This chapter is sort of a mess.
Chapter's title is from "Angels on the moon" by Thriving Ivory.
Chapter 13: Don't tell me if I'm dying
Allie waits until she thinks she sees Bea's plane fly over her head to leave the airport. She lets out a heavy sigh and closes her eyes on the way back, letting the taxi driver brings her back to her now empty home.
It feels strange, to have experienced so much joy, and a few hours later, to have it all gone. She's starting to believe it was all a dream. There was no Bea lying next to her and holding her like the most previous thing in the world. There was no fluttering from her heart, and no warm breath ticking her skin. There was no childish-like snuggles under the eye of the ever-watching moon.
Shit, she thinks. It's been less than half an hour and she's already missing a piece of herself to the point that she doesn't think she'll ever be complete again.
When did this happen? When did she give Bea so much power over her, so much access to her heart? When did Bea even accept? Things are flying by and she can barely register them in her memory before they are replaced by others.
She feels like she needs to cry to release all the emotions that are fighting for her attention in her brain, but her eyes are dry, and she knows tears aren't something she can summon. She watches the road stretching around her.
Somewhere, somehow, one of these roads leads to happiness, to a life free of worries. She'd give everything she has just for someone, anyone, to point her in the right direction.
She pays the taxi with a morose face and she looks up at the door to the building. She doesn't want to go in, not when Bea isn't anywhere close to coming back with her. It'll feel colder there without her, emptier, duller. It won't be home. It'll be an apartment. A shelter against the outside world. But it won't be home without Bea.
She walks away. She can come back later, when her heart doesn't feel like it's going to start rotting the moment she crosses the door to the inside of the apartment.
She walks away, heading toward streets she doesn't know much, trusting her feet to guide her wherever she needs to be at this time of the day.
She walks away, thinking she'll come back just the same, a little broken, a little flawed, a little hopeful. She'll get food, she'll read a book, she'll work on her resumé, she'll do research, so she doesn't stay jobless. She has no idea where she wants to work, no clue at all. The only work she knows is how to fool people and sell her body. She doubts it'll be a benefit for any of these normal job offers.
Maybe being away from Bea can help after all. She won't be so distracted by Bea's presence and she'll finally focus on herself for a change. She'll be able to find a job and surprise Bea when she gets back. They'll laugh, and they'll celebrate, and they'll fall asleep together, and everything will be right with the world again.
Maybe being away from Bea will teach her how to function without Bea, rather than being this mess she isn't sure she recognizes.
Maybe not.
She trips on a small torn hat filled with coins and nearly kiss the floor.
"Shit!' she blurts out, struggling to stay balanced. "I'm so sorry!"
She looks at the scene. Coins are scattered on the ground. There's not many of them, and the hat can barely be called a hat anymore, because it's dirtier than dirt. A teenager is frowning at her with fire burning in her green eyes.
"What the fuck!" the stranger replies with a voice laced with a kind of anger Allie recognizes.
A biting anger that only comes from the throat of someone who has seen too much, who has suffered too deep, who has learned that trust is a weakness. A vile anger that hides insecurities and fear and a kind of sadness not everyone is familiar with. A poisonous anger that is meant to keep people away despite a crying need for help and support.
A defensive mechanism that works a little too well when it shouldn't.
Allie knows it because she's lived with that anger for years of her life. She knows how ravaging it is, and how lonely it becomes.
"Sorry, here, let me help," Allie offers, leaning to put some of the coins back in the hat.
"Piss off, I won't have you steal my money!" the teenager shouts in return, throwing herself at the coins, frantically trying to get all of them. "Piss of!" she repeats, furious at Allie's presence.
Allie stands back, mildly offended, but mostly sad at the state in which this person is. The girl is thin, emaciated even, and she looks paler than a ghost. She wears dirty clothes that don't look like clothes anymore and she has scratches all over her face, like she's been in a fight recently.
"Do you need anything?" she asks with a small voice filled with concern.
"I need you to fucking leave me alone," the girl mutters. "Fuck off."
She leans back against the hard brick wall and lowers her head. She doesn't look up, and for a moment, everything exists as if Allie had never accidently tripped on that hat.
Allie knows too well that posture. She's been in this posture for years in her life, looking at the sidewalk, trying to pretend like the looks of disgust thrown at her didn't exist, hoping that a kind soul would throw a few coins for her. Waiting, and hoping, and having this hope broken at the end of everyday when she'd count the pieces and realize it wasn't nearly enough for a warm meal.
She sits next to the stranger, careful to put enough space between them so that she doesn't overwhelm her. She offers the girl a small smile that is left unreturned, but Allie knows she caught her attention.
"Want to talk?" she asks after a few seconds of careful silence.
She doesn't know why she's acting like that. She's never stopped before when she saw people asking for money or when she saw men and women homeless in the middle of the streets. She's never bothered to stop and ask.
But there's something about this teenager that reminds her of herself.
Young. Scarred. Battered. Scared even if she tries so hard to hide it.
And if she tries anything on Allie, Allie can outrun her, can fight her, can take this small girl because that what she is, a child, and Allie is taller and stronger here.
The feeling of possibly saving a life controls her. It always has. Helping others, making their safety her priority, it's part of who she is. It's a quality and a flaw at the same time.
"What's your name?" Allie asks, trying to sound as casual as she possibly can.
Names have power in the streets, Allie is well aware of that. Telling someone her name meant that she would be recognized from now on, that she would be remembered if she owed something or if she bought something. It meant she was no longer protected by the shield of anonymity.
"Why do you care?" a small voice replies after a minute.
The answers appear in Allie's soul, flashing in bright lights.
The only reality she knows better than any other is life in the streets.
The only truth she knows is how to survive in this place, how to thrive and get out, and how to kick every obstacle out of her way.
"Because," Allie licks her lips and exhales deeply, "I was in your situation before and I remember wishing someone would stop and talk to me."
The teenager's eyes are still narrowed at her, judging why someone who looks like Allie, like they have food in their stomach and a warm shower at night, would stop for her.
"I don't want to talk," she spits back, shrugging like Allie is nothing but a mosquito bothering her quiet existence.
"Good," Allie smiles back in her innocent way. "Then you won't mind if I just sit there in silence."
She thinks she sees a vague shadow of a smile on the teenager's face.
It doesn't feel like much, but she thinks she's found something.
She leaves an hour later. She spent the whole time sitting silently next to the stranger, but when she got up, she knew it had been enough when she'd been asked with a hesitant voice if she'd be back eventually.
Yes.
She will be back.
"Mom?"
Silence answers the small girl's interrogative tone.
"Mom!"
Bea hums absently, her eyes focused on the page of the book she's reading.
"MOM."
Bea lets out an amused laugh and looks down at her four years old daughter.
"What?"
Debbie looks back at her mother with the most serious eyes.
"Does it hurt the sky when planes fly through it?"
The second the plane leaves the ground, Bea zones out.
She doesn't hear the safety guidelines. She doesn't hear the flight attendants asking her if she wants something to eat or something to drink. She doesn't hear the deafening mechanical sounds of the plane that tells her she's high above the clouds.
She doesn't see the screen in front of her, telling her how many hours she'll be stuck in this place with hundreds of strangers. She doesn't see the map, tracing the itinerary they have ahead of them. She doesn't see the movies, the tv shows, and even the music that are offered to her to pass the time.
The sky is beautiful, shining with different shades of blue. The sun is like a golden pendant hanging from the universe's chain. The clouds are marshmallows, fluffy and white, and light in the invisible air. Once in a while, they part to let the travellers see the ocean under, its azure lines following the directions of the diverse currents.
She doesn't notice any of it. She's grey, gone in her own colorless reality.
