that if she had to choose between a boring, normal, average morning or a never-ending roller coaster of emotions, she would pick boring everyday.
She waits until they are in her room, shielded from the universe outside and the looks of the other women living under the same roof. She waits long enough for them to forget there is another world outside of her bedroom. Anything she says will be trapped into this room, so when she leaves, it won't follow her.
"I'm leaving this place when you go back to the States," Bea parts her lips, breaking the comfortable silence they are wrapped in. She thinks of the right way to say it. "I was asked to find a new place to live."
Debbie looks up from her phone and frowns.
"Why?" she asks, tossing her device aside and sitting on the bed next to her mother.
"I didn't come back last night. It's forbidden," Bea answers sadly. "I knew it and I still broke the rule."
She doesn't mention the part where being intoxicated while staying there is also forbidden. She doesn't want to start a fight with her daughter already.
"They can do that? What if you want to, I don't know, have a life?" Debbie asks like this makes no sense. "You told them it was dumb, right? You know what, I'll tell them! They can't kick you out for stupid reasons!"
"Don't."
"Try and stop me! They think they can kick out my mom, they'll need to convince me first."
Debbie looks like she's about to fight for her mother to stay here, and Bea feels her heart flutter at the sight. She recognizes the daughter she's raised by telling her to always follow what she believes in. She recognizes the daughter who kept trying to protect her from the world even when it was never her responsibility.
Sometimes, she forgets that they've lived together for years, protecting each other against everything life threw at them.
At seven years old, Debbie had stood as tall as she could before Harry, telling him with a strong, high-pitched voice, to stop yelling at Bea.
Debbie is a warrior, just like her mother.
"I asked them to reconsider, but they didn't accept," Bea concedes. "I'm working on finding an apartment in the next days. With a little luck, you'll see it before you go back."
"I'll tell them they're pricks," Debbie stubbornly answers, getting out of the bed and heading to the door.
"Deb, come back here," Bea laughs. "You're not going to do anything, alright? I can find a place on time. I have three visits scheduled tomorrow. One of them must be right!"
Debbie groans in frustration, but she sits back to her place and looks at her mother in the eyes.
"What if they aren't? Where will you go?" she asks with a worried voice.
Suddenly, the thought of going back doesn't sound so appealing, especially when she knows her mother's life could be in danger. It feels like the past is repeating itself. She already feels guilty enough for leaving the first time, she would hate for that feeling to increase.
She's torn between the want to feel Brayden's arms around her again, and the need to stay with her mother to make sure she is alright.
It's all her existence has ever been about, really, being torn between what she wants and what she needs to do. Being unable to voice her truest thoughts because she's always been scared of her parents' reactions. Being stuck in-between, choosing sides every day and feeling like she can never make the right choice. Being unable to move forward because she's too busy trying to fix the past.
She knows she's prioritized her mother's happiness over her own for years, only to feel more and more crushed by the weight of this responsibility. For once in her life, she wishes she could do something she wants, instead of looking out after someone else. It may sound selfish, but she's tired, exhausted of living this life.
She hadn't realized how heavy it had all been, until she'd arrived to another continent, where she'd been free to make her own choices, to live her own life, to make her own dreams come true. Leaving had been the hardest thing she'd ever done, but it might have been the one thing that had saved her life.
"Another shelter, maybe," Bea says hesitantly. "I haven't thought about it. I want to focus on finding my own place."
"But what if you don't find it!"
"What if I do? Hm?" Bea looks at Debbie affectively and brushes her hair lightly. "Then you'll have panicked for no reason. Let me take care of this."
Debbie pouts and crosses her arms against her chest, but she knows her mother is right. There's so much more she wishes she could do, but she won't. She won't risk falling back into a toxic pattern of ignoring her own needs over someone else's, even her mother's. She has found the authentic version of herself, and she'll hold on to it as hard as she can.
She is Debbie Smith, an independent woman who has dreams of her own and beliefs she won't betray. She cares for the world and she fights for what she thinks is right, and she doesn't give up until she's forced to. She laughs at silly movies, and cries when a dog dies, and howls at the moon when two people she loves get together. She wants to change the world after she's done studying and she feels invincible when she reads a good book.
She also loves who she is, who she becomes in the arms of her boyfriend, when her mind is clouded by the strangest substances she is offered.
"You'll tell me the truth, right mom? If you can't find a place? No embellished version or half-truths. I can take it now," she mutters. "I'm not a little child anymore, you don't have to protect me."
Bea giggles like she's the child between the two of them.
"I'm your mother. You'll always be a little child I have to protect," she smiles fondly, thinking that Debbie will never understand it unless she becomes a mother herself. "You'll always be my beautiful daughter."
No matter what choices Debbie makes, no matter how far Debbie leaves, no matter how ugly their fights get, Bea will love her daughter to the moon and back forever.
"I can be your beautiful adult daughter," Debbie grins. "I'm serious. Don't treat me like I'll break at the first obstacle."
Bea places one of her arm around her daughter's shoulders. Of course, Bea will always treat her like she's fragile. It's her duty. It has been ever since this bundle of joy came out of her body and into her life, years ago.
But if Debbie wants to be treated like an adult, Bea won't miss the opportunity to bring up a subject she's had on her mind for the past hours.
"Is that why you went to see your father? To prove to me I can trust you?"
The words bite, but Bea pronounces them as gently as she can, letting Debbie know that she isn't trying to start a fight. She's tried the hard way before, the confrontation and the blame, and the control, and it hasn't worked. She isn't foolish enough to make the same mistakes twice. The only way she'll get anywhere with Debbie is by listening to her, truly listening to her.
And Debbie has said too many times that she didn't want to leave her father behind.
Bea thinks she has to finally accept it, or she'll lose Debbie.
"Don't be mad," Debbie sighs. She expected to be asked about it so she isn't surprised, but she still hopes that she hasn't ruined everything between the two of them.
"I'm not!" Bea protests, shaking her head negatively slowly.
"You're lying to me," Debbie smirks, reading in her mother's eyes. "You're pissed, aren't you?"
"Well, I'm not happy about it, but I'm not mad at you," Bea explains with the smallest smile. She can do this. She can tell Debbie her opinion without screaming and losing control. She nudges Debbie's shoulder. "I wish you would have told me."
"You would have stopped me. And don't try to deny it, I know you. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think I'd go back many times, but I missed him. I wanted to make sure he was alright. He's my dad," she pleads with sad eyes. "I told you mom, I don't want to lose him."
