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The wrecked ice cream truck lies crumpled at the bottom of the cliff like a dead animal, its bright paint smeared with sand and rust-colored streaks. One wheel still spins lazily, whining as the engine ticks and cools. The smell of burnt oil mixes with saltwater and something sour that had always clung to the truck—the cloying sweetness of melted syrup and sugar that now feels nauseating.
Boy stands right in front of it, hands braced on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. His burlap hood is askew, one side torn where it must have snagged on something during the chaos. His chest rises and falls sharply, lungs still burning from the fight, the shouting, the moment of blind panic when the truck tipped forward and gravity took it.
Girl is plopped down in the sand, breathing shakily. Her dress is streaked in dirt, rabbit mask slightly askew that she hasn’t fixed yet. Her hand still grips her knife tightly, knuckles white. There’s a scrape on her upper arm, trickling out a bit of blood.
Hood isn’t there anymore.
Once she got back onto her feet, pulled from the wreckage by Boy, she hurried off, thundering down the beach to be as far away as possible.
Now, she stands beside a chain link fence, just out of reach of the black waves. Her head is turned away from her friends, away from the truck, away from everything.
She is tense. Painfully so.
Every part of her is wound too tight, the muscles pulled so taut they might snap completely. She’s grinding her teeth, which only makes the headache she has worse.
And her skin—
Her skin feels wrong.
It’s stinging everywhere, like something crawling beneath it. Like ants running along every nerve until they’re all lit up like live wires. She drags her hands down her arms as if she can wipe the feeling away, but it only spreads. A prickling itch moves over her shoulders, down her neck, under the fabric of the sack that hides her face.
She draws a sharp breath through her teeth.
“Stop it,” she mutters to herself.
Her voice sounds hoarse and small against the endless noise of the ocean. It’s always quiet when she says those words. Maybe that’s why they never did anything to help her.
Still, she tries again and again because she never really does learn her lesson.
“Stop it, stop it—”
Her arms fold tightly across her stomach, nails digging into the fabric of her clothes, pricking the skin beneath. She wants to tear it off.
She’s furious.
Furious at the Sniffer. Furious at the memory of his voice, his wet breathing, the way he used to loom too close and sniff the air like some sick animal.
But she’s also furious at herself.
He’s gone. That grotesque shape he had when he came lurching toward her on those too-long legs, drooling and snuffling and calling for her in that damp, syrupy voice—it’s no longer moving, splattered on that forest road up above the cliff.
He’s dead.
So why does her body still feel like this?
Why does her skin still crawl like he’s right behind her?
Her shoulders jerk as another shiver runs through her.
“Get over it,” she hisses under her breath. “He’s dead. You ran him over. You won.”
But the words don’t work.
Her arms tighten around herself, squeezing harder and harder, as if she can press the feeling down into silence.
Her mind won’t stop forcing her back there. Back in that cleaning house and the cinema and the truck. All of them. They were all the same.
His fingers in her hair, stroking gently. His hot, rancid breath on her face as he tells her how mature and pretty she is for her age. His hands, holding her down, bruising pale flesh.
Sand shifts softly behind her.
She hates that she flinches.
“Hood?” Girl’s voice calls softly.
Hood doesn’t move. Pretends not to hear. Because she doesn’t want her near her.
But Girl’s presence brings forth a new torment that storms her mind, coalescing with the one created by the Sniffer. They swirl into one, a force so fierce it steals her breath and nearly brings her down to her knees. As if her head wasn’t loud enough already…
Girl comes a little closer, then stops. She leaves a few feet of space between them, making sure not to crowd. A deliberate distance.
“I’m fine,” Hood snaps, even though Girl hadn’t asked how she’s doing.
Girl hums. “Of course,” she says. “I still wanted to check on you, though. Just in case. I hope you don’t mind.”
Hood grunts in response. Her hands hug herself tighter. Trying to hold all these painful feelings inside of her.
Inside. Inside. She doesn’t want him inside—
Girl speaks up again, “I just thought you didn’t want to be alone. Not completely. But if you want me to go, I will.”
