𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐈𝐗 : 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭

Author's Note: PLEASE READ

This chapter contains a graphic depiction of physical violence. I'll insert a more specific warning in the paragraphs when the scene is about to occur. I know this fic has been a source of comfort, fun, and silliness for so many of you, so I apologize for the change in tone we're about to take.

As always, thank you for reading. Love you all💕

. . .

Mr. Kirstein helped Hitch dig a hole in the sand deep and long enough to bury Marlowe while Eren walked along the shore to collect shells for his mother. Marlowe lured a tiny crab into his palm to show his screaming wife while the other two boys bickered about whether they should cook the creature or keep it as a pet. Mr. Kirstein saved his first horseshoe crab from drying up on the beach, while Hitch forced Marlowe and Eren to try her bread. Both agreed that it was delicious, barring the crisped edges. Your friends chatted, ate, and marveled at the sinking sun as the ocean bloomed in marigold, iris, and rose.

You heard all but engaged with none.

No one bothered you while they enjoyed the beach, but you could feel their occasional glances slicing at your skin.

Even when your stomach gurgled in famished pain, your eyes never left the pages stuck to your trembling fingers. You laid on the farthest edge of the blanket, pretending to read, while Mr. Bott's haunting face plastered itself over every romantic word Mr. Arlert lovingly crafted. Now that you matched the freckled ghost's image to his past, you couldn't stop picturing his skull caved in with his neck covered in bruises. The grisly portrait burned on your lids each time you blinked.

How could you possibly be expected to act normal? How could you explain to any of them that you spoke to a buried man in your sleep? That his presence felt as lively and bright as theirs? That you had crossed the bridge between life and death without fully understanding what it meant?

The only person who could understand the fear acidifying your sanity died the day you were born.

When the bottom of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, you were the first to start packing. You folded linens and lowered umbrellas as if your life depended on it, shoving everything into the giant sack from which they came.

More than anything, you needed to rush to your forested grove and cleanse yourself of the dread clawing at your throat. Nothing could shake the constrictions no matter how often you attempted to clear your airways. The sand still held so much heat from the sunshine, but you couldn't feel the searing with each solemn step to the carriage. The back of your head even began to throb, warning you of an impending migraine that was sure to snake through your soul.

The lack of sustenance, mixed with dehydration and anxiety, wore down your body. You refused to accept any other rationalizations for your temporary illness.

Instead of worrying about ailments, you aided the coachman in loading the bag you carried. He must not have been accustomed to being assisted so closely by any of the Freudenbergs, besides maybe Marlowe, because he kept sending strange glances. Or, perhaps, he knew of your reputation in town and was worried that the proximity would land him in the clinic with either spell-casted warts or venereal diseases. Maybe it was because you were a woman hauling a heavy sack around as though it were nothing but a pillow. Regardless, the stranger saw you for the madwoman you were.

Before anyone else could arrive with the rest of the things, you stowed away in the deepest corner of the buggy. You wanted to disappear. No, you needed to disappear.

Once again, you pulled your book from your shoulder bag, brushing your fingers briefly against your father's knife. The bindings creaked from how flatly you snapped open the spine. Gluing your eyes into the same two pages you stared at for hours, you pretended to be engrossed in language.