Up in the air, she doesn't belong anywhere. She's not home, but she's not quite somewhere else either. She doesn't recognize anything, and should this plane crash, she wouldn't know how to survive in the wilderness. Yet, she doesn't feel scared. She doesn't feel nervous. She doesn't even feel excited to be flying.
She doesn't feel anything, and somehow, that's the worst possibility of them all.
No emotions at all, no anger, no sadness, no feeling of betrayal, just emptiness.
Is she still human or is she an imposter pretending to belong?
And if the plane crashes and bursts into flames, is she going to feel the pain, the burns, the way her skin would melt from her bones?
The plane's speed is too fast. It brings her farther and farther from Allie, and Bea feels pieces of her heart being scattered around the sky and falling down in the ocean. She watches them drown silently, eyes peeking out the window. She wishes she could open the door and jumps after them. Maybe she'd catch them in time so she'd feel whole before she crashes on the hard surface of the sea.
The plane's speed is too slow. It feels like it will never reach Debbie, and Bea hears pieces of her heart chanting her name in the horizon, in the foreign land. She thinks she won't get there on time, that they'll be gone by the time she lands. She wishes she could teleport directly next to her daughter, whose life she failed to protect. Maybe she'd heal a little before she lets Debbie destroy her completely.
She left half of her heart back home, and she hasn't reached the other half yet.
She wants to cry, but there's no tears left in her eyes. She wants to scream, but her lips are glued together. She wants to make the voices in her head stop, but they're slowly killing her. She wants to get rid of this weight crushing her chest, but it only grows heavier instead.
She wishes she could turn back time and pretend all of this will never happen.
She wishes she could stop time and pretend like none of this is happening.
"Mom?"
The floor creaks and interrupts the night's mute orchestra.
"What's that?"
The smallest hand brushes Bea's forehead.
"Why are you bleeding?"
A frown. A sigh. A whisper.
"Should we go to the hospital?"
A trembling statement whispered in the dark.
"I'm okay, Deb. Everything is okay."
Her number one rule used to be to avoid hospitals at all cost.
Hospitals were traps in disguise. If she'd gone there before, bleeding and pretending to have fallen when it was plain obvious that someone had beaten the life out of her, she'd never had left without the police following her every move. She could have lost custody, lost her daughter, her house, her everything.
But now, a hospital is the only thing standing between her daughter's life and the fatality of death.
She swallows her hesitation away and walks inside. Her breath catches in her throat and she finds herself sitting on the first chair she can find, dialing a number as fast as she can. She waits impatiently, her foot bouncing on the floor while she clutches the phone in her hand. It takes forever and she wonders if she's got the wrong number.
She thinks she can see the lines between life and death blur even more.
Life and death cohabit in a strange balance in hospitals. They are neither friends nor enemies, they are neither at war nor at peace, and they are neither good nor bad. They just exist together, sometimes stealing something from one another, sometimes letting things be. They cannot exist without the other, and they are both aware of that important fact.
Life thrives in every darkened corner, even when hope is playing hide and seek for a little too long. It colors someone's first breath and dances with the lights in one's eyes. It breathes joy in every person's lungs, and it draws smiles on every person's lips. It pulls laughs out of a lucky person's throat and tears out of an unfortunate's eyes.
It survives in every single person who heals and gets to go back home to their family.
It is rich, proud and impossibly stubborn.
Death creeps around every soul that dares enter this place. It doesn't matter whether that soul belongs to a visitor or a resident, death wants it. It steals hope from everyone's arms, and replaces it with despair. It celebrates at the sight of a cadaver. It breaks a person's voice and shatters a person's will to fight. It feasts on someone's pain.
It stares stoically at every broken soul imprisoned within these walls.
It is cruel and grimly inevitable.
"Bea."
When Allie answers, her voice is so clear that Bea thinks the blonde is standing right next to her.
"Are you okay?"
Bea bites her lower lip until she tastes blood.
"I don't know. I'm at the hospital. I- I thought I'd be ready. I came all this way and I- I can't walk in her room. My little girl is somewhere in here and I can't walk in, and she's waiting for me," she stammers, trying desperately not to let panic overcome her.
She wishes Allie was there to ground her, to hold her hand and tell her that everything will be fine because she refuses to be in one those shows where the protagonist's child dies and everything goes to hell from there. She refuses to be that person that loses a child because how could she ever survive this?
"Breathe," Allie's calm voice reminds her. "You're safe."
Bea inhales deeply. Even the air tastes like death. It sickens her and she wants to throw up, but what if it's her heart that comes out?
"How are you?" she asks, hoping to be distracted enough.
"I miss you," Allie breathes heavily, like her source of oxygen has gone too far from her and she can barely survive.
It's only now that Bea realizes the way Allie's voice sounds. Exhausted, tired, and enveloped in sleep.
"What time is it?"
Of course, she should have known. She's just spent hours stuck in a plane.
She glances at the clock on the wall and tries to calculate mentally, but she's never been that good at maths and her mind is already all over the place. Guilt stomps over her and she wishes she could hang up without alerting Allie.
"It doesn't matter, Bea."
It matters. It matters so much that Bea frowns and shakes her head, even if Allie can't see her.
"What time?"
Allie sighs in the distance.
"Three in the morning."
Fucking time difference.
Time doesn't care that she misses Allie or that she needs Allie. Time just goes on, moves on, lets her disturbs Allie's sleep without a single care in the world.
"I'm so sorry," Bea starts. "I – "
"Don't you dare," Allie cuts sharply. "We've spent days talking together at five in the morning. Sleep can wait."
Bea is about to accept Allie's answer when the blonde lets out a loud yawn.
"You're a terrible liar," Bea sighs. "I'm hanging up."
"And you suck at asking for help, but here we are! You can call me anytime, you know that," Allie insists, cursing her body's awful timing. "I didn't get this phone for no reason. In fact, I demand that you call me in the middle of the night. I'm alone and this apartment is too empty without you. Understand?"
"Are you giving me orders?" Bea deadpans.
"Are you telling me you don't want to talk to me?" Allie gasps exuberantly, breaking the tension.
"Yeah, you know, blondes aren't my type," Bea smirks, momentarily forgetting where she is.
Allie is her type, but Bea doesn't specify that.
"Bea Smith, I've seen the way you look at me!" Allie warns playfully.
"It's your rapper charm that got me."
"DJ Allie Cat steals every women's heart," Allie shoots back, ending her statement with a suspicious beatbox performance.
"Who are the others?" Bea growls menacingly.
It may be a joke, but Bea finds herself being jealous of her hypothetical rivals.
It's so stupid that she rolls her eyes. She never thought of herself as the jealous type.
"There's you, Bea. And there's this mother whose daughter is named Debbie. And this friend Franky calls 'Red'. And this girl who doesn't know the difference between green and teal. Oh, and I almost forgot, this woman who gave me a chance when I was at rock bottom."
Bea laughs heartfully and imagines Allie sitting up in their bed, face illuminated by the moonlight and arms waving around while she talks. She leans more comfortably on her chair and takes a deep breath. This time, her chest rises without the familiar ache and she's certain there's blood flowing again in her body, coloring her back to life.
She listens to Allie babbling about the last few hours, how they felt like they would never end and how the blonde could not stop worrying about Bea's whereabouts.
"Thank you for answering," she says at some point, interrupting Allie's story about how she forgot to close a window and thought someone was already trying to rob them.
She thinks she can hear Allie smiles brightly from oversea, and she has no doubt that the moon must be jealous.
"I'd answer you no matter what."
It's a quick, short statement that makes Bea's heart skip a few beats.
"I don't think I can do this," Bea says after a few minutes of silence. "I don't think I can walk in her room and see her like this."
She's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to be in her bed, sleeping, and in the best-case scenario, Allie would be right next to her, snuggling into her arms. She's supposed to be dreaming of anything, rather than being stuck in this nightmare, a nightmare that's just too real, too constricting and too painful.