Hood lets out a shaky breath that turns into something dangerously close to a laugh. The sound is bitter, almost disbelieving.
Alone.
She should be alone.
She should be a thousand miles away from this girl.
The truth sits in her chest like a knife wedged between her ribs. But instead of pulling it out, she keeps shoving it deeper and deeper and deeper because even though it hurts, the messy flood that will pour forth if she removes it will be so much worse.
She killed her.
She remembers the moment too clearly: the knife, the field, the Well, the cold logic that had said it had to be done if they wanted the suffering of everyone else to end. She had been the one to press the blade to flesh, penetrating into the life of another. Crouched on top of her while several hands held her down, watching the light start to drain from those big fearful eyes along with the torrent of blood. She had walked away afterward with the taste of iron in her mouth and the certainty that she had crossed something that could never be undone. But at the same time, in a sickening way, she felt righteous, almost powerful. She was helping everyone with this decision. She was a good person!
And now—
Now the same girl stands quietly in the sand behind her like nothing ever happened.
Still gentle. Still soft.
Still kind.
It makes Hood’s stomach twist.
“You shouldn’t be comforting me,” Hood says suddenly, her voice cracking in the middle. “You don’t even know—”
She stops herself.
The words die halfway out of her throat.
She doesn’t know. Hood had realized that immediately when she saw Girl with Boy behind those metal bars. It should have been impossible, her standing there again, yet there she was. And she didn’t remember anything. Not the way they lured her into the barn by killing her beloved bunnies, not the way they tied her up and dragged her around like meat, not the way they held her down and slit her throat, not the way they dumped her body into the Well after her use was depleted. None of it.
Morbidly, Hood almost envies her. Oh how she wishes she could be so oblivious. Oh how she wishes she could forget everything, too.
But even if, somehow, her brain forgot, her body would always remember. The memory is a brand, and it’s in her skin, and it’s in her skin, and he’s in her skin.
Where sinew connects to muscle, and muscle connects to bone, and bone connects to tissue, and tissue connects to organ—he’s there. He’s carved out his name in every bridge and every anatomical system, until she feels less like herself and more like his, a body that functions for his pleasure and needs and nothing else.
When she moves, it moves with her, a subtle pressure that makes her limbs feel both impossibly heavy and impossibly light at the same time, like she’s tethered to him in a way she can’t name. Every touch of air on her arm, every scrape of fabric against her shoulder, carries the echo of him—his weight, his presence, the way he shifted and breathed in the same spaces she occupies. It’s not only memory; it’s almost physical, a kind of imprint pressed into her very flesh, wrapping her from the inside out so that even when she closes her eyes and turns away, she feels him there, mingling with the pulse of her own skin, inescapable and intimate, like a shadow she never invited but can’t push away.
Girl tilts her head slightly, the bunny mask catching the pale light. “Know what?”
Hood’s nails dig into her arms. “Nothing, nothing—” she spits out, but there’s a tremor in her voice. “Forget it. I’m fine. J-just—” She exhales a sharp breath and gives up.
Girl hums again. “Is it alright if I come closer?”
Hood’s shoulders twitch.
Her first instinct is to say no. To snap at her. To chase her off the same way she chases everyone off.
But the itching won’t stop.
And the tight, choking feeling in her chest is getting worse.
“…Do whatever,” Hood says finally, her voice dull.
Girl moves closer.
She doesn’t rush. Each step is slow, deliberate, the sand crunching faintly under her bare feet.
When she’s just a foot away, she stops again.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” she asks gently.
Hood almost laughs.
The idea of someone asking that is so strange it makes her throat tighten.
The Sniffer never asked.
Just as she hadn’t asked when she touched Girl that night at the Well.
With that thought, something sickly begins to bloom inside of her. A connection she hadn’t made until that very moment.
Her breathing stutters.
“Hood?” Girl says. She sounds worried.
Hood swallows hard. Her mouth is dry all of a sudden, and she feels like she might be sick. “…Wh-where?”
Girl gestures gently toward Hood’s arm. “Here. Your shoulder or your arm.”