Bea nods and blinks a few times, taming the boiling feelings in her stomach. The beast inside of her narrows its eyes, but doesn't move.
"I met him. He wanted to talk about the divorce," Bea says. "He told me he wanted another chance, but I wouldn't have it. We're over, your father and I. We'll never be back together, I want you to know that, so there's no ambiguity."
"I'm good with that," Debbie nods, her chest heavy with emotions. "I never wanted you to stay with him, I just didn't want to have to choose between you and him."
"I know, Deb," Bea replies, the idea of freedom dancing in her eyes. "And I'm sorry that I did that to you."
Her parents are long gone, but she can't imagine having to choose between them. She'd torture herself to death simply to try and make a choice. She'd cry and lock herself in a room until the end of times.
"I know you love him," she admits difficulty. It pains her to say it, but she can't pretend like she doesn't know anymore. "I know you don't want to stop seeing him, and I understand that now. I might not like it… and I might worry until you give me a sign of life… and I might want to decide how much time you spend with him, but I won't stop you."
Debbie listens carefully to her mother's words, her soul aching when she sees how much her mother cares about her. She knows it's a decisive moment in their lives.
"I just ask you to tell me when you see him because I need to know," Bea states like it's a life or death question. "I won't let him destroy my relationship with you, not when I can prevent it."
She doesn't trust him, and she knows he's dangerous, but she trusts her daughter to still make the right choices when it comes to her father. She knows Debbie wouldn't deliberately put her life in danger around Harry. She knows Debbie wouldn't walk into the wolf's den without warning someone first.
Debbie's right. She's an adult now, and Bea needs to live with it.
Bea knows too well that if she tries and stops her daughter, if she tries and fights her daughter, she will lose her. She won't ever know where Debbie is. She'll spend her entire life worrying and mourning the loss of her daughter.
"There's something else," Bea declares.
She takes a deep breath. The words are hard to pronounce, but they are even harder to keep inside of her. She feels like she might be making a mistake, like she's on the edge of dropping a bomb in her quiet bedroom.
"He said some things about you- you and Brayden," she starts carefully, suffocating on every syllable that comes out of her mouth. "I'm going to give you a chance to tell me yourself."
She stares hard at Debbie like she has a mission to accomplish, even if she feels she would rather be buried alive than to hear the confirmation of her worst fears.
"Don't tell me half-truths," she mirrors Debbie's previous words, hoping it will be enough to convince her daughter. She can barely breathe right now, she won't be able to listen to lies without drifting into madness.
Debbie stares straight ahead, to the wall where all their family pictures are taped carefully. She swims amongst images of her past and dives into the blurred memories. She jumps head first into her broken childhood and then, she drowns herself in the way she's felt ever since she met Brayden.
"What did he say?" she murmurs.
She thinks of the fog in her head and the occasional smoke around her, and the way everything is suddenly clear in her brain when she has a pill in her throat and alcohol in her stomach.
She thinks of the sound of Brayden's voice and the hypnotizing way he looks at her like she's the only one that truly matters in this world.
She thinks of how special she feels when she's with him, like she belongs on this Earth and that she deserves to be alive to see another day.
"I want you to tell me," Bea says, hands nervous and sweating, anticipating Debbie's words. "Please."
"I told you about Brayden. I- I didn't tell you what we did," Debbie stammers.
She turns her eyes to her mother. Maybe if she looks at her long enough, she can reassure her that it isn't as bad as it will sound like. Maybe she can make her believe in lies while she speaks the truth.
"We started talking, and – " she stops, smiles like someone would when they are in love. "He found me when no one was even looking for me. He made me feel alive."
Bea fights the tears in her eyes and swallows the lump in her throat. She wants to cry so badly that her entire body hurts. She doesn't want Debbie to become like her.
"He asked me out and we had fun, and it was easy to be with him," Debbie continues, her eyes fixated on her mother's. She reads the fear held in Bea's eyes. "He made me forget about a lot of things and eventually, he came to my room and he had some… he offered me some drugs."
Bea closes her eyes and focuses on slowing her quickening breath. She hadn't expected how hard it would be to hear Debbie say it herself.
If she were made of glass, she would be shattered in pieces now, forever impossible to fix.
"I tried them. It was just for fun. It is still just for fun, believe it or not. I'm not an addict," Debbie shrugs. "I have it under control."
"You think you have it under control, but you don't know that," Bea exhales. "Everyone thinks they have it under control, until they don't anymore."
"I have it under control," Debbie repeats strongly. "I'm not using every day. I'm not taking the big ones. It's just weed and…"
She stops talking, realizing what's about to come out of her mouth.
It's just weed and some ecstasy once in a while. It's just weed and some occasional lines of cocaine. It's just some hallucinogens that make her travel to wonderland every week. It's just a couple of unknown pills on a Friday night. It's just a couple of drinks during a party that never ends.
She can stop whenever she wants, really.
Except yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.
And really, she doesn't want to stop.
"I'm careful, mom," she says heartfully. "I really am."
She doesn't tell her mother that she was promised heroin once she gets back to Brayden, and that she can't wait to try it. She's heard so many things about the big H, so many terrible things, but she's never been more excited to try a substance before.
"I don't want you to take these drugs anymore," Bea pleads, holding Debbie's hands in hers. They're warm, and she doesn't ever want to hold cold, lifeless limbs instead. "It's dangerous. Whatever you need, however you feel with them, it's temporary. You can't base your happiness on drugs. They'll betray you, sooner than later."
"I'm careful!" Debbie protests, her voice biting into her mother's calm demeanour. "This is why I didn't want to tell you, I knew you'd freak out. Dad just told me to call him if I needed help, he didn't start shoving advices down my throat!"
"Why did he do this? Why did he bring you drugs? He can't be taking care of you like that," Bea says, eyes shooting bullets. She isn't freaking out. She's doing her job to protect her daughter, like she always has. She doesn't care how Harry reacted, he's shit regardless. "Deb, if he hurts you, if he threatens you -"
"Not everyone is like dad!" Debbie interrupts harshly. "Brayden's not like dad. You've never met him."
Bea smiles sadly. She doesn't need to meet Brayden to know that he isn't someone she wants around her daughter. She doesn't need to meet him to know that she wants him as far from Debbie as possible.
She wants anyone feeding her daughter drugs gone, far away.