She's not supposed to be on her way to see her daughter at the hospital. Her daughter isn't supposed to be in the hospital in the first place. Her daughter is supposed to be in class, or wherever it is she'd be on a Tuesday's afternoon.
"I don't know what to expect," Bea continues, knowing Allie is listening closely. "I've spent my life keeping her away from places like this. Every wound I ever had, they were mine. They weren't the doctors' to care for. I hid in the bathroom for weeks, healing myself. And now she's… there. All alone."
"She has you," Allie reminds her gently. "You're still there. You flew to her."
"Yeah," Bea replies sourly. "I jumped on a plane for her, but I can't cross a damn door."
A single door is standing between her and her daughter.
A single door is stopping her from being the mother she needs to be.
"I don't think it matters," Allie answers. "There may be a door between you and Debbie, but I think you've already crossed it."
Bea's body might be stuck on the other side, but Bea's soul is right by Debbie's side.
"What if I can never open that door? What am I doing here? I wasted everyone's time and money!"
"Bea, you're already inside that room," Allie repeats more convincingly. "I think you're just afraid."
Bea scoffs.
Of course, she's afraid, her only child overdosed on heroin.
Being afraid is an understatement. She's terrified. She's so scared that she feels like a three years old hiding under her covers from whatever monster is hiding in her closet. Except there's nowhere to hide this time.
If she opens this door, she'll be by her daughter's side. She'll be able to hold her hand, and whisper soothing words in her ear, and just be there. She'll tell her that everything will be fine and that she has nothing to be afraid of. She'll make the apologies rain on her daughter's head.
But if she opens this door, she'll see the machines, she'll hear the mechanical beeps, and everything will suddenly be too real to deny. She'll be stepping a little too close to death and all its friends, and she'll end up paralyzed, unable to get a single word out of her mouth.
As long as she stays here, on this side, she can hope that maybe, just maybe, the doctors got it wrong, and that it isn't her daughter on the other side. Maybe, just maybe, this is just the worst misunderstanding in the history of misunderstandings.
As long as she stays here, on this side, she won't see the machines, she won't hear the beeps, she won't need to face reality and the fact that her daughter is dying, really dying, on that bed.
The fact that her daughter might already be dead.
"You're afraid that when you walk in, Debbie will be dead," Allie declares, harsh with words that Bea needs to hear. "I know that feeling. I've lost people, friends, and it's never easy."
Bea wants to run away when Allie says the words.
She wants to run away and somehow ends up in Allie's arms.
"When you cross that door, you won't just see that she's dying," Allie softly says. "You'll see that she's unconscious, but not gone, that she's pale, but not too pale, and that she's fighting for her life. You'll see her chest rising, and you'll hear her heart beating, and you'll notice that death isn't here with her in that room."
Bea thinks Allie's words are beautiful, and she hopes that this prophecy comes true.
"You'll see all the ways that make Debbie still alive."
If she could worship letters and syllables, these are the ones she'd bow down to.
Without thinking further about it, she pushes the door open in a quick movement and walks in. The door closes behind her and it feels like it locks her inside the room. She knows, right this moment, that she's gone too far, that she'll never want to leave this room until she knows Debbie is safe and healthy, and awake.
"What do you see?" Allie asks, hearing the way Bea's breath itches and stops momentarily.
It takes a while for Bea to answer.
She sees a tube, too many needles, and a tremendous number of transparent bags emptying their contents in Debbie's veins. She sees a screen with numbers and lines, and stats that she can't understand. She sees a bed that's too big for Debbie's emaciated body. She sees the bruise on her arm and the exhaustion on every inch of exposed skin. She sees a little girl that looks nothing like the one she saw a few days ago on the pictures on the internet.
And she sees her.
"My beautiful little girl," Bea answers.
A minute later, she's not on the phone anymore, and both of her hands and holding Debbie's tightly. She presses a soft kiss to Debbie's cheek and wishes she could give her life to save her daughter's. She'd do anything just to feel Debbie's hands squeeze hers back. She shakes her head angrily when they just remain soft, warm, but inescapably immobile.
Why aren't they squeezing hers back?
An hour later, she's crying silently by Debbie's side. Debbie used to always feel her presence in the morning, waking up right before Bea could even shake her out of bed. She used to smile and start the day with a war cry of happiness before Bea could even process that it was time to get out of the house.
Where is that shake, and that smile, that war cry that Bea misses so much?
A day later, she's fallen asleep on the chair next to the bed. Her back aches and her body feels sore everywhere, but she thinks it's nothing compared to what Debbie must be going through, and she refuses to leave the hospital. She stays by Debbie's side and drowns in sadness like a sinking ship inevitably crashing on the bottom of the ocean.
Why isn't Debbie waking up?
Three days later, she's still there, looking at her daughter's emotionless face. The only sound she hears are the steady beeps coming from the machine, the only proof she has that her daughter is still alive.
"Mom?"
Debbie tugs at her mother's shirt.
"Come play with me!"
Debbie throws a doll at her mother's face.
"I'm busy, Debbie."
She cuts a few more vegetables and looks at the clock on the wall.
"You're always busy," Debbie's small voice complains.
Bea rolls her eyes. That is so not true, she played with her daughter an hour ago.
"I'll play after dinner, okay? I have to finish this before your dad gets home."
"That's what you said last time!"
But last time, she didn't finish dinner and Harry locked her inside her room.
"I'll play this time, alright, love? I promise."
She glances at the clock again. She really shouldn't make promises she can't keep.
"How's Debbie?"
Franky's familiar voice echoes in the hospital room.
Bea had put her phone on speaker in the hopes that Debbie would wake up, flinch, do anything at all, at the sound of a foreign voice, but nothing. No magic, no miracle, nothing.
It's been five days since she's arrived, and every day is longer than the precedent. She'd only left once, to take a shower and sleep a full night in the closest hotel she could find. She'd come back here as soon as the sun had risen in the horizon. She'd hoped to see her daughter awake, alerted by the way she'd slammed the door open, but Debbie had remained just the same.
Five days.
She can't remember what date today is. She can't remember if it is the morning or the afternoon. She just waits by her daughter's side, hoping that when Debbie wakes up, she'll bring the morning with her, and the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and everything she stole when she fell asleep. When Debbie wakes up, Bea is hoping that their entire universe will go back to the way it was just before her daughter took that fatal shot.
"She's still sleeping," Bea pronounces difficultly, choosing her words carefully because words have power and she doesn't want to awaken them.
"Is there anything you can do?"
"The doctor said…"
What did the doctor say? She can't even remember that. It's like her brain has been filtering information and nothing matters, nothing but the sight of her daughter still unconscious and plugged to too many devices. All the medical vocabulary just stops by in her brain before it leaves as fast as it arrives.
Did he say that she should just wait? Did he ask her to shake her daughter as hard she could? Did he say she might need to wait a lifetime before she talks to her daughter again? Did he tell her to prepare herself in case Debbie never wakes up? She can't remember, and all those possibilities hurt her soul.
"I don't remember."
"And how are you?" Franky's compassionate voice asks. "Do you need anything? I may be far but I can still fight someone for ya!"
Bea shakes her head slowly. She'd love to be able to shoot a joke back to Franky, to laugh and to smile. She'd love to tell Franky that yes, sure, she has a blacklist of people she wishes she could eliminate. But lately, her smile is a bit duller, and her laughs are a bit quieter, and her joy is fading behind walls of despair.
"I wish I was sleeping too," she whispers like she's afraid to speak too loud.
She wants to fall asleep and be woken up only by her daughter.
"That bad, eh?"
Worse, Bea thinks, but she doesn't mention it.
"Where's Allie? Is she alright?" she asks instead. "She always calls me at that time."
Franky snort from the other side of the globe.
