11. Ants in a bathtub

On December 26th, Beverly Penn had woken up with a startle. Her throat had turned into an ant farm. A tunnel of dirt. Dry, biting, blazing pain. Tiny, persevering stings, feeding on the tender flesh of her neck.

And she'd carried herself out of bed, into the open sky. Lilac, a tinge of dying darkness, pinks and faint reds.

Morning had arrived.

Beverly had gone into the house, cursing under her breath. Tiptoeing at the ever-present wish to break into a sprint. To feel the wind slash at her hair and her face.

Her nightcap, fallen, caught on the door. Her slippers, discarded midway down the stairs. Her gown, collapsing into curtains of frost between her hands.

"Curse you, curse you, burn in Hell…"

She'd mocked the illness rooted into her chest. Her body, a disease. Red hair. Flushed fingertips, darkened by fever. Fire.

The fireplace that mesmerized her father. The flaming passion in little Willa's eyes. The furnace. That stupid furnace. The backdrafts that devoured her.

Burn in Hell…

Burn, burn…

She'd almost tripped into the tub. She'd ripped her nightgown off, reveling in the chill, her nakedness, her solitude. She'd sunk into the crystalline pool. Icy water, clawing at her skin, gathering like gelatin around her, forming an armor of glass.

A hypnotic smell. Frost, with its sharp scent, as painful to the nostrils as it was rousing to the senses.

Burn…

Beverly had submerged herself and waited for the ants to drown. Her eyes had been open to the white-teal fog. And she'd been floating, suspended in this elastic web of water. She'd imagined herself flying. She'd felt better, after a while.

Squeak.

In minutes, she would meet Peter Lake. In hours, she would fly. In days, she would dance. And in a week, she would be dead.

"Curse you."

Beverly collapsed on the bed. She averted her gaze from the open fabric, the invisible door between her and the ocean. Morning, dawning, eating into the blue. The popping of bubbles. Harmonizing starlight.

"Curse you, curse you…"

She was trembling. She hugged the pillows, curled herself into a ball, cowering into the remaining pieces of the dusk. Burnt purple, ashy, cremated twilight, waning in the breeze.

"I'm not dreaming…"

She clutched the pillows and for a second the twinkle of the stars resembled the drumming of a beating heart. His heart, steady and thick, pumping blood. Against her face. At the brush of her fingertips.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

A new list. She couldn't use her old list now. It was pointless, anyway.

Ba-dum…

Not only was there no heartbeat to quieten, there was also no thrill in the murmuring. No mystery to toy with. She once liked forming these names in the air and imagining her own name, whispered, among them. These were future friends who waited for her.

Ba-dum…

No. These were boats, islands, tents. Abandoned vessels, anchored, lamplight, oil, fire. Fire.

Burn in Hell.

Little fires…

It was infuriating… It was depressing…

In the morning the flames flicked into vapor and formed clouds. And its inhabitants swam, sinking. Unseen, unheard, the way she'd always been. Waiting, like she'd always waited.

And… drown in Heaven.

Beverly got out of bed in a jump, shoving the pillows aside. Ants were crawling up her throat. She wanted to vomit. The tent rocked, swayed by the tide. Peter was underwater with a corpse in his arms.

Burn in Hell.

She encircled the bed, letting the sheets crawl away from her shoulders. A veil of white-gold, tinging her skin. She burned as she paced. She formed no list. No friends waited for her up here. Only foam, fizzling into stardust. All her people were underwater.

"What did I do wrong?"

She trembled. She darted.

A trunk. She dropped to her knees, digging vicious hands into its contents. Her pianist hands, ripping through silks and fabrics. She'd commanded armies of crickets. She'd touched Peter. She'd felt his heartbeat.

Ba-dum… Ba-dum…

"I don't understand…"

She licked her lips and caught a hint of champagne, a hint of blood. An acid little taste, persevering, never fading.

Peter Lake didn't taste like champagne. His kiss had been a drink of water. Washing down all prior taste, all sourness that remained from the night that had gone. One year more. 1916, 1917. Her throat had been drier than ever. He'd kissed her and she'd drunk, and drunk. She'd craved him terribly.

"We were careful… We went slowly…"

Vitality and coolness, flexible, adapting to the shape of her throat, flushing red and dancing into her veins. Blood, running cleaner, clearer, and he ran along.