Another pause.
The waves drag across the sand in front them. The motorboat creaks faintly. Across the bay, Boy looks over, notices what’s happening between them, and then deliberately turns away, pretending instead to be fascinated by the wrecked ice cream truck.
Hood stares at the place Girl pointed.
Her sleeve.
Her arm.
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere not too close.
Somewhere not too far down.
Her chest feels like it’s packed with broken glass. That horrible thought she had is starting to bud into a stinking corpse flower.
“…Okay,” she mutters finally.
The word comes out almost inaudible, and she half expects Girl not to hear her because nobody ever does.
But then, Girl inches forward. Slowly, carefully. And she extends a hand, slow enough for Hood to move away if she changes her mind, and sets it on Hood’s shoulder.
Not gripping.
Not restraining.
Just resting there.
Warm.
Hood sucks in a sharp breath.
The contact is so gentle it almost hurts.
Because Girl doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t treat her like someone who killed her.
She just stands there.
Steady.
Present.
“You did good back there,” Girl says softly after a moment.
Hood lets out a brittle laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You did,” Girl insists. Her voice is calm but firm. “We got away.”
“I drove a truck off of a cliff.”
“We still got away.”
But the Sniffer hadn’t been the only thing Hood was running from. She was also trying to get away from her. From her actions that have come back to life to haunt her.
Hood glances sideways, just enough to look at Girl out of the corner of her eye. Girl’s expression, although pale, is tender. The way it usually is. There’s not even a scar across her neck.
But Hood knows. She will always know.
The creeping roots of that horrid corpse flower finally crawl their way to her brain and wrap around it tightly, forcing her to confront it.
The pieces snap together: the Sniffer had taken liberties with her, the same way she had done with Girl without thinking.
She can see him again, that twisted man in his ice cream truck, grinning with a lopsided mouth too wide, smelling of rot and sugar, stepping into her personal space as if he owned it. The way he had leaned into her when she tried to shrink back, the way he had forced himself closer than she should have ever allowed anyone, the way his hands had lingered far too long and pressed far too deep.
And then, suddenly, it twists further. The image of herself at the Well flashes—how she had looked down at Girl, fragile and bound, how she had performed the sacrifice without hesitation, without thought, without care for the small, terrified body beneath her hands. The way she had killed her, pushed her into a fate that was cruel, because it was necessary—or so she had told herself. It had been a reflex, a grasping hunger to feel some kind of control or safety or something in a world that had taken everything else from her. She hadn’t even considered what Girl might have felt.
Her stomach tightens. Her skin prickles hotter than before. The line between predator and prey curls inside her. The Sniffer’s shadow stretches inside her own mind, and she sees herself reflected in his grotesque smile, in the cold deliberation of his touch. Every stolen moment of safety she had taken from Girl, every muffled scream she had ignored, every desperate struggle against rope she had quashed to achieve what she thought was survival—she sees it now in its raw, unfiltered mirror.
She had looked at Girl the same way he had looked at her: meat.
Maybe not in exactly the same light. He was a beast of desire, seeking pleasure. She was a wretch, desperately searching for safety through the flesh of another.
But even still, she had brushed off the terror, the gagged pleading, the smallness of a body begging to be spared. She had performed the act with precision, clinical and cold, and now that blood burns her from the inside.
A victim creating victims.
“No—” Hood gasps suddenly, startling Girl.
Girl frowns. “No?”
Hood yanks away sharply. “No, no, no— I— You shouldn’t—”
Her breathing starts to pick up. Her chest tightens, like her ribs are a vice around her lungs. It burns.
She drops to her knees. Her hands press into her eyes, like she’s trying to push back the thoughts assailing her mind, and she hits herself in the head over and over with the heel of her palm.
“Stop it, stop it—” she chokes. “I’m not— I’m not like him! I’m not!”
But still, a little voice in the back of her mind keeps hissing in disagreement.
How are you any different?
At least he let you live.
You killed her.
“I’m a good person,” she forces out. And she does believe that, at least in some way. Their actions, although bloody, were for the greater good of all of humanity.