"A guy that gives you drugs isn't the perfect boyfriend," Bea argues. "Did he force you? You can tell me if he did."
"No!" Debbie yells, offended by the idea, jumping from the bed and standing before her mother. "I took them because I wanted to. I told you before, he's good for me."
So what if she took some pills? It doesn't make her a victim.
"Deb," Bea reaches to take Debbie's hand, but the younger woman snatches it out of reach and a flash of hurt appears in Bea's eyes. "I want the best for you. These drugs, you might love them now, but trust me, they'll ruin your life if you don't stop."
"I will stop. I promise," Debbie smiles, begging her mother to listen.
She's changed her mother's mind regarding her father, maybe she can do it too for the drugs. Maybe she can convince her mother that it's just a small part of her life, that it doesn't define who she is, no more than Harry's beatings define Bea.
"You're not listening to me," Bea says like it's one minute before midnight.
"You're not listening," Debbie frowns. "Do you even trust me?"
"Of course, I do. But you're alone and I sent you there, and I think I made a bad decision."
"Aren't you pleased that I'm good now? Do you want me to call you everyday and tell you I'm fine? I'll do it. You can even talk to my boyfriend. He'll be thrilled to meet you, and then you'll see he's fine. Please mom, can you at least wait before you judge us?"
Bea exhales deeply. She could wait, but she doesn't want to.
"I want you to be aware of what you're doing. You're taking drugs. It's a serious issue, and your boyfriend doesn't even try to stop you. I don't want you to become like me."
When Debbie laughs, it's cruel, and cold, but her eyes are soft when they land on Bea's.
"Mom, don't you see it? You left dad. You left an abusive husband. If anything, I want to be as strong as you when I'm your age… But I won't have to be, because Brayden is nothing like dad."
"Deb-"
"I love you mom, I really do and I care about what happens to you. I want you to be safe. I want you to be loved. I want you to be happy. But you won't decide how I should live my life. You should know well enough how it feels when someone tries to control your life."
"What if I wait, Deb? What if I wait and then something terrible happen? I can't take this risk. I'm your mother," Bea pleads.
"You're my mother, but you don't get to control who I date," Debbie frowns. "Or what I do. Believe it or not, Brayden saved me."
Debbie doesn't give Bea enough time to answer.
"I'm going to stay with dad for now," she confesses. "Trust me. Please. And find a place to live, I don't want to see you in the streets, alright?"
She turns around and she leaves the room quickly without a second glance.
Bea wonders how someone can close the door so angrily without slamming it.
She wonders why love hurts so much.
What if Bea hates her?
What if Bea never forgives her?
What if Bea doesn't see that she's doing it all for the greater good?
Allie shakes those thoughts out of her mind, convincing herself that there's nothing wrong with getting revenge for the woman she cares about. Surely, Bea won't reject her for doing the right thing.
Allie pulls the hood over her head and walks quietly inside the abandoned building, her hands buried in the pockets of her sweater. A few women are there already and glance curiously toward her. She recognizes a few of them and takes a nervous step in their direction. She hasn't come back to this place since she's left the alley, and she's scared she might not belong here anymore.
Mel Barrett engulfs her in a warm hug and Allie smiles when she recognizes the familiar scent of an old friend. Allie might have been Kaz's closest friend, but Mel had always been the one chosen as Kaz's successor should something happen to the Red Right Hand's leader.
Mel gestures to the group to surround her, and the informal meeting of what is left of the Red Right Hand begins. She questions the group on different matters, some related to their organization, and some related to their personal lives. Just like Kaz, she asks everyone to stay out of trouble for the time being and shares her thoughts regarding some of the hot spots in the city.
Allie is amazed by how quickly things change. Three members are dating, two are stubbornly avoiding all contacts with men, one is engaged, and even one woman is thinking of moving out of the country. Most of them still consider their glorious years to be the ones they spent with Kaz, beating up those they felt who deserved it, but they're moving on, slowly, to a life on the legal side.
Just like she is.
Allie almost feels bad when she raises her hand to speak near the end of the meeting, but she reminds herself that it's all for a greater cause, for justice, and that it is all the Red Right Hand was created for. She opens her mouth and starts talking under the judging eyes of the other members.
She tells them about her motivations, her emotions, and then moves on to more logical arguments and reasons why Harry is the perfect victim for the Red Right Hand. If, at first, most women jump in for a chance to stretch their muscles again, Allie's request is quickly put on hold by Mel.
"We told Kaz we'd stay out of trouble, don't you remember?" she whispers in Allie's ear as the women around them get excited at the idea of serving justice again.
"This is different," Allie replies, almost pleading. "It's for family. I know Kaz would understand."
"Have you asked her?"
Allie doesn't reply, and Mel shakes her head hastily.
"I can't risk sending all those women to prison because you have a plan. It can't just be a quick decision anymore. You have to really think this through. Do you even know what you want to do?"
Allie doesn't know. She'd figured she could brainstorm ideas with her old crew, but she's starting to think she might have to plan out the details by herself. It's fine, she's done it before, and she's ready to do it again for Bea.
Assaulting Harry when he least expects it sounds like the easy solution, but Allie doubts that she'll be able to get away easily if she gets caught. She can't risk it. Kaz would kill her inside the walls of the prison, and she'd never be able to face Bea again. She needs a smarter idea, one that can hurt Harry without actually sending him to the hospital. She needs an idea that won't make her become Harry.
"If I think about it and come up with something safe, can I count on you?" she asks, her neurons sending sparks to all parts of her brain.
"Come up with an idea first," Mel answers, "then we can talk. But if there is so much as one tiny flaw to your plan, we're out. This won't be our crime, it'll be yours."
"It isn't a crime," Allie fires back. "It's justice."
Some might say that it's a messed-up view of justice, but Allie doesn't care. She's seen too much shit to change her mind. She'll take care of Harry herself because she knows that in situations of domestic violence, victims rarely get what they deserve.
And Bea deserves everything.
Bea wants to be anywhere else but here.
Ever since they told her that she has to find a new place to live, she's decided that Wentworth doesn't want her to thrive and succeed in life; they are barbarians who just want to control women with their own rules. They want to help, but they're ready to kick her out whenever they please. They are freaking prison guards in disguise.