"Why, thanks, Red. I'm happy to hear you too! Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," Franky replies ironically before adopting a more serious tone. "she asked me to call you today. She said she had somewhere to be, didn't say where exactly, but it sounded important."
"Is she okay?"
She's spoken to Allie everyday since she landed here, sometimes multiple times during a day. She wakes up in the morning, and calls Allie to wish her good night. She goes to sleep at night, and calls Allie to wish her good morning. It's routine, and familiar, and their conversations often stretch for hours until exhaustion hits one of them.
Sometimes, Bea manages to forget that they're so damn far away from one another.
But it's always temporary.
She always remembers, and she always aches deeper than the moment before.
"She told me to tell you to stop worrying about her and that she's doing good. She also said that you must believe me when I say that she's doing good or she'll be pissed," Franky answers, repeating words that were practically drilled into her brain by an insistent blonde.
"And you really don't know where she is?"
Franky laughs a little.
"She told me you'd ask. She said she's busy staying safe."
Bea nods and accepts the answer. The tiniest part of her fires the alarms, but she ignores it.
Allie told her she'd be safe. Therefore, Allie must be safe.
"Tell me about your day," she sighs, hoping it'll distract her enough from the demons in her head.
Franky doesn't disappoint and rather than telling Bea a quick boring recap of her day, she narrates a story that sounds like it came straight from a storybook.
"I woke up way too early for my own good!" she claims loudly, and Bea has no trouble imaging her friend pacing around her apartment. "My breakfast didn't magically appear in my bed, so that makes another disappointing morning. So I got up, walked a million kilometers to the kitchen, and I thought I was going to die from thirst before I reach it. I opened the magic freezing box, and there it was, cold water waiting for me along with food. And then I had to go to work. You know what, Red? It's really a shame that humans weren't born with the ability to teleport because I'd have saved an hour stuck in traffic. And it's shame that buses can't fly. I bet our ancestors are looking at us pretty sad with how far we've come."
"You're probably right," Bea chuckles lightly.
"I got to work, and the coffee machine made me a drink straight from heaven. Now, that's the kind of shit I need, you know? I did my things, filed some magical papers, freed some innocent clients, exploited the laws just like I know I can, and the day flew by. At some point, there was a bird who managed to be trapped in our office! I bet you that it's an alien in disguise. I went home after, and I called Allie because you made me promise I'd call her everyday to make sure she's alive. By the way, she's pissed about that, but she still answers, so I bet she likes me. Got some competition here, Red!"
Bea rolls her eyes silently.
"I told her to keep her ass alive because if she doesn't, then I'm the one in trouble," Franky continues with a lighter tone. "I had incredible food because I'm the chef here, and then I called Bridget and we had phone sex. Do you want the details?"
"Gross."
"Fine, we didn't actually have phone sex," Franky admits with an overly tragic voice. "It's a shame because you know, I got mad skills. Like, crazy, mad skills."
"Move on, please," Bea rolls her eyes at her friend's antics.
"But she's coming over here tonight, so it's about to go down… if you know what I mean."
"Really, Franky?"
"Fine, fine! We're going on a date," Franky says excitedly. "Don't you dare repeat that to anyone, Franky Doyle doesn't do dates."
Bea thinks she smiles at the mention of Franky going on a date, but she can't be sure.
"Where are you taking her?"
"What makes you think I'm the one taking her out?"
"Because Franky Doyle doesn't do dates, remember? Which is a complete lie and we both know it."
Franky huffs and puffs on the phone, and Bea has no trouble picturing her friend struggling to keep her player disguise on.
"I'm not telling you," Franky mumbles.
"How old are you?" Bea snickers.
She hears Franky mumbling more mystery words and moves on.
"Anything else?"
It takes a minute for Franky to answer and Bea wonders if the signal got lost.
"Not really."
"Don't lie to me."
She doesn't think she can handle any more secrets, any more lies.
"I spoke with Maxine today. She's at the hospital. She fainted today when she was taking a shower. She's getting the operation tomorrow."
Bea feels her heart stop. She'd been so focused on her daughter that she'd forgotten about Maxine. How could she forget? She wants to take her brain out of her skull and stab it repeatedly.
She wishes life could give her a break already because if it doesn't, she has no chance to see her future days.
"She is?"
She had no idea.
She should have known, that's what a good friend does, she thinks.
"She knows it's unexpected and she says that no one could predict it. She tells you not to feel guilty about it. And she knows her words won't have much effect on you, so she says that if you feel any sort of bad about this, she'll hunt Allie down after she's done with the surgery."
Bea nods. Maxine knows too well that Bea's only weaknesses at the moment are Allie and Debbie.
"She's going to be fine, right?" she asks with a shaky voice that she doesn't recognize.
"You know her, she'll fight harder than anyone else," Franky reassures her. "She'll make cancer her bitch."
Bea has no doubt that Maxine will not give up the fight so easily.
But still. It's cancer. It isn't a cold or a light fever. It's fucking cancer, with its big blows and its merciless punches, and its unfair advantage in this unwanted war.
There are some moments in life that cannot be predicted. There are some feelings that cannot be avoided. There are some tragedies that cannot be erased once they've been written by fate. There are some losses that'll hit harder than a nuclear apocalypse if they happen.
She struggles to remember her last conversation with Maxine. She remembers clearly Maxine's smile on the night of her
departure, but she can't recall Maxine's words. She had been too focused on Debbie to pay attention to anything else.
She thinks she remembers thinking that Maxine looked a little paler than usual, but she's not sure.
She didn't do anything, didn't say anything, didn't tell her she was going to miss her. She didn't ask for Maxine to stay safe, to rest well and to call her whenever she wanted. She didn't make sure that Maxine knew how much she was loved.
She curses the fact that she didn't do it and something inside of her rages silently.
People wait all the time because they're scared to say the words, scared of the reactions, scared to appear weak or vulnerable. They wait for so long because it is easier for them to remain silent than to be rejected. They wait because they think they're invincible and time will never run out.
But it's an illusion.
Time does run out.
"Tell Maxine I love her," she pleads.
There's a silence from the other side and Bea thinks that Franky is gone, until her friend's voice whispers.
"She knows, Bea."
She recognizes it as Franky's way to reassure her, to tell her not to have any regrets, but she brushes it off a quickly as she can.
"Tell her anyway!" she nearly shouts. "Tell her because I can't. Go see her and tell her, please," she finishes with a bit more control on the volume of her voice.
Tell her because it will too late if she waits.
"I will, I promise," Franky answers, sensing the despair in Bea's words.
There's more to it than a simple need to tell her that she loves her, and Bea knows it very well.
She's waited too long, all her life. She's spent her entire life waiting and regretting, and leaving things unsaid while the great clock of the universe kept ticking without a second glance. She keeps waiting, and waiting, and waiting until there's no time left, and she still doesn't move.
She waited too long to leave Harry. She waited too long to talk to Debbie. She waited too long to talk to Maxine. There are so many things she hasn't said to Allie, and so many secrets she still has to share with her, and now, she's at the hospital, losing Maxine, losing her daughter, and Allie is too far to hear whatever she needs to say.
She's still fucking waiting even now.
She hates that she's waited so long.
I'm your mother.
She doesn't want that to be the last words Debbie heard from her because it's not enough.
She doesn't want their last conversation to be a fight.
She doesn't want their last moments together to be spent in a hospital room.
She doesn't want their last memories to be anything short of beautifully extraordinary.
"Is there anything else you want me to tell her?"
"Tell her she needs to stay alive," Bea murmurs like anything else is futile.
It feels like she's talking to everyone she's ever cared about, not just Maxine, and Franky tells her that it's going to be alright, and Bea believes it a little.
She senses Franky's hesitation.
"What?" she asks.
"What do you want to tell Debbie?"
There's a pause and Bea feels like this loaded question will blow up in her face.
