Beach Day

36: The Un-Matt Plan

The clear course of action, then, is to follow the path of dead animals. It's clear. It's easy to follow. The green surrounds the black and gray. She wants to know where it leads.

If she focuses on this, on pushing through breaking twigs and bark without any lichen (without any rot), she doesn't feel the rest of it. That's good. That's the point. When Drake and Betty were having relationship troubles in the Love Shack at the edge of the lake after Drake's abysmal deal with Aconita, the fae Mistress of the Hunt, what did she do? She stayed outside. She built a bomb. She was the one who kept going. She can feel everything later. She doesn't need to feel it now. If she does, it will crush her— and then where will they be?

Another branch breaks off in her hand as she pushes past it. She can feel the belt digging into her hip. This is fine. She can hype herself up. At the very least, what lies at the end will be interesting. Isn't that enough? Isn't that more than enough for a stupid idiot teenage demigod who just made both a horrible decision and a great one? For someone who has dedicated herself to the cosmos, the vast, wide world, and the supernatural itself? To science and magic? Where would the scientific method be if there weren't a desire to know? Where would anyone be?

She takes another swig from the can. It's almost empty.

"Wait up," Drew says, somewhere along the path. Enough time has passed that she isn't sure how long they've been out there, but it can't have been more than ten minutes. "I have to tie my shoe."

She nods and pauses, knowing there's no way in hell that she would leave him behind. That doesn't mean she can't scout ahead, though, trying to see the world beyond as her heels sink deeper into the lifeless mud. This can't be good for the local ecosystem. (No, duh. It's dying.)

There's nothing much to say. She can't talk for forever, no matter how much she may try. Even when she was out in the woods with Betty, Drake, and Arnold (before Drake made that deal), there were periods of time where the four of them didn't talk. That wasn't a hard feat for Arnold, who is quiet as a matter of habit. She's sure it wasn't bad for Drake, who doesn't need to prattle on. To Tiff, it felt like dying; it felt like lying in stasis until a worthless resurrection in the form of handing out theories about her friends making out and then a dog opening its face.

Good for them. Good for them. If she's being honest, the nuances of Betty and Drake's relationship aren't really her business. Nothing is. She isn't sure why they kept her around before. Drake probably only called in February because there was nobody else available, since Denny was asleep and Robin and Lucky were out of town. She isn't sure why anyone keeps her around, though. Why is Drew in the woods with her? What's the point of letting other people help her when they're only going to see how horrible she is?

She can see it now. On the fifth of March, Drake and Betty will come back after their eighteen-years-in-one and everyone will agree: Tiff Sheridan isn't worth it. They all know. It's only a matter of time.

She yawns into a fist, trying to convince herself she only feels like this because she hasn't slept— and because she hasn't slept well in a while. If she hasn't slept well in years, then maybe this is just the way she actually is. All the insecurity, all the guilt, all the anger, all the things that are going to drive everyone away from her: this is who Tiff Sheridan really is. She's an asshole with an atomic pistol. She isn't anything worth worrying about. Why can't anyone else seem to see that?

Inherent disposability aside, she's sure all of this is fine. She's sure that all the people has met are only humoring her because they are good and that's what good people do. Them being good doesn't mean she isn't horrible. Good people support and care about bad people all the time. Doesn't Meemaw Hilda love her daughter? Ruth is one of the most horrible people Tiff knows—

That's a terrible thing to think about her mother. If there is an afterlife-type Hell, Tiff is going to it when she dies. She is the opposite of a saint. Why can't people see that? Why don't they get that she is an unlovable bombast and bombs are just a tool for destruction? If she is just like the devices she has made, then why can't they see that she's just as horrible? Just as unworthy of respect?

She was supposed to die all those times, she's sure of it. She was supposed to die in the woods when she was sixteen. Kroakulus's tongue around her throat; the Extradimensional Shadow Man's hands around her neck; she was supposed to fall out of the car while trying to stop it and stay there.

She takes another swig from the can. What an idiot.

They care about her, but they shouldn't. The universe gets it. Why doesn't everyone else?

"Alright." Drew pops up from the ground behind her. She can see it in her peripheral vision. "Let's keep going."

She starts walking again without saying anything. There isn't anything to say. If she opens her mouth, she fears what might come out. Worse than ranting and insults and bitter voice cracks, it might be nothing at all.

The can is empty. She can't drink anymore.

If she were a more carefree person, she would just toss it into a bush. She has to at least keep up the facade of goodness, though. Otherwise, what's the point of being around? If she can't even pretend?

Everybody knows that thinking about doing something bad, no matter how fleeting the thought itself is, makes you a bad person. At least, it makes Tiff worse. It reflects poorly on who and how she is and only exacerbates all those other flaws, right? She should just disappear into the woods again. She shouldn't come back this time.

She crushes the can into a small, jagged puck shape and shoves it down into her pocket. This won't come back to bite her later. She's sure of it.

They walk for a few minutes longer in the same direction as the area with the bone creature before Tiff hears a branch break somewhere behind them.

She knows what that means. They're getting close to whatever it's guarding, Good. If they can get past it, then they can probably get some information they'll desperately need on who the mystery lady is, on what caused the bone creature, and what they can do to help (or, if Matt is right, kill it).

Matt isn't right. She pauses for a second to rub her eye (oh, god, she forgot she was wearing contacts). She reminds herself: Matt is wrong. He's a so-called witch hunter that only works to exterminate the supernatural. He is wrong.

She has to wonder: is she any better than him?

She takes a step forward and hears another branch break. it isn't Drew. It isn't her.

Another branch breaks somewhere off behind them. Pissed as she is, she knows that the bone creature is catching up to them; she puts herself between the direction of the sound and Drew, draws the sword, and anticipates what she knows is coming. She watches, keeps her eyes on the bush, watches for the break as it pushes through. Without looking, she swings.