Fine, maybe she's overreacting, but she's angry at the world because of her recent conversation with Debbie, so she crosses her arms and looks at Bridget defiantly when she steps in the office for her meeting. She wishes she could have cancelled it, but Bridget had made sure to confirm their meeting yesterday, and it's too late to cancel without making it obvious that she's lying. She makes it her goal to participate as minimally as possible.
She finds solace in the fact that this might be her last meeting before her departure from here. Wentworth has been helpful, but she was never meant to last long in such restrictive environment.
She looks at the small room where they're meeting and frowns. Bridget is sitting on a chair, facing two empty ones. One chair is large, big enough for Bea to sit without problem and be comfortable for the duration of the meeting. The other one is tiny. It's tiny, and pink, and in plastic, and Bea is sure that this is more an infant's chair rather than anything else.
She hopes Bridget won't ask her to sit on it, or she might break it, or worse, remains stuck in here forever. She eyes it suspiciously as she sits on the bigger chair, and she hears Bridget chuckles quietly. She doesn't know why it's so funny, but she wishes she knew so she wouldn't feel so left out.
"Hi Bea, I'm pleased to see you today," Bridget says, her formal smile plastered on her face like always.
Bea nods, not wanting to waste her voice on what she feels are irrelevant greetings.
"How are you?"
"As good as I can be when I was told I need to leave soon," Bea sighs, not willing to go into the details of the reasons why she's having a terrible day.
Debbie has been unreachable ever since their fight, and Bea is starting to think that she will never speak to her daughter again until it is time for them to go their separate ways. Debbie is more stubborn than she is.
"I'm sure you understand why we did that," Bridget responds professionally. "We have always been very clear with you. I know it's difficult for you, but I can assure you that we will support you for as long as you're with us. Any day or night, you can come see us, and if you want to keep working with us once you're somewhere else, we can discuss your options."
Bea nods again, a bit annoyed at the same speech she's given every time. She hasn't decided if she wants to keep coming here once she's gone. She knows that if she doesn't come back, she will miss everyone she has met recently.
How could she ever say farewell to the people who have brought her this far from her old life?
"How's Franky?" Bea asks, looking at Bridget like she's aware she's crossing a line.
She doesn't give a fuck.
"I won't talk of my personal life here, Bea," Bridget warns slowly.
"What? I find you with your tongue down Franky's throat and I don't get an explanation? I bet all those rules just don't mean anything when it comes to you?"
"I understand your frustration, but if you don't stop right now, we'll put an end to this meeting and I won't see you until you leave."
Bridget's tone hints Bea that she doesn't want to end this meeting.
Bea sighs loudly, but she gestures for Bridget to keep going.
"Today, we'll do something a bit different than usual," Bridget continues with stars in her eyes, like she's about to reveal her greatest trick to Bea. "It's something I do when I've worked with someone for a while. You might be confused at first, but I assure you, I won't let you face this experiment alone. What we're going to do today is commonly called 'impact therapy' and it allows you to face what you've been through in a different way."
Bea doesn't want to face that she's been through in a different way, but she figures she can humor Bridget one last time before she walks away.
"It's really important that you want to participate for this to work. So if, for any reason, you don't want to be here today, you can tell me and it will be a normal meeting instead," Bridget explains.
Bea shrugs. It doesn't change anything to her, she'll still have to answer some questions, so she might as well play this strange game.
"Are you sure?" Bridget asks again.
"Just start already," Bea rolls her eyes.
Bridget seems to think about it for a second before she accepts.
"As you can see," Bridget points to the chair, "it won't be only the two of us today. You've brought someone."
Bea listens attentively.
"I want you to imagine that a little girl is sitting on this chair. This girl is you, when you were, let's say eight years old. Eight years old Bea is sitting here right now, looking at you and listening to this conversation."
Bea quirks an eyebrow curiously. This is something she wasn't expecting.
"Tell me, Bea, what is this little girl like? Describe her to me."
"Wh-What do you mean?" Bea asks, taken back by the strange request.
"Let's start with something easy. What is she wearing?"
Bea opens her mouth, but no sound comes out as she thinks of the answer. Many images come to her mind, memories from when she really was eight years old. She isn't sure whether Bridget really wants to know, or what the point of this therapy is supposed to be, but she plays along, assuming it can't be so bad.
She wonders if everyone is going through this at some point during their stay here.
She thinks of a child version of her friends and she smiles.
Franky would have been a badass with tons of stickers. Maxine would have been playing with Boomer, and Allie? Allie would have already been flirting with all the girls, Bea has no doubt about it.
"She's wearing dark blue jeans and a red shirt with a hole in her sleeve."
She always used to play a little too much with scissors, cutting holes into everything she could get her hands on. She loved art, all forms of it. It drove her mother insane.
"What else?" Bridget asks. "Describe her to me as best as you can. So I can see like you do in your head."
"She's wearing black socks and bright blue running shoes with glitter on the sole. She has her hair flying around her shoulders because she hates having a ponytail. She has this look in her eyes like she's ready to conquer the world, but she still needs her mom next to her at the end of the day."
"Does she wear glasses, jewelry, any distinctive sign? How is her hair? Is she tall, short, average? Is she injured, or does she have superficial wounds on her skin?"
"No. She stole her mom's makeup once and it ended badly, so no jewelry or anything," Bea chuckles to herself. "She has long curly hair that are more brown than red at this age. She's taller than most of her classmates at this age. She might have a few scratches on her elbows from that time she played outside and fell on the ground."
She'd spent hours outside, chasing butterflies and capturing the smallest ants in her hands.
She can't remember how many times she ended up with random wounds everywhere on her body.
"Are you starting to see her?" Bridget asks with a serious tone.
Bea squints her eyes and thinks that she can imagine her, sitting on this chair, smiling innocently at the two adults who speaks about her. She can see her poking her thumb through the hole in her sleeve and accidently tearing the fabric a bit more. It's strange, but yes, Bea can see it.
"Is she sitting still, or does she have difficulty to stay in place?" Bridget asks.
"She's calm. She isn't trouble at this age," Bea recalls, speaking as if the child version of herself is right in front of her.
It's a strange experiment, and she wonders if she might be hallucinating, but when she blinks, the silhouette is blurred and vaguely transparent, and Bea knows that everything that is happening is only a product of her powerful imagination.
"Is she looking at us?"
"She's looking at me. She doesn't like strangers much," Bea remembers. She has no trouble imagining a pair of eyes staring at her without blinking for several seconds.
Her mother always told her not to talk to strangers, and she'd followed this rule religiously.
