doomdays / maggie anderson - duval
she never wished to share this with her daughter —- their friends and their loved ones, buried in a graveyard. all her life, she promised herself she would protect emma the way she wished she could have protected her first born, yet it’s all flipped on its head now. she couldn’t save emma from her own past coming back to haunt her, and letting go her first baby is the very reason why - — even if that was never the choice that maggie wanted. there wasn’t enough time to explain that to piper when she had a knife to her throat: your mother loved you, your mother wanted to be with you, your mother always regretted not fighting harder for you.
it’s like this place has called for her; a graveyard for margaret anderson’s ache, a place for her to come to see all her failures all at once. first, her friends from high school. now, her daughter’s. and more —- the only man who ever made her feel the way that brandon james made her feel: like she mattered, like she was special, like she was easy to love ( the way that kevin never did; like she was a burden, like he was settling. )
she’s not used to seeing people here; they come and go quickly, the place bringing upon a chill from all the horror the town has wreaked. and if they see her here, then she feels the guilt all at once, and she feels like she’s not allowed here after the hurt her name has caused. but seeing one of her daughter’s friends does the opposite of making her want to run. she feels the pain he’s likely feeling now —- and whatever she can do to try to help him, maybe that’s WHY she’s survived time and time again.
she opens her mouth to speak, but she closes it again once he starts to. his joke doesn’t make her laugh, yet it does remind her of someone ( one of her own friends who lost his life many years ago; she can’t deny how familiar it all is. ) ❝ jake. ❞ it’s almost spoken like it’s a question, her eyes darting to the bottle and back to him again. she shakes her head, a silent way of telling him she isn’t concerned about that. maybe she should be, but there are better ways to reach him, she thinks. she’s silent for a moment before her brows furrow and she mentally kicks herself into motion. ❝ hello. i’m — here for . . . ❞ she cuts herself off, because she doesn’t need to explain. not when there are too many names for her to list. ❝ —- it’s nice of you to be here. for your friend, ❞ she notes, looking down at will’s stone, her stomach turning as she remembers the way she and her daughter were both put in positions to END the lives of the ones they loved. it makes her sick, but she focuses on jake instead.
❝ how are you doing? ❞ that’s the real question, spoken in a way that’s welcoming, a way that insists he can talk if he needs to, because she knows how hard vulnerability is to come by for teenagers, especially ones like him who have defaulted to making a joke at the site of his friend’s grave. she sees him; maybe, she can give him that help he’s seeking — without realizing he’s looking for it.
life is nearly granted to the incredulous peals of laughter demanding escape from his throat, further spurred on by the dawning realization of just how intoxicated he has become upon standing fully upright ------ but mirth is swallowed down, down, down so as not to appear disrespectful before her. his appearance at this grave is borne of bone - gnawing guilt, the kind that has him gasping [ awake / alive ] on the frigid tile of bathroom floor, dried remnants of stomach bile clinging to the front of his shirt and an empty bottle of that night’s liquor of choice mere inches away cell phone with will’s number still glaring from the screen once he finds the strength to unlock it. his appearance at this grave is an attempt to relieve unremitting grief that has him brutalizing anyone who dares try to put their belongings in the wrong gym locker or make an offhanded quip in his presence, already primed to pick a fight before he has a reason. so even though he understands her intended sentiment, he cannot accept that his being here could be considered nice.
BE REMINDED: PENANCE IS NOTHING TO BE PRAISED FOR.
right hand cards through unkempt curls, the left disappearing into jean pocket, thumbing at the seam in its idleness. only one has been able to bear witness to the true reality of his grief, only one has desperately pulled fully clothed body into frigid shower in an attempt to sober him up while he sobbed in her sodden lap for minuteshoursdays, and even then, their comfort towards one another tends to stray towards the non - verbal. his truths have died along with his friends.
so when she asks that fateful question, the one that everyone does, his immediate reaction is to give one of his non - answers. he goes to respond ------ and it snags on a lump that has formed in his throat. it’s the liquor, selfishly robbing him of his ability to maintain his composure; it’s her tone : genuine and knowing, as though she truly wants to ensure his wellbeing and not just get the formality out of the way, something few other adults have since sought to do [ . . . ] not even his parents. he is suddenly unable to evade the way this affects him.
burdened gaze falls away as he clears his throat, the telltale pricking at sclera announcing the arrival of brimming tears. ❛ i miss him. ❜ voice is small, thick, lacking the forced whimsy it contained even moments ago. he returns to seated position in the dirt below, grabbing nearby bottle and allowing it to dangle between his knees ------ defeated! anguish has won this battle already; he is only allowing it to do what it will with him. a swig from bottle, fallen tears hastily swept away. just because his soul will be bared does not mean he has to remember doing so.
❛ he was alone, you know? he was alone, and ------ ‘nd he was scared, and [ . . . ] ❜ and will died hating him. will died without an apology. will died after getting captured trying to clean up after a mess that was his, that he blamed on his closest friend in his anger. they were supposed to have more time. this proves too much to say, so attention is diverted. ❛ how’s, uh, how’s emma doing? haven’t seen her much since. ❜