So then why does she feel so terrible?
Girl kneels down. Hood can feel her hands hovering over her back, unsure if she should touch. “Hood?” she says. “Easy… Breathe. You’re starting to spiral.”
But Hood can’t breathe. She tries, she really does, she hates feeling like this, but it’s not enough. Every inhale strangles her, making her cough, and she begins to hyperventilate.
“Hood. Hey. What’s your favorite flower?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water.
Hood freezes.
Her next breath stutters in confusion.
“…Wh-what?”
The panic doesn’t vanish, but it falters—like a machine that suddenly jammed because someone threw a rock into the gears.
Girl’s voice stays gentle. “Your favorite flower,” she repeats. “What is it?”
Hood pulls her hands away from her face to gawk at Girl.
Girl is just looking right back at her, her expression loose and gentle, as if this is the most normal question in the world.
“What the hell are you— What does that—” She’s sputtering, trying to articulate her sheer befuddlement. “Why are you asking that right now?”
Girl tilts her head a little further. “I forgot,” she says simply.
Hood blinks under the sack. “You—” Her breath hitches again. “You forgot?”
Girl nods once. “Yeah.”
The answer is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it throws Hood completely off balance.
“You used to tell me all the time,” Girl continues softly. “But I can’t remember what you said.”
Hood just stares at her. Her chest is still an open furnace, breathing burning ash into her lungs, but it doesn’t feel as hot anymore.
“…You’re joking,” Hood mutters.
“I’m not,” Girl responds.
“Then you’re insane.”
Girl simply shrugs. “Maybe. So…what flower is it?”
Hood huffs a shaky breath through her runny nose. Her lungs pull in air a little deeper this time.
“…You should know this,” she says weakly.
“I know,” Girl replies. “But I don’t remember. Must have slipped my mind.” She tips her head with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”
Hood presses her palms briefly against her face through the sack. Her heart is still racing. But the sharp spiral of panic has loosened just enough for her brain to catch on something else.
“…Daisies,” she finally mumbles.
Girl leans slightly closer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Do you mind saying that again?”
Hood exhales. “Daisies,” she says again, a little louder.
Girl nods thoughtfully. “Daisies,” she repeats, like she’s filing the information away.
Hood’s breathing is still uneven, but the desperate edge is fading. The question lingers in her head now, distracting the frantic loop that had been running moments before.
“Why daisies?” Girl asks after a moment.
Hood almost scoffs. “Because they grow everywhere,” she mutters. “…Even in bad dirt.”
“Ohh, that’s a good reason,” Girl says. “And it fits you.”
“What do you mean?” Hood says.
“Well… You’re tough, just a daisy,” Girl tells her. “You’re able to survive in bad places and keep pushing forward. Even though you deserve to be in a meadow filled with warm sun, you make the most with what you have. I think that’s very brave.”
Hood almost whimpers, but she bites her wobbling bottom lip. “Wow,” she manages to say. “Th-thanks. I guess…”
Girl smiles. “Of course.”
For a few moments they just sit there in the wet sand. Hood settles herself into a more comfortable position as her breathing continues to steady. The panic has been nudged off its track, replaced by the simple, strange conversation Girl dragged her into.
Then, Hood asks, her voice rough from crying, “What’s your favorite flower, then?”
Girl considers the question.
“Probably poppies,” she answers. “I think they’ve very pretty. Oh, or white orchids! They’re pretty, too!”
Hood brings her knees up to her chest to hug them. She nods. “Yeah, they are.” She releases a shaking breath. “Thanks. I’m sorry…about all of that.”
“Don’t apologize,” Girl says. “Things are…scary right now. I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did. It’s okay.” She tilts her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Hood says immediately. “No. I just— No. But, umm…thanks for asking anyway.”
Girl doesn’t fight her. She just nods. “No problem. We can just sit here for a bit. Until you’re ready to get back up again.” She pauses. “Do you want a hug?”
The question hangs between them.
Hood’s first instinct is immediate and sharp.
No.
