sometimes, when stanley sees women who have fiery red hair, he finds himself staring. he doesn’t know why--he doesn’t like girls. that had been something he’d come to terms with in the last few years. anyway, it’s not a feeling of attraction that makes him stare, but rather, a strange sense of familiarity. it almost always leaves as fast as it comes on, but he’s taken note. that’s why it doesn’t surprise him much when the same thing happens with a redhead he comes across as he’s tromping his way through the accumulated snow on the grounds trying to get to the library. he’s freezing cold and he hates the way the wind is making his cheeks raw, so why does he stop? why does he stop and stare? and why, pray tell, can’t he look away this time? he thinks suddenly of earlier in the day, seeing a ghost from his past in the form of richie tozier ( and how had he already forgotten that happened? ), and another name comes to mind: beverly. with the name comes a clear, vivid picture of a young girl with dirt smeared across her face and a brilliant smile, a girl in tattered clothing with a kind voice and gentle hands. beverly marsh, he thinks with stupid wonder. that, a few yards away also battling her way through the snow, is beverly marsh. a sense of horror overcomes stanley momentarily but like before, with richie, he shoves it away along with any creeping images trying to claw their way in from the peripheries of his consciousness. “beverly!” he calls out before he can linger on the decision of whether or not to do so. when she looks at him, he knows he’s right. he barely remembers anything about her, but he knows her. of that much he’s sure. he walks closer, boots kicking snow aside, and greets her with a half-formed smile. “your name is beverly,” he says, like he’s reading it on a name tag. “i think i know you.” ( @thxrofthcnder )
