'The Aftermath' (Becca Version)

[Alternate Text: A close-up on a section of a metal barrier that is formed be thin lengths of metal criss-crossing to create interwoven diamonds. It's likely a barrier overlooking a sheer ocean cliff since the sea stretches out in the background, possibly representing more than an enchanting view to some. On the barrier, there are dozens of padlocks left behind by people who visit it.]

This B POV is set during TFS: Book One, Chapter 13 following the MC's failed attempt at leaving Fernweh. It's what happens after B sits down in the middle of the road, devastated.  

For this writing, the MC has high Resistance, so they kept pushing forward when trying to leave town, and is romancing B. Warrick. 🧡

The sun-warmed asphalt can't chase away the chill that's set into Becca while she remains huddled on the road that's supposed to let you leave. It's the exit out of town—out of this small town with its even smaller-minded citizens and eeriness that belongs in a horror movie! She barely feels the pins-and-needles sensation in her legs from remaining curled inwards for so long.

Like the road's warmth, it escapes her, leaving behind an almost clammy feeling from anxiety.

She's hot and cold.

She wants to cling to you and push you away.

She needs to both scream in frustration and cry because the bad feeling she had was right.

Becca does none of that, although the soft skin of her cheeks feels tight from the tears that did escape without her meaning for them to. Crying in front of you isn't fair. You instantly followed after her, braving the malicious road in a different way. It isn't right to make you feel bad about any of it.

…But she only came here for you…

That traitorous thought is met with Becca's fingernails forming crescents in her palms, worryingly deep ones that also don't register. It doesn't redirect her line of thinking, which is a self-betrayal she can't handle now. She'd do anything for you! She swallows down a sob that isn't entirely distressed, her frustration at Fernweh making it have edges that get caught in her throat. Becca shakily stands up from—

"Bee?"

And, of course, you're standing right there.

Your hand falls short of her forearm to offer help, newfound hesitation threading through an action that should be automatic. That's her fault. When she curled further inwards earlier in a silent refusal of contact, Becca had heard your inhale and how you actually stepped back for once. She hurriedly finishes standing up.

"Yeah?" Becca replies, softly clearing her throat. "I think we should go back to town, maybe?"

. . .

The pause is telling along with your searching look of concern, but you're kind enough not to draw attention to Becca's emotional state. She appreciates it, while also loathing it after her earlier thoughts. You're too good to—for—her.

"We can ask the Dorrans."

She simply nods since her throat feels too tight to give voice to how that seems pretty futile. A magical, looping road defies explanation even if someone as nice as Mrs. Dorran or intelligent as Silas tries to provide one. A small part of Becca knows this is your ending, a bad one.

The two of you start the long walk back that's in the complete opposite direction of where all of your plans—your lives—are. It's deathly silent except for the breeze rustling the trees and Waffles whining softly on occasion. Becca is keeping watch on the forest, while she's able to feel you observing her side profile until it ebbs.

It's familiar for the two of you to communicate through traded glances and the barest of expressions thanks to your strong friendship.

It's how she knows something's wrong now.

You're doing that thing where you're looking at something, yet not truly perceiving it. It's very subtle, a tension that overlays your gorgeous features with an imperceptible strain. There's a certain tightness around your eyes that aren't quite narrowed, whereas your lips are set into a neutral line. What's always most worrisome to Becca is the distant, borderline hollow look that tells her you're experiencing another migraine. Waffles appears to be leading you now—the leash has become a tether and your steps are slower, less self-assured on the road.

She is acting within seconds, taking your hand in hers to offer support that startles you, which is something she'll hate herself for later on.

"Is it your head?" Becca frets.

"…What?"

You sound a touch distracted, probably too preoccupied by the pain, so she stops walking to instead take your other hand. Now, you're facing each other properly. "Are you hurting?"

"I thought I said it hurt?" you wonder. "This is just aftershocks compared to earlier. Don't worry about me."