"Does she have anything in her hands?" Bridget wonders. She wants this to be as detailed as possible. She won't start asking the loaded questions until she is certain that Bea can see a child version of herself as clearly as she can see the blue sky outside. She needs Bea to really, really, see.
"Maybe?" Bea isn't sure. She'd always fiddled with something or carried her favorite plush toy with her, but she isn't sure she would have brought anything to such a peculiar meeting.
"I need a definitive answer," Bridget smiles kindly. "Remember, you can see her, and I can't. You're the only one who can tell me what she is doing."
"She isn't holding anything," Bea frowns, the lines between reality and illusions blurring a bit more.
Bridget nods, satisfied with the way Bea participates in the meeting. She'd feared that Bea would not want to say a single word today. She had heard the way Bea's door had closed this morning, and she had been the one to open the front door to a furious-looking Debbie. She had decided not to ask Bea about this, because she knew that impact therapy could do a better job than a normal question.
"Let's call her 'small Bea' and say that she is talking," Bridget takes it a step farther. "What is she saying?"
Bea looks at the chair. She imagines all the details she's enumerated coming together to form a small human being. Small Bea. It almost feels real for a moment.
"She's telling me I look old," Bea scoffs. "Which is so unfair because that's exactly how she's going to look like in a couple of years."
She might have been shy when she was young, but it didn't mean she would keep her thoughts to herself in front of well-known friends and foes.
"What does her voice sound like?"
"Like she spent the entire day yelling and she's tired," Bea describes. "Which is probably what she did. She's at this age where she can imagine the most wonderful tales in her head, and re-enact them in real life. She's probably spent the day screaming around in the backyard."
"How is she?"
"How ar – " Bea stops talking and blinks several times.
She lets out a small laugh and runs her hand in her hair embarrassingly. She almost asked a chair 'how are you', and she feels ridiculous, and the enchantment breaks. She's back in the office, with Bridget and an empty plastic chair facing her.
"Ask her," Bridget says like it's obvious. "You won't know the answer until you do."
Bea shakes her head in disbelief. This is stupid. She won't do that. She won't make a fool of herself, talking to a chair and pretending like she can go back to the past when she should be focusing on the future.
"Come on, Bea, you won't let it end so drastically?" Bridget asks in a raspy voice. "It's rude."
"It's not rude! It's a chair."
"How would you react if someone just walked out on you?"
Bea pretends to be offended, but really, she's so confused that she might as well stop trying to act like she knows what she's doing. She might as well play this game until the end while she's at it. Let her assume her craziness, and whatever comes out of it.
"How are you?" she thinks out loud, directing her question at the chair.
It takes a second, but she thinks she can imagine the dark jeans and the red shirt appearing again.
She thinks she hears a voice whispering in her ear, and it sounds vaguely familiar, like she's spent years being friends with that sound, only to forget it a little too soon.
Like it used to be her best friend, and now, they're only strangers trying too hard to reconnect.
Like it's a side of her that she's abandoned a little too early.
"She's good. She's hungry, she hasn't had a snack yet," Bea answers.
"What shall we give her?"
"She likes everything, but she has a sweet tooth," Bea grins.
Bridget smiles and gets up, leaving the office for a few minutes.
Bea is left alone with this memory that feels a little too real, a little too hard on her.
She wonders why she abandoned that part of her.
She wishes she could take it back. She misses it. This part of her was innocent, forever joyful and eternally optimist.
Bridget comes back with a box of chocolate chips cookies.
"How many?"
"Two."
Bridget opens the box, takes out two cookies and lets them rest on the chair. All Bea sees are two cookies resting on the lap of a little girl whose smile is getting larger by the minute.
"What now?" Bridget asks.
"She wants more," Bea deadpans as the blonde laughs.
Bridget shakes her head negatively.
"Now, beside the need to eat sugar, does she have any question for you?"
Bea thinks a little, but she is surprised at how quickly the answer comes to her mind. She doesn't know why it's so surprising, after all, she knows that little girl better than anyone else. She has no difficulty hearing her, reading her mind, and anticipating answers to questions that have yet to be asked.
"She wants to know if I have a dog in the future."
"Well, do you? Don't let a child wait for an answer," Bridget grins, encouraging the conversation.
She sees the way Bea's eyes are getting more and more focused on the plastic chair, and she knows Bea is hooked into this improvisation.
"I don't, but I want one." Bea pauses for a second, listening to something Bridget can't hear. "I know it's taking forever, but having a dog isn't supposed to be an impulsive decision!" she protests to herself. "It's not like I could keep it in here."
She looks like whatever answers she receives is ridiculous as she scoffs again, rolling her eyes.
Bridget shakes her head amusedly.
"Don't fight with her," she warns. "We're not done yet and it would be a shame for her to leave. She asked you a question, now Bea, do you have anything you want to tell her?"
Bea hums as she thinks. She can think of a few things, and she remembers wishing she could be travel back in time just so she could tell herself some precious information, but now that she has a chance to, she wants to stay quiet. She wants to let her younger self live happily without fearing the future. She doesn't want to scare her off into thinking everyone she meets will ruin her life.
She doesn't want to ruin her childhood and steal her life before the real monster does.
She doesn't want to risk having her own self not believing in love at such a young age.
This child Bea, she's at an age where she believes in fairy tales and happy endings, and yet still thinks kissing boys is the most disgusting thing that could ever happen to her. She's at that age where she fights with her crush and acts like she will never love boys because they're her enemies forevermore.
"Just be happy?" Bea offers. "Just be happy and keep dreaming," she repeats with more conviction. She thinks she sees eight years old Bea nodding with enthusiasm and it warms her heart and chases the omnipresent pain away.
She wants her younger self to keep running freely at recess, to keep reading her first books like she's discovering the treasures of this world, to keep drawing small yellow suns with bright crayons on the top corner of her sheet of paper.
She wants her younger self to keep cutting holes in the sleeves of her favorite shirts, to keep acting like the planet is her blank canvas, to keep laughing at the stupid little things that would make an adult frown.
"What are her dreams?"
Bridget hopes that she isn't going too far. She's asking the hard questions much faster than she'd expected, but Bea seems lost in the past already.
"Oh," Bea grins. "that's easy. She wants a dog. She wants to go to space. She wants to eat cotton candy everyday. She wants to draw on everything, with everything. She wants her mother to always read her a story at night because then it isn't a good night. She wants her best friend to stay her best friend until they both die of old age."