"It's not about what I want to tell her," Bea replies slowly. "It's about what I want for her. I don't want her to die in this place. I don't her life to end like that. What are people going to know her for if she dies today? Drug addiction? She's so much more than that."
And it's a shame, the greatest shame, that if Debbie leaves this world today, she'll be marked as another statistic, another victim, another junkie.
"Say it," Franky repeats. "Tell her those words you ache to say, before it's too late. You know, maybe she can hear you. Maybe she's listening. And even if she isn't, say it out loud. I'll listen for her. I know it's not the same, but I think… I think you need to say everything, Red. It's now or never."
Bea doesn't think about it twice. She feels the words wanting to pour out of her throat and she knows that Franky's right.
It's now or never.
Tomorrow, Debbie might truly never be able to hear her.
She leans closer to Debbie, staring helplessly at the tubes coming out of her daughter's body. Debbie looks like she's ten years younger, and Bea, with her tired eyes and lifeless features, feels like she's ten years older.
"You made a terrible mistake. It might cost you everything. This isn't who you are, I know so much."
She caresses Debbie's cheek gently, like she's afraid she might hurt her if she presses too hard. She leans to kiss her forehead, and underneath the smell of chemicals and medication, she thinks she recognizes the scent of Debbie's favorite shampoo floating around her.
"I'm sorry I made you grow up too fast."
All those times she told Debbie to pretend like the blows weren't happening. All those times she told Debbie to go hide in the closet and stay quiet. All those times she told Debbie to help her clean the house. All those times she told Debbie to help her with the food. All those times she told Debbie she couldn't be back home because she had to work a double shift. All those times she tried to make up to her with promises she never could keep.
All those times she robbed Debbie of her childhood.
"I'm sorry you saw everything you shouldn't have."
All those times she let Debbie see Harry's true nature. All the blows, the hits, the punches and the cuts. The times Debbie heard her muffled cries, her quiet sobs and her sudden screams. The times Debbie asked her why she was bleeding, why she was on the floor, why she couldn't get up. The times Debbie begged her to go to the police and she just ignored her.
"I'm sorry I didn't protect you harder."
She wishes she could have protected Debbie more from Harry, from Brayden, from the world, and mostly, from herself. From the doubts and the fear and the negativity that probably surrounded her ever since she was born.
She wishes she could have done more for Debbie, more to help her and support, and God knows, more to love her.
"I love her to the moon and back," she confesses to Franky. "Do you know why?"
Franky remains silent, sensing that a single sigh, a single breath could break the moment and steal it forever.
"Because that's where she always goes when she daydreams or when she used to play by herself. On the moon. Falling in love with the stars and refusing to come back to Earth. So I loved her to the moon and back because I could reach her and bring her back down… and this love, it'll bring her back again. It has to."
"Mom?"
"What, love?"
Debbie bites the inside of her cheek for a second before she asks her question.
"What if I wake up one day and you're dead?"
Bea turns to face her daughter, shocked with the rawness of these words.
"It won't happen."
She won't let it happen.
"But what if?"
Debbie stares at her mother like she isn't afraid of the possibility, and Bea's heart breaks a little.
"Then, you go find someone to help. And you remember that I'll always be with you, no matter what."
It's been a week since she's landed here and made the hospital her home. She's learned the best techniques to fall asleep on a hard chair, and the most efficient methods to stay asleep whenever the nurses or doctors came checking on her daughter in the middle of the night. She's tried every combination of hospital food she could think of, figuring out quickly which ones were the best, and which ones were insults to her stomach.
Allie has called her every single morning and night, except for three times.
The first time was when she had talked to Franky instead. The second and third times were unexpected, and Bea had worried until Allie had called her later than usual, apologizing for missing their usual time. She hadn't asked why, and Allie hadn't explained why, and they both had pretended that it was nothing important, preoccupied by other matters.
It never once crossed Bea's mind that Allie was spying on Harry again, taking advantage of the fact that Bea was safe in another country.
It never once crossed Bea's mind that Allie was spending quiet moments by a lost soul with a dirty hat and beautiful dreams.
Bea had just finished her morning call with Allie when she heard someone knocks on the door of Debbie's room. She frowns. No one ever knocked. The doctors just walked in, acting like they owned the place and knew better than anyone else. The nurses just poked their head through the entrance, quickly assessing whether Bea was awake or not, and then walked in as well.
She doesn't say anything and waits for the intruder to make its presence known.
It takes a minute before whoever is behind that door enters, and in that time, Bea has time to think of the worst cases scenarios. It's Harry and he's there to kill them both, wanting to assassinate the past and move on. It's Brayden and he's here to finish the job, to end her daughter's life once and for all. It's the doctor, telling her that they're done waiting and that the only thing left to do is to unplug everything.
"Bea?"
It's Will Jackson.
Bea sits a little straighter and while a part of her is surprised to see him, another part of her wonders why he's here, so far from Wentworth. She doesn't let her guard down as he grabs another chair and sits next to her.
He offers her a small, hesitant smile, and when it reaches his eyes, Bea lets relief flood her heart.
"Mr. Jackson, what are you doing here?" she asks in disbelief. She remembers their last conversation, the way he'd told her good luck as she'd crossed the door of the shelter for the very last time.
She knows he works on the mother-child relationship, and she knows he's responsible for all the activities at Wentworth. She knows, from what she's seen so far, that he's a good man, but she still didn't expect him to jump on a plane just for moral support.
It seems a bit too much.
"I know what you're thinking," he smiles amicably. "Why would I come so far just to help you out? I heard what happened with your daughter. I asked if it was appropriate for me to go, to give you support, and after many discussions, Wentworth's governor decided that I could go."
"But why?" Bea asks curiously.
There's nothing special about her and she hates it when people pity her. She doesn't want their pity and she doesn't want to be treated any differently. If this is what it is, if they think she can't handle being here on her own…
Then they might be right, and she tries not to show how good it feels to have a familiar face around.
"It's part of my job. If you'd gone to a hospital in the city, I would have visited you just the same. Even if you don't stay with us anymore, it's part of our follow-up once the women leave. We don't just let them go out there without support, not when we can do otherwise."
Bea frowns, still doubtful, but she says nothing. It's believable.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to stay quiet," Bea asks.
"No worries. If you want me to leave, just say the words."
She doesn't.
They sit in silence for a while, Bea focusing on Debbie, and Will Jackson mentally taking notes on Bea's general behavior. He's pleased to see that she doesn't look terrible for someone whose daughter is fighting for her life.
"What is it like to be a man in Wentworth?" Bea asks after a full hour.
She's always been surprised to see that he was even allowed to work there.
"It helps women see that there are more than just abusers in the world. I can't welcome anyone on their first time. They might be triggered by the sight of a man they don't know. And I can't do phone assessments because they might wonder why a man is doing the job and why a man is asking them about their abuse. However, once they come here and see me working, it all goes well."
Bea nods. It all makes sense. If Will had been the one to answer her that night, she might have walked away from that place. But today, she knows better. She knows that Will would never hurt anyone on purpose, would never be the same kind of person that Harry is.
"The children need to see too, that not every man is like their father."
Bea agrees quietly. She points at Debbie sadly.
"You didn't get to know her well," she laughs emptily. "I think it might have helped her, to have someone else talk to her."
"Maybe," he answers, "maybe not. Debbie made a choice. It isn't the one you wanted her to make, but it's what she chose. Hopefully, she'll remember the consequences if she ever has to face a similar situation again."
Bea shakes her head, anger rushing back to her.
"I'll stop her before she ever gets close to this situation again, trust me on that," she spits out.
Impulsively, she thinks that when Debbie wakes up, not if, but when, she is dragging her back to Australia where she'll protect her more fiercely than she ever has. Debbie might not like it, but at least, she'll be alive.