Becca's eyes narrowing has nothing to do with a migraine after you try to reassure her while being unable to completely focus your vision. It spurs her to reach out. Her fingers gingerly rest against your cheek to direct your head a little to the left. They linger there, not a hold or a caress, but this isn't a friendly gesture. "That's like asking the sun not to rise, [Nickname]…"

Secretly, she would like to believe her touch is what helps you blink some clarity into your vision, giving you something better to focus on. Becca skims her fingers lower in search of any drying tears that she might have caused to fall with her actions. She doesn't find any. That would've killed her. As the pause draws on, she rationalizes it's the comfort of your friendship, nothing more, and that it isn't anything less.

She'll always love you as a friend.

"Tell me if you need a break," Becca murmurs, drawing her hand away. She offers you a brittle and honest half-smile. "If I see you swaying and you didn't tell me first, then you'll never hear the end of it, okay? Waffles agrees with me too."

The dog in question yips quietly after her name is said; maybe she is learning to accept it.

"Okay," you agree. "I'm honestly fine though."

She wishes you'd realize you could sometimes be more than that; however, Becca nods once.

The two of you continue your walk to town, hand-in-hand, relying on each other again.

. . .

. .

.

The Bed and Breakfast coming into view from its place presiding over the cul-de-sac, injects more vigor into both of your lagging strides.

It's far more welcoming than the town line.

Becca lets you ring the doorbell while she pets Waffles as an outlet for her nerves about the upcoming talk. Fernweh couldn't be a magical trap, right? She doubts the Dorrans would be complicit in such an act, unless the town only allows some people to leave and you and she aren't on that list. It doesn't make sense! There is a steady undercurrent of dread pulsing through her. She hasn't released your hand yet.

Maybe she should…

It's not weird, right?

Becca overthinks that until the door swings open.

"My gracious, it's you both again!" Mrs. Dorran happily exclaims. "Did you forget something? Is there something wrong? No, wait, please come in first. It's almost lunch time, if you're hungry?"

Her welcome is beyond warm, which makes it seem further unlikely she's involved, as she ushers you inside of her home and then into the kitchen. Brunch should stand in for lunch and breakfast, but Mrs. Dorran is prepared to make any type of sandwich. "I'm good, thanks."

"What about you, [Name]?" she confirms. "BLT? PB&J? I could rustle up a turkey sub as well."

"I'm also okay, thank you though."

Mrs. Dorran stops showcasing the fresh bread she bought from a farmer's market to join you by the island. Becca defers to you to interact with your former neighbor-babysitter-friend's mom person. She rocks some on the balls of her feet, antsy and uneasy about what's next, yet she isn't going to demand answers from Mrs. Dorran. The walk has helped her calm down a little, or that could just be the sinking feeling that makes her hold your hand securely.

"We tried to leave, but couldn't… My car broke down again when—"

"I'm so sorry! Rosie will fix it," Mrs. Dorran interjects. "She stands by her work, I know it."

"That's not all. When we tried to leave on foot—yes, I know that wouldn't have worked," you quickly clarify after she frowns briefly in confusion. "We were just trying to leave. The road—it 'looped' back around? It won't let us… Have you tried to? Can you leave Fernweh?"

Mrs. Dorran's frown deepens for a split second in an uncharacteristic expression of puzzled dismay. It's too quick, literally a blink and you'd miss it. Becca stares as that emotion is smoothed away by a placid quality along with the warmth dwindling from her loving brown eyes. It's… It's like making a gouge in a cake and covering it with buttercream; there's no trace of the mark, just a smooth, uninterrupted surface of sweetness, except Mrs. Dorran is empty. She's empty while smiling serenely.

It's all wrong for someone so kind-hearted.

"Can you leave Fernweh?" you insist. "Please we need to know."

"[Nickname]," Becca whispers your nickname in warning. "[Name]."

"Why would I ever want to leave my forever home?" Mrs. Dorran wonders in an eerily placid tone, beaming at such a funny question. "It's where we belong."

When you appear ready to say more, Becca determinedly tugs on your joined hands to create distance between you and this body-snatched Mrs. Dorran. The two of you back up just when Silas arrives in the threshold, though his slight confusion at your return heightens into alarm when he sees his mother. Of course, he'd know all of her smiles and mannerisms. Silas stares before his eyes cut to you in a silent demand that's short-lived when he goes to her side.