He also tasted like her every breath in New York City. Clouds in her belly. A race she couldn't join. A future for this city that she'd never get to see.

Her heartbeat had stopped, but Beverly could still breathe.

"We did nothing wrong…"

Piles of clothes, tossed, birds of fabric collapsing mid-flight around her. Cecil spoke as if he'd forgotten how to form words altogether. It terrified her. She couldn't stay here. The walls of fabric moved with the breeze.

Burn in Hell, drown in Heaven.

She kicked herself back up. She jerked at the fabric until a rainbow spiralled at her feet, and the trunk was empty, and she considered crawling into it, curling into a misshapen ball of flesh and hair, a monster waiting for a child's curiosity to pry this box back open.

Beverly Penn, a scream. A monster. Wouldn't that be a sight.

Clank!

The bubbles seemed to solidify into glass and their harmonies ceased. Beverly heard herself breathe.

Clank!

Two pieces, sunk beneath the folds of these clothes.

Beverly moved her feet carefully. A carpet of colorful silks, curling like cream, waving at the whim of her naked heels. Soft, like her mattress. The winter wind teased her skin.

Ba-dum, ba-dum…

She had to find a heartbeat. She craved the symphony of life.

I'm on my way.

Beverly couldn't believe there would ever come a day where she'd miss the pesky fire in her chest.

She leaned down, hand digging through skirts and gowns and blouses. Her fingers curled around the earrings.

I'm coming, Mother.

Green and so, so very cold. To the point that holding them ached. Curved silver frames, casting pale shadows upon her palm. The gems winked back at the bone-white sunlight.

I'm coming, Father.

A white chemise. Laces at the edges and hems. Beverly Penn stepped out of her tent wearing only that and two green earrings, one for each ear. She walked through the clothes on the floor like a doe through snow.

I'm coming, Willa.

There was no room for shame up here. This was the chill she'd spent so long to conquer.

She wouldn't be seen again anyway. It's what Cecil had told her.

She'd be a gust of wind. She'd flash from lamplight to lamplight. The earrings glimmered sharply as she jumped into the water.

I'm coming, Peter.

Fizzing bubbles of stardust accompanied her as she descended. One by one, the ants drowned.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

I'm currently not home and writing from my cellphone is extremely uncomfortable, especially when it comes to the formatting (italicizing text, for instance). But I managed to finish Chapter 11 and I am finally taking Beverly back to New York.

I feel like I keep writing her thought process as darker and darker, sometimes I worry that I'm making her too melancholic, especially in contrast to how she behaves in front of others (in "A Star in the Lake", I am always writing about how bright and pleasant she is to be around, but then again that was me writing from Peter's point of view).

I have said in my Author's Notes from Part 1 multiple times that Beverly's sadness is one kept deep within her, far from the eyes of those who surround her. Peter sees her as sad at times, but her grief and frustration is only rarely the dominant emotion in her exterior appearance/behavior. She can get angry, sad, bitter, upset, etc, but she is restrained. She carries herself with a peaceful grace and dignity. In ASITL I make her vent more (ie the furnace incident, her argument with Isaac, her moment at the ball with the "asparagus"), but in the movie, she doesn't vent once. She is always poised.

So I worry at times cause I keep making her thoughts dark as hell, but... considering what she's like as a character, how she's presented, and how rarely she actually opens up about her illness (again, in "A Star in the Lake" I give her way more opportunities to speak about it, and I make Peter notice her sadness from time to time, cause I think it's an important way to bond with him and create trust, but in the movie, her sadness goes almost entirely unspoken by her and by others, Peter included), I think it's fitting for her to be this way.

Besides, considering that she was finally in a complete state of bliss at the time of her death (she was in bed with the love of her life, she was happy, she FELT alive and fulfilled for once), I think it's fitting for her to be even more upset than usual. And for her anger to finally burst out of her chest, instead of remaining locked, silent, within her body.

She has no piano to scream with now. So... she has to scream in some other way. I love that "burn in Hell, drown in Heaven" parallel. I think Beverly is too impatient to actually DO things to be content in either threshold, waiting.

Okay, that was a lot XD Again, I don't like writing from my cellphone, but this week I have no other choice if I want to keep writing quickly. I'll come back to you as soon as I can, and Beverly will return to the City of Justice. I'm excited to write about her journey and how she moves around - I am legit so giddy :3

See you next time! Again, thank you for reading!