Will seems to guess her thoughts and sighs loudly, mildly amused.
"I've worked with kids long enough to know that if they want something, they'll do everything they can to get it. And what we think is right for them… they don't always see it that way."
"What do you do then? Hm? When your daughter might die, do you just let her be? Do you just let do what she wants because otherwise she might hate you? I'd rather have her alive than anything else," Bea argues strongly, her voice strong enough to move mountains.
Will shakes his head.
"I never said that. You're doing good, Bea, but sometimes, we can't predict their next moves. We can't protect them from everything. It's normal, for a girl her age, to act recklessly. It's normal for her to try things and fall in love with the wrong people. You have to teach her everything you know, and hope for the best."
"I tried and she didn't listen."
"You keep trying," Will replies. "You try until she listens. It might take… weeks, months, even years, but you don't give up on her. I know you won't."
When he looks at the woman in front of him, he has no doubt that she will do anything for her daughter. It breaks his heart a little, because he knows that sometimes, the ending is the same.
Bea seems to accept his answer and remains quiet, and he takes the lead for a second.
"When my wife died, I thought I would never survive," he confesses. "I thought my life was going to end, right then, at the same time she took her last breath."
Bea feels the same, like her life is hanging by a thread, and Debbie's death would cut that thread.
"I thought I would never be happy again. I got into pills and developed an addiction."
It's hard for Bea to believe it, now that she looks at the man sitting next to her.
He looks healthy, like he could crush an asteroid with his bare hands rather than use them to place pills delicately on his tongue.
"I lost everything. My wife, my job, my dignity. I couldn't see the end of this. But I did eventually."
He places his hand on Bea's shoulder. He lets her know that she's part of the same world as his.
A world where people live and die and are reborn everyday.
A world where people somehow manage to survive the worst every single day.
A world where the impossible come true, and where miracles happen when you least expect them.
A world where cruelty knows no bound, but so does Love.
So does Love.
"You'll survive too, if it comes to this, you just don't know it yet," he whispers.
The possibility that Debbie might not make it suddenly appear too real, like a premonitory dream.
The possibility that she might never talk to her daughter again comes crashing into her and Bea shakes under Will's steady hand.
"What do I do?" Bea asks painfully. "I don't even know if she'll make it through the next night."
She needs someone to tell her what to do.
She hates being ordered around, being forced to do something, but she's lost, and she needs someone to guide her, to tell her how to get out of this mess. She needs someone to tell her this pain is temporary, and she needs someone to show her the future, so she knows what to expect, so she can be prepared.
She needs someone to guide her because so far, she's emptied her suitcase on the floor, she's made a bed on the chair next to Debbie's bed, she's yelled at nurses and doctors, and earned a reputation of the worst family relative ever. It's a miracle she hasn't been banned from this hospital, and she's sure it's all because she's cried like a madwoman in the hallway more times than she can count.
"You're a mother. You know better than me what to do. But if you ask me, you're doing just fine right now, by being with her," he replies as honestly as he can.
She scoffs and stares out the window.
He's not wrong, she is a mother.
She knew, when she learned that she was pregnant, that being a parent was the hardest job in the world.
She expected to change diapers at every hour of every day. She expected to calm tantrums and have her eardrums pierced by her daughter's high-pitched screams in the middle of the night. She expected to lack sleep and energy. She expected the tears, and the cries, and the laughs, and the terrible two. She expected the trillion of questions for which she had no answer to. She expected the billion of answers for questions she'd never asked in the first place.
She expected that she'd have to force her daughter to eat her vegetables or that she'd have to work double shifts to help pay for all the expenses. She expected that it would be hard to dress up her daughter when Debbie was tired and grumpy and didn't want to go outside. She expected to fight about ridiculous stupid things with her daughter. She expected to feel an overwhelming love whenever she simply glanced at her daughter.
She expected to feel like a failure whenever she couldn't protect her daughter. She expected the heartbreaking dilemmas and the soul-shattering issues. She expected the guilt and the shame, the loathe towards herself and the raging anger.
She even expected that she'd need to give her body and soul in order to protect Debbie from Harry's anger.
She expected to love her daughter unconditionally, no matter what.
She expected to care more about her daughter's life than her own.
But fuck.
Someone should have told her about this part.
About the part where she'd have so many crushing regrets that she wouldn't be able to stand on her own.
About the part where she'd make so many mistakes, so many important mistakes that she'd end up playing a role in her daughter's tragic tale.
About the part where she'd be in a hospital, watching her daughter being plugged to a bunch of machines in order to keep her breathing.
About the part where she'd be praying to a God she doesn't believe in that her daughter comes out of this place alive and well.
About the part where she'd be waiting for her daughter to wake up.
Wake up…
Wake up.
Wake up!
Being a parent means your children will outlive you. It means you won't have to go through the pain of watching them die. It means that when you leave, you'll tell them that everything will be alright because you raised them to be strong, and respectful, and resilient.
You'll tell them they have their whole life ahead of them to be happy again.
You'll tell them that they will be happy again, even if they feel like they never will.
You'll prepare them, help them, and never leave them, even after death.
But there are nuclear families everywhere and Bea feels everything she's ever known is vanishing in the air.
Debbie isn't supposed to leave first.
"I think I'm dying with her," Bea admits quietly.
Will stares at her like he reads his mind and feels her feelings.
"Every day, it's like she's farther from life, and she's taking me with her," Bea continues. "And I wish… I wish I knew if it would end or not. I wish I knew if I need to prepare my own funeral or not."
Bea feels a knife stabbing her in the throat.
"Part of me wants someone to tell me if she's going to leave me or not, so that I can move on."
It hurts. It hurts a kind of pain that she can't even describe with words.
"If I know what will happen, I'll be able to prepare myself. And at the same time…"
She lets out a strangled sob that sounds like the cry of wounded animal.
"At the same time, not knowing is the only thing that helps me be hopeful."
"Mom?"
Bea holds Debbie's eyes with hers.
"Are you going to leave dad soon?"
Bea frowns, baffled that her twelve years old daughter is suggesting that.
This isn't supposed to be what twelve years old kids worry about, and she feels her stomach twitches rebelliously in her body.
If her little girl is asking her that, she must have really screwed up in her job as a mother.
"Why are you asking?"
Debbie looks away, like she's scared of Bea's reaction.
"I want you to leave him," she confesses, releasing words that have been strangling her for too long already.
It's been nearly two weeks now and Bea was supposed to go back yesterday.
She was supposed to be back in the land of sunshine and deserts and oceans stretching far in the horizon wherever she was. She was supposed to go back to work, because it's a new job and she risks losing it with every passing day despite the deal she made with Doreen just a few hours before she left Australia.
Go to your daughter, she'd said, reassuring Bea in every way.
Except Bea is sure that Doreen didn't expect her to just disappear, fade into the wind for so much time. She has no idea what awaits her when she gets back there, and she curses her existence once again because she's managed to lose one of the rare good things in her life right now.
But there'll always be more jobs, she catches herself. There won't be another Debbie.
She was supposed to be back in her brand new apartment, with Allie. She was supposed to be helping Debbie up the stairs as they settled in, together at last, far from the danger lurking around them. But it's fine, they're safe, right here in this hospital.
She was supposed to be happier, but Debbie is still sleeping, so Bea had changed her flight back because there's nothing in the world that will make her move away from here.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Allie's gentle voice tells her. "I'll see you as soon as I can. We could always video call someday?"
"Yeah?" Bea asks, hopeful and destroyed at the same time, wishing she was many time zones away.
Two weeks is a long time to be away from home.
"Yeah! I'll ask Franky to set it up. She'll do it if I tell her I'm miserable and need Skype sex."
Bea rolls her eyes and lets her head lean against the wall.
"That's your reason?" she asks with an amused voice. She has no doubt that Franky will tease her for the rest of her life.
