Beach Day

39: Moving Right Along

While she's thinking over the possibility of Priscilla Cain having been in some sort of stasis, an errant observation escapes Matt. "Your mood changes a lot, doesn't it."

"It's not an issue." She frowns. "Big and explosive is the Tiff Sheridan way."

"You've got something wrong with you. Like— medically."

"Fuck off."

"It's always been like this. It's concerning."

She scowls and takes a second picture of him out of spite. "Fuck off."

"I wasn't going to try to stop you from feeling different. I just have to wonder where your head's at and where your priorities are. We got chased here by a monster, or did you forget?"

"I didn't forget. I just got distracted. And desensitized. Do you know how many times a monster has chased me into Our Lady of the Shattered Cross? I'm not even Catholic!" The answer is at least seven.

"Thank God for that."

"I just— I thought this place was an urban legend!" As if that's a defense. "Like Devil's Gutter in Utah!"

"Do you mean Devil's Slide? I've been there. It's real."

"No, I mean Devil's Gutter. It's a different thing." Fumbling for the camera she stuffed into her bra earlier (and hoping it isn't too busted from the bone creature's attack), she continues, "Whatever this mystery lady is— whatever her goals are— I think she wanted us to see this."

"Why, though? Why not lead us to the normal chapel?"

"History is a story we tell ourselves—"

"Nope. We're not doing the 'weird philosophy with Tiff' thing. Nuh-uh. Come on, get inside. It's about to rain, that thing is for sure coming back, and I want to fix up your arm."

It looks dry, at least. With the sky already drizzling through the dead leaves and the wounds in her body already starting to yell at her for letting them weep for too long, she can't really afford to stay out here. She lets Matt drag her in by the hand she's still holding.

It's the next best move to make. She can't fault that.

Matt opens the door. It takes him a bit of elbow grease to force the rusted lock to give and the old wood and stone to move, but he manages it.

Once they're inside, he takes a look around, nods, and gestures for Tiff to take a seat. She shakes her head and continues to stand.

"Tiff, come on. You're bleeding. Let me fix you up."

She looks to the left of his face, trying to give the illusion that she's looking him in the eye. Out of pure defiance, she takes a syringe out of her bag without looking, flicks off the cap, and jams it into her forearm. As soon as she presses the plunger, she knows she made a mistake. She tries not to let on that it was the wrong syringe, but it's probably obvious. She can feel her face go pale as easily as she can feel her stomach lurch.

Matt shakes his head, fully disappointed and not amused in the slightest. The corner of his lip doesn't raise at all. "Sit the hell down and let me take a look at your arm."

"I'm fine." She tries not to gag. "I hurt my arm all the time."

"And then you inject yourself with dubious brown chemicals?"

"I love dub—" She presses a fist to her mouth, but manages to keep it down. "I love dubious chemicals."

"If you throw up, I'll kill you."