Typical dreams for an eight years old child, really, Bea thinks before she remembers something.
"She wants to beat death," Bea whispers. "She's small, but she's wise. She's scared she'll wake up one day and that her parents aren't going to be there anymore, and that she won't know what to do."
She remembers when she lost her parents, a few months only after she'd met Harry. They died in a car accident, and she keeps wondering if her life could have been different, had they still lived to see this day. It had been unexpected and brutal, and she'd spent years wondering why it had to happen to such good people. She'd spent years healing, and forgiving, but never forgetting.
"What do you say to that?" Bridget asks, careful to pay attention to Bea's non-verbal cues. She's ready to bring her back to reality at the first sign that she's losing control on this situation.
"Don't fear death, you're way too young for that," Bea sighs. "They'll stay around for a while and they'll love you as much as they can. They'll make sure you know that you're loved, even when you feel that they hate you."
She tears up.
"Then they'll go, but they'll never leave you."
She remembers when she'd received the news. She'd been lying on her bed on a Saturday night, reading a book that she hasn't been able to read again to this day, and she'd heard the phone rings. The sound had been extremely loud for such a quiet evening, and she had had a bad feeling before she'd even touched the phone.
She remembers the calm, professional voice so well that she could recognize it if she heard it again today.
It sounded a little too cold, and it gave her a little too much pain, and it broke her a little too hard.
"What does she answer?" Bridget insists gently.
"That she isn't too young," Bea replies. "That she'd rather fear death because it makes her want to fight to avoid it. It makes her want to fight. But I know better than her. One day, you won't fear death anymore, because you'll know the truth."
She hesitates before she continues.
How does she tell a child that there are so many worse things than death?
She decides not to say a word, but Bridget seems to hear the unspoken words.
"What is she doing now?" Bridget interrupts the dark turn of the conversation.
It works.
Bea still gazes at the pink chair like she's really talking to someone, and Bridget knows that if she were to take that chair away, Bea would probably accuse her of hurting the imaginary child sitting on it.
She's seen it with a lot of women. They start this meeting like they won't ever believe in a word she says, but they end up so captivated by the situation that they forget this is all coming from their own mind, and that no one really sits in front of them.
Some of the women have asked to keep the chair. Some have asked that she takes it away.
But they need it, they need this moment to realize what really matters.
"She's telling me I'm too dramatic. She says if this is who she becomes in the future, then she will try her best to avoid becoming me," Bea directs her eyes to the ceiling. "She's being stubborn, just like I know she is."
"She can't see the future. She doesn't know what will happen yet. Do you wish to tell her?"
Bea finally looks at Bridget like she's seeing her for the first time since she stepped into this room.
"Should I?" She really doesn't know.
If she tells her, is this Bea going to run away and never come back? Is she going to blame her and tell her she's ruined their chance at a happy ending? Is she going to be so mad that she'll never forgive her older self?
"That's not something I can answer for you," Bridget replies lowly.
Bea thinks, and thinks, and she can't find the right answer. She doesn't think a right answer even exists.
If she doesn't tell this eight years old Bea, then the same story is going to happen. The same pain, the same losses, the same rotten fate.
If she tells her, then it will still happen, because nothing can change the past. It will still be the same events, the same fateful call on a quiet Saturday night, the same charming young man that she'll meet on a day at school, the same extraordinary meeting she'll have on a random night, in a dark park.
She decides to tell her. Not everything, but some.
"You'll meet someone when you're older. A young man. He'll be charming and handsome, and he'll say just the right things for you to be attracted to him."
She imagines small Bea making a face and she laughs.
"You'll be older, and you'll want to chase that feeling of love too. Boys won't be so awful anymore. He'll be just there, waiting for you. He'll be nice. He'll treat you well."
She imagines small Bea looking at her like she's describing an ideal future, and she hates to break her young, tiny heart.
She can't tell her everything. She doesn't want to, and she shouldn't either.
Sometimes, it's just best not to know what's going to happen.
"You'll have a beautiful daughter," she smiles dreamily, head in the clouds and eyes lost in memories. "You'll love her like you've never loved anyone else, and you'll protect her like you've never protected anyone else."
Debbie crosses her mind.
She loves her daughter so much that it hurts.
She wishes love could be enough to protect someone from a terrible destiny. She wishes loving someone meant she would never hurt them. But is it quite the opposite. It seems the more she loves Debbie, the more she hurts her. Just like it seems the more Harry pretended to love her, the more he hurt her.
Love isn't as flawless and beautiful as some says.
Sometimes, it hurts, and it's sad, and it doesn't work out.
"Things will change," she exhales deeply. "But you'll find – "
She interrupts herself, shocked by the sudden revelation that everything she's doing, every word she's saying has a purpose.
Bridget smiles when she sees the realization appear on Bea's features.
Bea looks like she's going to pass out, but Bridget is here, with her calm voice and her smile that brings the redhead down to Earth.
"What is she going to find?"
"The courage to make the right choices," Bea murmurs, her eyes focusing on the chair again. "You'll be brave. You'll become hard, and you'll hurt like you've never hurt before, but you'll find a way to protect yourself and your daughter, even when you decide to stay. You'll realize that you're so much stronger than you ever thought. You'll realize that… this relationship is not who you are. You're so much more than that. You might not believe it at first, but you'll meet the right people, and they will help you."
You're freaking invincible.
"Can you blame her for making the choices you know she'll make?"
Bea smirks because she sees in Bridget's game now. She knows the purpose of this whole meeting, the reason why she was asked to describe herself with so many details. It's to make this as realistic as possible, because she needs to believe in everything that is happening.
She needs to believe in every word that she says.
She needs to believe in every single word she says.
And she does.
"No. I can't blame her. It isn't her fault. It never will be."
It feels like she's lived a thousand lives, just to be able to say those words.
"It isn't her fault. She's done nothing wrong." She turns to the chair. She thinks she sees the person leaving. Her eyes widen, and she extends her hand to stop it, but she touches air and she can't do anything, but speak louder. "You'll make the right choices, even when it feels hopeless. You'll get out of this. There'll be another job. There'll be another place to stay. There'll be friends and family. The bleedings will stop, and the hurt will go, and the scars will heal."
Bea pauses, grasping for air as she closes her eyes and mentally pleads that this isn't over.
She has so much to say. So much hope to give. So much happiness to share.