"Mom?" he tentatively asks. "Mom?"

It's a forced calm that Becca feels guilty about.

"Silas, we didn't—"

"Tell me what you did do," he interjects over you. "Now—please now. I need to know."

"We asked her about leaving town," Becca speaks up. "Uhm, she didn't—couldn't—" How does she begin to describe this to Mrs. Dorran's son who's gently clutching his mother's shoulders to get recognition to spark in her eyes? If it was unsettling for her, it's horrifying for him. "I'm sorry."

"Can you leave Fernweh?"

Both Becca and Silas sharply turn to stare at you after you pose that question again, except Silas's expression starts to buckle—to cave. It's at a slower rate than his mother's. His urgency becomes mired by bafflement that dulls even the concern that was evident a moment ago.

"I… I can't—it isn't—"

Silas stops formulating a reply when it's too hard to get the words out, but what strikes Becca is how he still looks to his mom for help—for comfort—for a sign she's okay. Mrs. Dorran continues to smile while her only child is struggling. It's then that Silas stiltedly looks down at the tile flooring; he can't bear to see her like that. His hands limply fall away from Mrs. Dorran's shoulders, ring-clad knuckles smacking the counter and not getting any reaction. Becca thinks he's losing the fight.

"Can you?" you press. "Is it possible to leave town? We need to know, Silas, please."

There is a moment of quiet where the tension slowly empties from Silas's face. He is gone.

"Why should I want to leave?" he asks in that same eerily placid tone of voice, looking at his shoes. "It's where we both belong."

Mrs. Dorran stares at the spot you no longer occupy, while her son stares down at the ground. Both of them are eerily tranquil, all smiles and absent of any tension. The two of you broke the Dorrans in their own kitchen.

She can't stand the sight—it's too creepy.

"We're leaving," Becca decides. Her pull on your arm meets resistance while you're struck by what happened to your former neighbors—what your questioning just did to them. It almost seems like you're mildly disoriented from the shock of it, but she'll be there for you. "Waffles."

The dog follows after her, while she guides you out of the kitchen with a rarely used authority.

She stops by the makeshift lobby to grab both her old room key and the master key without pause. You're saying something. Becca's too intent on safety to worry about it. Everything else is muffled and muted as her nerves and self-preservation kick in. She isn't safe; more importantly, you aren't safe. It's unacceptable.

Her dread has turned sickening.

Her grip on your hand is accidentally punishing; however, you're the only reason she's keeping it together. She hasn't heard any footsteps from the kitchen area. They must still be like drones or zombies, standing there vacantly with that emptiness that could consume anyone. The answer is clear: you won't be leaving Fernweh.

It's all wrong. It's likely evil. It's definitely scary.

What if you'll become a husk just like—?

Becca throws open the door to Rainforest Respite, hurriedly shutting it and then stalling when her hand is shaking too much with the key. She quietly curses. It won't line up—the tip won't align, which is easier than all of the key's ridges. She's messing up something so simple!

Gloria isn't here to be extra patient with her.

You're here, but she's trying to protect you.

"Becca."

You take the key from her and lock the door in a single try before collecting her hand again.

"…I want to move the dresser," Becca quietly admits. "I—I don't think it's their fault. It just—it'll make me feel better if it's only us for now."

You don't even try to question her, taking one side of the dresser and barricading the door.

She loves you for that.

"What else?" you ask. "What else will make you feel better?"

Becca doesn't verbally answer you, stepping close and then wrapping you up in a hug that's both desperate and comforting. She welcomes your arms around her. Her hands nearly bunch up your clothes to form handholds she can knot and tangle her fingers in to never ever let you go, but she catches herself. Becca hides her face, allowing herself to sag into you because 'relaxing' isn't an option now. The realization of your failed departure from this town ending in a permanent stay chills her.

It's so much worse than she thought.

You hold her through it all, and she holds onto you.

It's then that Becca fiercely resolves that Fernweh will never take you away from her.