No, she doesn’t. No, she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t accept that. She shouldn’t let this girl—this girl she betrayed, this girl she cut open with her own hands—wrap her arms around her like everything is normal.
The guilt rises up like bile.
She can still feel the knife in her grip that night.
Still hear the awful sound Girl made when the blade went in.
Still remember the way they carried her body to the Well with her blood pouring out everywhere.
Hood’s fingers curl into fists.
“You shouldn’t—” she starts.
But the words fade before they finish.
Because something inside her chest is cracking open again.
The panic attack left her hollow and shaky. Her nerves feel like exposed wires. And underneath the guilt, underneath the sick feeling of being touched, underneath the horror of what she’s done, there is still that raw, aching need for comfort that never really went away. A child, grasping outward for just an inch of affection to soothe their worries.
She hates it.
She hates how badly she wants it.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” Girl adds. She’s perfectly patient, not rushing Hood, not taking the offer away.
“You don’t know what you’re offering,” Hood mutters.
Girl tilts her head slightly. “I’m offering a hug.”
The simplicity of the answer makes something painful twist in Hood’s chest.
“You shouldn’t,” Hood repeats weakly.
But the protest has lost its bite.
Girl studies her for a long moment through the blank bunny mask.
Then, very gently, she says, “You look like you need one.”
That does it.
The last of Hood’s resistance collapses under the weight of exhaustion and shame and fear.
Her shoulders sag.
“…Just—”
Her voice cracks.
“Just…be gentle. Please.”
Girl nods immediately. “I will. Always.”
She shifts closer until she can touch. When she wraps her arms around Hood, the hug is soft and loose—not tight, not trapping. Just enough to hold her.
For a second Hood goes completely rigid.
Her body locks like a startled animal’s.
She hasn’t been held like this in…she can’t even remember how long. She would always swat away affection, wriggle out of embraces, threaten to bite if anyone touched her.
The warmth is overwhelming.
Her hands hover awkwardly in the air like they don’t know where they belong.
Girl doesn’t rush her. She simply rests her cheek lightly against Hood’s shoulder and stays still.
The wind moves around them. The tide breathes in and out. Over by the truck, Boy is now poking at the gas cap like he’s thinking to siphon from the tank for the motorboat, giving them their space.
Slowly—very slowly—Hood’s arms begin to move.
At first, it’s barely anything.
One trembling hand touches the back of Girl’s dress.
Then the other.
And then, almost reluctantly, Hood lets her arms wrap around Girl in return.
The moment the hug becomes mutual, something inside Hood finally breaks.
Her shoulders shudder. A harsh, shaky breath escapes her.
“God,” she whispers hoarsely, a whimper breaking just at the edge of the word.
Her grip tightens suddenly, clutching the fabric of Girl’s dress like she’s afraid it might vanish if she loosens her hold.
“I shouldn’t—” Her voice crumbles apart. “Don’t let go.”
Girl’s hand moves slowly across Hood’s back in a small, steady motion. “I won’t. I promise.”
Every second of this comfort feels stolen, wrong, undeserved.
But she can’t make herself let go.
Not when the warmth feels like the first safe thing she’s touched in weeks.
“I’m here,” Girl says quietly.
Hood lets out a shaky laugh that turns halfway into something dangerously close to a sob. “You shouldn’t be…”
Girl tilts her head slightly against Hood’s shoulder. “Maybe,” she says. Her arms tighten just a little. “But I am. I’ve got you.”
The words are simple.
Honest.
And somehow, that makes them hurt even more.
Hood presses her forehead against the side of the bunny mask, shoulders trembling as she holds on.
She knows this moment shouldn’t exist.
She knows she doesn’t deserve it.
She knows that someday—when Girl remembers, when the truth finally comes out—this fragile little island of comfort will shatter into something awful.
But right now…
Right now, she’s too tired to push it away.
So Hood stays there in Girl’s arms, gripping her like a lifeline, the guilt still burning in her chest even as she finally lets herself accept the comfort she shouldn’t have.
And for a moment, they’re just girls again.