This child needs to know that her life will be a good one, despite everything.
"Even when you feel like it's over, even when you feel like it's never going to get better, you'll still fight, because you can't be broken, not the way he wants you to be," she declares with a newfound power in her voice.
So, this is who she is. This is her true self.
Gosh. It feels heavenly to find herself again.
"She's leaving. She's running outside to play in the sun. You have one more thing to tell her, what is it?" Bridget whispers.
Bea feels the panic being born in her chest, and the adrenaline rushes through her body as if she really were in a rush to yell the most important words before is it too late. The contours of small Bea's body are slowly disappearing, vanishing into thin air, and Bea thinks she can't lose her without revealing her the greatest truth she knows.
"You're going to meet…" she shuts her lips when she thinks of Allie.
How can she describe Allie to her younger self? Words aren't enough to explain how beautiful Allie's soul is. Words would be an insult to Allie's true nature. Words were created to describe things, to explain the world, not to feel it in its purest way. The second she uses words, she loses details that are too important to ignore.
Whatever she says, whatever she thinks, it doesn't compare to the wild fire burning inside her chest whenever the blonde crosses her mind.
It doesn't compare to the aching need to be closer to Allie, so close that she might not be able to tell them apart.
Is it wrong to think this way? Is it wrong to want someone so badly? She doesn't mind if it is.
She can't wait anymore. Her younger self is looking at her with huge questioning eyes, like she is waiting to hear the ultimate revelation, and Bea needs to say it out loud, needs these words to come to life. She needs to say those words because if her eight years old self doesn't know, then she might give up before the most magical thing happen in her life, and Bea doesn't want to lose that.
Doesn't want to lose the chance to meet Allie again.
To feel those things again.
To live again.
Bea opens and closes her mouth too many times to count, forgetting the words and nearly losing her balance as she stands up, as if this would slow the disappearance of the ghost of her past.
"You're going to meet someone," she simply says, letting her eyes lingers on the now empty space, "and you'll find out what real love is."
Bea is walking next to Allie and she's feeling awfully good after her meeting with Bridget. She never believed in therapy and in its silly techniques, but she has to admit that her trip down memory lane really helped her make sense of what truly matters.
It felt strange at first, to talk to herself, as if her young self could really see her. It felt stupid and she just talked so Bridget wouldn't insist and annoy the hell out of her. But eventually, she'd believe it. She'd seen herself, years younger, staring back at her with big, clueless and innocent eyes.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since last night and since her conversation with Debbie.
It feels like whatever happens next, she'll be fine.
"You don't start today, what are you doing here?" Doreen questions Bea when she closes the salon for the day and sees the redhead and Allie waiting outside. She doesn't comment on the fact that they are both standing insanely close to one another.
"Would you mind if I used the salon tonight? I need to practice, it's been a while, and this one here," Bea points at Allie, "doesn't mind if I ruin her hairstyle."
"She owes me," Allie rolls her eyes.
Doreen notices the smitten look in her blue eyes and she realizes that she hasn't simply welcomed two strangers in this place.
Doreen wonders if the two women are aware of their proximity, or the way they sneak glances at each other every second. She wonders if Bea can see the way Allie looks at her like she's the most precious person on this planet. She wonders if Allie can see the way Bea drinks every word she says and marvels at the slightest physical contact between them.
Doreen thinks they're oblivious to their own chemistry and she muffles a laugh, thinking she's never met blinder people in her life.
"No worries, Bea, make yourself at home. Just make sure you put everything back where it belongs," she says kindly as she leaves them. "I'll be double checking tomorrow, so don't throw a party in here."
And don't have sex in the middle of the place, she thinks to herself as she glances back, only to see Bea reaching for the door excitedly.
Bea opens the doors and turns on the light before she dramatically gestures for Allie to join her.
"Step into my salon," she grins proudly like she owns the damn place.
She has a freaking job, she is spending some time with the breathtaking Allie Novak, and if she finds an apartment tomorrow, then her life will truly be perfect.
She won't let anything ruin this, and she decides not to tell Allie about her conversation with Will. Allie's done enough. She can figure it out herself this time. She has to.
"Thanks," Allie chuckles.
Allie walks inside, pretending to be in awe whenever her eyes land on a new object around her. A new hairdryer? A new hairbrush? A shining mirror? A small, ordinary pencil on the front desk? She's pointing at all object and acting like she doesn't have a clue about anything and everything, and she beams when Bea plays along and mockingly explains to her the secrets of the salon.
It's fun, and it's easy, and it's everything that last night wasn't. They're rediscovering this place with new eyes, and it feels good.
It's beautiful, the way Bea's smile lights up the world, and the way she squeals at the various tools at her disposal. She sounds like a child in a candy store, and Allie loves that this place no longer seems associated with razor blades and oppressive vile thoughts.
She doesn't ask Bea to explain why the world suddenly is brighter and better. She doesn't ask about last night and their well guarded secrets. She doesn't ask why, suddenly, the problems are gone and the only thing that matters is that Allie gets a haircut right here and right now. She figures Bea will tell her if she wants to.
In the meantime, she smiles and she celebrates Bea's victory.
"I'll have a cut and color, thanks!" she chirps happily as she leans forward Bea, stealing another piece of Bea's heart at the same time.
Bea nods eagerly.
"Come here, I'll wash your hair," she motions for Allie to join her as she checks the water temperature.
"You better not really ruin my hairstyle," Allie smirks slyly. "You'll be the one stuck with an ugly person by your side all the time."
Bea laughs loudly and Allie wonders how she's survived for so long without hearing this sound.
"You'll always be beautiful," Bea winks boldly.
She's rediscovering a side of herself that she hasn't explored in years. She knows why she's wanted to be a hairdresser ever since she knew how to hold scissors. Being a hairdresser isn't simply about giving someone a haircut. It isn't simply about giving someone a new color, or a quick trim when it is needed. It isn't about awkward conversations during which no one knows what to say.
Giving someone a new haircut means giving them confidence. It gives them beauty, and joy, and sometimes, freedom from the chains of the past. It transforms them in a new person. It sheds the old skin into a new one. It isn't just about physical beauty anymore, it's about who they are.
She never should have given up her job, she thinks, but now she has a chance to fix it.
"Let me know if the temperature's good," she tells Allie as she begins to rinse her blonde mane.