"What can I say, you make me a poet," Allie sings from the other side of the planet. "Sorry, it didn't rhyme."
Bea's laughs clear the room of its sorrowful atmosphere.
"You're a better rapper than a poet, that's for sure," she replies.
"I won a poetry contest once, excuse you," Allie protests proudly. "I wrote about the tree in my backyard and my teacher was very impressed. I was five and I was already better than most of my classmates."
An image of a young version of Allie pops in Bea's head and she feels her frozen heart melting for the first time in a while.
"So you're saying you lost your talent because of old age?" Bea grins wickedly.
She hears Allie gasps, mockingly offended, on the phone.
"Bea Smith, look outside."
Bea nods even though Allie can't see her. She keeps her eyes on the sky. The sun is rising slowly, which means it's disappearing from Allie's sky.
It's reassuring, knowing that despite the distance, they're living under the same familiar sights. It's reassuring, knowing that the sun is same one Allie saw, just hours ago. It's like there's a bit of the blonde coming to visit her everyday, and Allie must be thinking the same as she says her next words.
"I may be far, but I have a priceless skill. Every day, I'll send you the sun to protect you and Debbie from the dark. And every night, I'll send you the moon to guide you back into the daylight."
There's something about the way Allie says those words, with a specific rhythm and a well-calculated tone, that makes Bea believe that maybe, the blonde is still a poet is disguise. A very good disguise, granted, but not enough to hide Allie's lovesickness.
Bea smiles, but says nothing. A courageous butterfly flies across the ocean and finds its way inside Bea's stomach.
"I think I found something I want to do," Allie says.
"You did?" Bea asks, curious.
"Yeah, and I'm not sure I'll tell you until you come back," Allie teases.
"What, why?!"
"Because that'll force you to come back."
"You know I'll come back," Bea answers with a serious tone. "I will."
She feels the urge to reassure Allie again because the blonde has been through too many losses and Bea would hate for her to think that it's happening again.
"I'll come back, I always will," Bea promises.
She hears the soft, content sigh on the phone.
"I met someone," Allie confesses. "A girl."
Bea frowns.
"Should I be worried?" she asks with a joking tone that hides insecurities rooted in her core.
"Never," Allie laughs. "I meant, I met a teenager in the streets. She's clearly homeless. I've been talking to her a little every day. She doesn't reply to anything I say, but I know she hears me. And she… she reminds me of me. It makes me want to help her."
Bea hears the way Allie's voice is filled with worries and joy at the same time.
"That's amazing," Bea whistles. "So that's what you want to do? For a job?"
"Maybe," Allie says. "I'm just thinking that all those counsellors and street workers and professionals… they know things because they went to school and studied. But if they wave their fancy diplomas in front of people like her, people like me… they don't stand a chance."
Bea waits as Allie gathers her thoughts. She can tell how important it is for Allie, how much this meeting means, just by the way the blonde expresses herself.
"They don't know the real side of it. They don't know the way it feels when you're waiting all day for someone to give you money. They don't know what it's like to spend every night outside, hoping that you'll wake up safely the next day. They don't know what it's like to be alone, completely alone with no one to trust. But I do. And I have this desire to help that I can't deny. And I want to try."
Bea grins so hard that she thinks her face will break.
"That's beautiful, Allie. I have no doubt you'd do a great job."
"I don't know if I'll make it a job, but for now, I'm glad to be able to just be there with that girl."
Allie yawns suddenly and Bea giggles.
"You're going to sleep now?" she asks.
"Maybe… and dreaming of you," Allie says.
Bea rolls her eyes, and she's so focused on the butterfly making damages all inside her body that she doesn't hear the slightest hesitation coming from Allie's voice, hinting her that maybe, there's more to it than a simple 'yes'.
She doesn't hear it, and Allie doesn't repeat, and they both forget about it, a few seconds later when they hang up, and when good night and good morning and many I love you travel the distance.
On the other side of the world, Allie gets ready to go outside.
On this side of the world, Bea drinks her cup of tea and gets lost in her thoughts.
When her phone rings a minute later, she doesn't think twice before she answers, assuming that Allie has forgotten something.
"What the fuck have you done to my daughter? I have to hear from a stupid doctor that she's at the hospital? Why didn't you call me?!"
She sets her cup of tea on the table next to her, feeling adrenaline being fired into her blood vessels.
Harry might be far, but he sounds just like he is in front of her, waving his fist in her face. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he learned of Debbie's status. He is also paying for a part of Debbie's rent in this country.
And right now, he sounds angry, the type of anger that Bea used to run away from because she knew that he would lose control and try to murder her in the process.
The type of anger that is solely motivated by his love for his daughter.
Harry's love is destructive.
"What do you want?" Bea's voice is steady, and strangely calm despite the uncontrollable beating of her heart.
She wants this conversation to end as soon as possible, but she won't hang up now, because he would only call again and who knows what else.
"Debbie was fine when she left me," Harry roars on the phone. "Then the next thing I know, she overdosed? What did you tell her? What did you do to make her do this?"
A few months ago, Bea wouldn't have answered. She would have looked at her own actions, searching for the trigger for Debbie's behavior. She would have analyzed every last interaction she'd had with Debbie, seeing all the ways in which she would be to blame. She would have believed Harry, when he said it was her fault. She would have found the evidence, the proof to fit with Harry's statements.
She would have blamed herself, all the way.
But now, she knows better.
"What did you tell her?!" She yells back. "You told her to go back there? You told her this love was great? You told her a couple drugs didn't hurt? What did you do?!"
Surely, he must have done something. He must be responsible.
He's responsible for all the shit in her life, and she knows, just knows that he's responsible for this too.
"I tried to stop her. You didn't. Who's responsible now?" she lasses out. "You are, you're just - "
And then she stops, as abruptly as she started.
There's no point blaming each other. It's counterproductive, and it's only going to anger Harry more. It's only going to make her waste her energy on a futile mission. There's no way he'd get it.
"It's Brayden's fault. I tried to warn her. That's all I did," she says, strongly, but holding back the sobs that are hiding in her throat.
She will never be blamed for something she isn't responsible for again.
"When I'm done with you, I'm taking her away from you!" Harry shouts. "That's my girl too! You should have called me. You should have let me know!"
"You were too fucking blind to see what was happening in front of you," Bea argues, her voice more commanding than ever before. "It's not my fault you'd rather get drunk than care about your daughter. We'll see who the authorities will believe if you go to them, you, or me, who's at the hospital, actually being there for her."
She hears glass breaking on the phone, and she has no trouble imagining Harry throwing his beer bottle on the floor.
She's witnessed it many times in the past. He would grip his bottle so tightly that his hand would hurt, and then there'd be flames in his eyes as he'd slammed it on the counter or throw it violently on the wall.
Maybe he's bleeding.
She hopes he's bleeding.
She hopes he hurts, just as much as she does.
"I'm coming to see her," he says with an emotionless voice that betrays his fury.
"No, you're not!" Bea immediately answers. "You're not stepping one foot closer than you are already. If you do, I'll kill you."
She's stunned at the words coming out of her mouth, but she doesn't take them back. She doesn't want to take them back.
She thinks she hears him scream.
She thinks she hears him laugh.
She thinks she hears him cry.
She thinks she hears him completely lost, unsure what to do, how to process the news that his daughter is dying, and the only thing he can do is attack.
She thinks that for the first time, he sounds more like a human than a monster.
It lasts just a minute.
A minute of silence, during which both are humans, until one of them transforms to a beast again.
"You fucking bitch, wait until we're in the same room again and we'll see who'll come out of it alive!"
Maybe it's the fact that she won't back down this time, but she hears the way Harry doesn't sound so sure anymore, as if he's becoming aware that he doesn't have control anymore.