Allie lies on the chair and closes her eyes as the hot stream of water hits the back of her head. She can't remember the last time she had a real, professional haircut. It was before Kaz went to prison. It was before she relapsed. It was years ago and she's intensely grateful that Bea is reminding her how good it feels.
She feels Bea's fingers massaging her scalp and the smells of shampoo overcomes her as she sinks into the comfortable chair. She inhales slowly as goosebumps travel around her body when the water cuts and Bea's hands are slowly untangling her hair. She exhales sharply when she feels the water hit her again, and she thinks she might pass out when Bea adds conditioner and starts moving her hands in the back of her neck, all the way up to her forehead.
Allie tries so hard to ignore thoughts of where those hands could touch her instead that she forgets to close her mouth for a moment and a deep moan escapes.
The hands stop moving for a second and Allie thinks she can hear Bea swallows nervously above her.
She parts her lips, ready to apologize, but Bea's moving again, and it feels like she's floating on a cloud again. She doesn't dare break this magical atmosphere they are trapped in. Her mind is going all kinds of places, not all as innocent as this one.
"All done." Bea's voice is small and breathy. "You can go sit, I'll join you in a second."
"Sure."
The next hour flies by.
It's an hour spent with Bea's fingers pulling delicately at Allie's hair, while Allie has to bite her lips to prevent herself from making any undesirable sound that might scar Bea for life.
It's sixty minutes during which Allie tries to answer Bea's questions while trying to ignore the growing ache between her legs.
It's three thousand six hundred seconds of pure torture as Bea makes all the right decisions to create a masterpiece out of Allie, while Allie thinks she needs a cold shower as soon as possible.
It's a full hour spent with Allie rapping some ridiculous lines just to make Bea laugh, and Bea pretending to be a hardcore fan of DJ Allie Cat, just to make Allie laugh too.
It's a time of pure joy, and it feels so impossibly too good to be true, but it is.
When Bea's drying Allie's hair and the sound is deafening for the both of us, Allie licks her lips and thanks the skies that she's managed to survive for so long. A little more and she thinks she might have betrayed herself.
"What do you think?" Bea asks with the biggest smile on her face as Allie stands to look at herself closely in the mirror.
Bea is glowing at what she's done and if anything, she thinks Allie is even more beautiful than before. It isn't fair, really, the way Allie just gets more beautiful every time she sets her eyes on her.
"It's perfect," Allie replies, mouth wide open as she tries to find a way to explain how she feels.
"Don't push it, Allie," Bea rolls her eyes as she cleans up the mess on the floor. "You can just say 'thank you' and I'll take it."
Sure.
She'll act normal, like Allie's compliment didn't just make her happier than she was a second ago.
Every day she spends with Allie seems to make her happier.
"This is more than I could have asked for, thank you."
The sincerity in Allie's tone makes Bea blush.
"No worries."
She finishes cleaning the floor while Allie watches her attentively.
"Are we okay?" Allie asks with a small voice.
Nothing is simple anymore. They've shared their deepest secrets, and hurt each other more than ever, and supported each other when they both wanted to run away.
They've put aside apologies and heartfelt explanations because they could read each other's mind, but is it really enough for them to move on?
"We are," Bea says softly.
Allie thinks that Bea has never looked better, and she makes a mental note to thank Kaz the next time she sees her. If she'd known how much this would impact Bea, Allie would have swallowed her pride and gone to see Kaz after their very first visit. Then again, she hadn't expected them to become what they are today.
Whatever this is. Whatever they are. Whatever they'll become.
She stands up impulsively before she has time to weight her decision, and she reaches Bea's side within seconds. She takes the broom out of Bea's hand and places it against the wall. It is quickly forgotten when Bea anxiously meets her eyes.
Allie is dangerously close to the other woman, and she thinks that this might be a mistake, but Bea doesn't step back.
Allie stares at Bea like she did the very first day, without judgment, without fear, and with a spark of interest that only grows brighter with time. She looks at her lovingly, and she doesn't care anymore if the world knows about it, even if Bea's eyes are still clouded with insecurities and apprehension.
"We should go," Bea whispers, stepping toward the door.
Allie knows Bea's words lack conviction.
They aren't solid enough to build this wall between them again.
They aren't strong enough to prevent them to see the truth in each other's eyes.
Bea is telling her that she isn't ready, but Allie sees the opposite in her eyes for the first time since they've met.
She reaches for Bea's hand and captures it in her own gently.
"You're shaking," Allie states as she takes a step closer.
Bea is a prisoner, helpless as Allie's blue eyes keep her paralyzed on the spot. She can't escape, and this time, she isn't sure she wants to. She doesn't see the point in running away when she knows she'll come crawling back a second later. Running away doesn't lead anywhere when it comes to Allie. If anything, it only drives her closer to Allie.
"It's cold," she whispers, her pathetic excuse at a distraction echoing on the walls.
She's so tensed that she wonders how she can still stand and not snap under Allie's maddeningly intense stare. She forgets to breathe, and when she finally remembers, her lungs are begging for oxygen and her body is weak under the accumulation of poisonous molecules.
She feels her heartbeat quickens and skips too many beats to count, until she thinks it actually stops and just stays immobile in her chest. For an infinite second, she stands there, facing Allie while she's half alive, ready to fall on the ground and collapse under the weight of her own emotions.
Allie catches her. She always does.
"It's not cold."
It really isn't, Bea thinks. She's sweating, and her clothes are far too warm for this kind of weather, and she feels like she might pass out from the heat and the heaviness of Allie's gaze.
The closer Allie gets, the hotter it gets, and before Bea can think about it, Allie's lips are brushing against hers, and she finds herself wanting more.
Allie opens her eyes, just long enough to make sure that Bea wants this, that this isn't another cruel joke the universe is playing on them. When she finds a miracle in Bea's blazing gaze, she brings their lips together again, throwing all her inhibitions away.
Bea closes her eyes, only to see fireworks on her eyelids when Allie's lips press harder, needy and desperate, and still so soft against hers. It's gentle and hungry, delicate and chaotic at the same time, and it tears down every defense Bea has ever built between the two of them.
Bea doesn't know anything. She doesn't know what to do, how to breathe or how to move, but she knows that the way Allie feels against her is enough to destroy her in the most delicious way.
She thinks she's waited her entire life for this moment to happen.
In-between inaudible moans and imaginary explosions created by the subtle way Allie deepens the kiss, Bea finds herself remembering why she's fought so hard to stay alive.