That threat might have stopped her right away, weeks ago. It might have frozen her on the spot, and it might have killed any self-confidence left in her, but not anymore.
Now, it only makes her feel stronger, wiser, and overall a better person than Harry Smith. She would never step so low. She would never threaten another person like that. She would never encourage hatred.
Maybe now, she knows what she's worth and she finally believes it.
"Oh yeah?" she asks with a steel voice, laced with determination and resilience. "I'll be the one coming out of it alive. I have no doubt. Bring a gun. Bring a knife. Bring your words and all your stupid, reckless punches. Bring everything you have. I promise you, I will survive and thrive, and if you come anywhere near me or my girl, you will rot in prison for the rest of your pathetic life."
"You won't go to the cops," Harry threatens, but it sounds weak, and unsure, and Bea knows he can't threaten her with anything anymore.
"I will. Watch me," she sounds like the Future, sharply unavoidable and mournfully poetic.
He yells something, but she hangs up before she can understand his words, heart beating fast and lungs struggling to keep up, but her soul finally free.
Finally.
She won't lose her daughter. Not to anyone, and certainly not to Harry anymore. She should have stood up to him that time in the office, and she regrets not fighting harder, but today, she's a mercenary on a sacred mission.
For a second, she wishes him pain, so much pain that he doesn't remember his own name.
She blinks the thought away.
"Mom?"
"Hm?"
"If you and dad break up, do you get to keep the house?"
"You want to keep the house?"
"I love the house. It's where you taught me how to cook eggs for the first time and how to create animals out of sheets of paper. It's where you taught me that no matter what, you can always get back up."
Bea smiles. There's some truth to it.
"You fucking bitch, wait until we're in the same room again and we'll see who'll come out of it alive!"
Harry's voice is extremely loud, and hard, and it travels all the way from where he is to where Allie is hiding. She's been spying on him from times to times to make sure he doesn't try and follow Bea out of the country. It hadn't taken her a long time to figure out that he had no idea what was happening with his daughter, and she had almost stopped her visits. Tonight was supposed to be the last night.
Until she'd heard that sentence.
"You won't go to the cops!"
He's been talking to Bea, there's no doubt about it, and the words he says steal Allie's calm composure and set her anger on fire, multiplying her rage by a hundred. Her heart cracks open and she bleeds pain and love and passion at the same time. It's chaos in her chest and it's the end of the world in her head.
"I'll fucking kill you!"
She sees him throwing his phone to the ground and it's the last thing she hears. It's a death threat, loud and clear, and Allie doesn't bother listening to the rest of the conversation. Unaware that this was, indeed, the end of this conversation, she dashes through the streets, crossing at red lights and avoiding reckless drivers.
Bea.
Bea is in danger.
Bea still talks to him, and it's understandable given that they have a child together, but Allie cannot get over the fact that he still verbally abuses her. She won't passively stand there and listen without reacting this time. She won't give him a chance to act. She won't give him a chance to hurt Bea again.
Screw her meticulous planning, she'll act tonight and strike without hesitation.
Because Bea's life is in danger and Allie will burn this entire universe to the ground before she lets him approach Bea.
No one's there but Meg when Allie arrives to the Red Right Hand's familiar headquarters. The second their eyes meet, a thousand unspoken words travel between the two of them. They know each other well enough to hear what cannot be said and all it takes is a simple nod to seal the contract.
"You sure about this?"
"Absolutely," Allie states.
"Kaz?"
"It's best if she doesn't know about it."
Meg stares at Allie, long and pensive, and Allie never once looks away.
Meg nods and grabs two masks, handing one out to the blonde like she'd been expecting this moment.
"The plan?"
"I know it isn't exactly what we had in mind, but it doesn't matter. He's home tonight, I know it."
"Same location?"
"Yes."
Meg blinks a few times and breathes in deeply.
"Do we strike to kill?" she whispers, afraid to be heard out loud.
Yes.
Yes, for sure, I want him dead, is all Allie can think about. But the rational part of herself refuses to be labelled as a murderer for the rest of her life. It isn't who she is, and it isn't why she's alive. If she's going to be remembered for something, it won't be for murder.
And Bea. Gosh, Bea would never forgive her.
"No. He'll have a chance to escape with the back door, but… I want to do some damage first. He needs to fear for his life," she declares solemnly. "He needs to be so scared that he'll shit his pants. He needs to know what it's like to be trapped."
He needs to feel hunted for once in his miserable life.
"And if we're caught?" she asks calmly.
"No one will know you were there. You run."
They shake hands and Allie makes a pact with the devil.
The Red Right Hand member is quick to react, lead by a blonde driven by the highest power that exists on this Earth: the will to protect someone.
Allie grabs a few tools and heads out, followed by Meg carrying two huge tanks. It's dark outside, and it's easy for them to move without being suspicious. Adrenaline rushes through her body and Allie feels invincible.
By the time they arrive at Harry's place, the man's voice is nowhere to be heard, but his shadow is visible through the curtains of what appears to be his bedroom on the second floor. When she sees him, Allie sees red. If she could, she'd climb up that wall and slices his vocal chords, forever stealing his voice so he can't ever threaten Bea again. She'd break his legs so he can't kick anyone again. She'd break his arms and hands so he can't punch anyone again.
She isn't a monster, but sometimes, she thinks she'd rather become a monster than see Bea be hurt again. She'd rather become a monster than let him roams the streets freely. At least, she'll be a monster that only targets the bad people, not the innocent ones.
She remembers the first time she's gotten back at a man for what he did to her. She had felt like a goddess and she'd quickly became addicted to that feeling.
She feels just the same tonight and she's ready to trade her soul again.
She's lost herself so many times already, she knows she'll be able to find herself eventually.
She doesn't need to confirm that it's Harry because she's so blinded by hatred and the need to protect Bea, and the need to have revenge in the name of the woman she loves, that she is convinced it is him.
It's that same bindless that prevents her from thinking about what Bea would think of all of this.
All she hears in her head are the words Harry said.
He'll kill her.
He'll kill Bea.
Bea will cease to exist, and so will she, Allie's sure of it.
He needs to learn that he's a mortal, a human with no right to control another one. He needs to learn that he's not above death, above fear, above pain.
She points to the garage, and two seconds later, Meg is fiddling with the door and forcing it open.
She walks in, as silently as she can, and looks around while Meg goes to work on the front door of the house. The garage is full of objects. Tools, old kitchen equipment, bikes, old furniture, even a shiny mustang that looks like it was bought recently.
Allie shakes her head in frustration.
He doesn't deserve any of this. He doesn't deserve anything at all. People like him, they don't deserve to be successful, they don't deserve money or fame or the little things that make life worth living. They only deserve to be in hell for the rest of their existence.
"The front door's blocked, the back door isn't," Meg whispers, joining Allie in the garage.
The blonde nods. Everything is going according to plan, to her very impulsive and careless plan.
"You know what to do," she whispers as Meg carefully walks to the electrical panel.
Meg winks like she's done it a thousand times. She plays with the cables and damages them just enough to fool anyone's eyes.
When Allie pours gasoline on the floor, she thinks of all the things he's done to Bea, and she wishes she could drown this house in flammable liquid. It's messy and the smell attacks her throat and chokes her alive, but she fights through it until the very last drop hits the ground. It's not much, just enough to make the authorities believe that it's coming from a leak from the car, not nearly enough to make them believe in a criminal act.
She's trained for this. She's done this before.
"It'll be fine," she promises her friend as the smallest flame is born from the match she's carefully holding.
Her hand is shaking from the ungodly weight of the small wooden stick.
"It'll be fine," she repeats to herself.
Allie watches the flame with a calculated sight.
All she needs to do is to let the match fall to the floor.
People have been asking for more Allie. The next chapter, which is already written, is 99% Ballie, with an increased focus on Allie.
Thank you for reading!