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I.
It's a little after three in the morning when she slips into the house. Her steps are just a little unsteady, the haze of alcohol and pills not quite worn off yet, and she hopes she can pass out in her bed before the misery of reality sets back in.
"You shouldn't be here."
She startles at the sound of her mother's voice, nearly losing her balance as she spins around and sees her mom sitting on the couch. The only light in the room comes from the windows, the weak yellow glow of streetlights casting sickly shadows across her mom's face.
"Yeah, well, seeing as how I'm the one paying most of the rent around here, I think I've got as much right as anyone else," Sam mumbles. Doubles at the shitty diner across town are just enough to cover their bills and leave her some left over to numb herself with whatever substances she can get her hands on. She might be a royal fuck-up who destroyed their family, but she can at least make sure that Tara doesn't have to worry about finding an eviction notice on the front door.
"It's not about the money and you know it." When Sam doesn't acknowledge her, her mother continues. "All you ever do is hurt everyone around you, and that's all you'll ever be good for. You really are your father's daughter."
It's not the first time her mom has said something like that to her, but it's still enough to make Sam draw in a sharp breath. She doesn't have the energy to fight, though, and she doesn't want to wake Tara up, so after a pause to collect herself she heads for her room.
"I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance. Maybe then we could have been happy."
And that stops Sam in her tracks. When they were younger she used to take Tara to the local nature center, and they would spend hours looking at the giant glass boxes with insects pinned inside. Beetles, moths, butterflies, tarantulas—all of them pierced and preserved for eager eyes to stare at. She feels like one of those bugs now, like her mother's words have stabbed through her and spread her out so that she can't curl inward to try to hide the dark truth at the heart of her.
Because if she's honest, the thought that maybe the world would be a better place without her in it is something that's haunted her for years now. If she didn't exist, then Tara would still have a dad. She would still have a mom who cares even a little rather than the bitter ghost they live with now. The worst things that have happened in Tara's life are because of her, and guilt rises hot and sour in her throat every time she thinks about that.
Sam leans heavily against the wall and turns to look at her mom, but all she sees is a stranger sitting there with dark eyes that are devoid of all warmth. Time slows to a crawl as she looks at those black-hole eyes, sucking all the light and love from the room. Because with Billy Loomis for a father and a mother capable of wishing for her own daughter's death, what chance does she have of ever being able to be greater than the sum of her parts?
"You'll hurt her if you stay here."
Sam shakes her head, trying to force the words from her ears. "I would never hurt Tara."
Her mother gives her a razor-blade smile. "But you already have. She cried herself to sleep waiting for you to come home tonight, did you know that? And it's only going to get worse."
The thought of Tara waiting up for her is almost enough to break Sam, but she clings to the one mantra that has kept her going since she was thirteen. "It will hurt her more if I leave."
"But at least she'll be alive."
The implications in the statement are like concrete ballast around Sam's waist, dragging her over the edge of the cliff at the thought of being responsible for Tara's death. Maybe she's been deluding herself this entire time, selfishly pretending that she could ever be someone good in Tara's life. Maybe she's really just been putting Tara in danger this entire time. Maybe—
"Okay."
The word comes out as a hoarse whisper, but Sam sees the glint of victory in her mother's eyes and knows that she heard her. She doesn't wait for her mother to respond, just turns and walks into her room and methodically packs a backpack for herself with some clothes and what little cash she has been able to save.
She walks to the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets, digging around until she can pull a mug from the very back. It's a little lopsided, the clay walls too thick and the rim a little lumpy, but none of that matters. The mug is perfect to her, and her heart aches as she turns it over in her hands and sees the words world's best big sister painted on the side in the messy scrawl of a seven-year-old Tara.
("I'm your only sister, dork."
"Yeah, but you're still the best.")
She hid it in the cabinet after their dad—Tara's dad—left, the guilt threatening to swallow her whole at being responsible for breaking apart their family, but it's still her most precious possession. She carefully wraps it up in one of her shirts and tucks it in the middle of her backpack to cushion it from any blows before turning and making her way down the hall to Tara's room.
She opens the door and just stands there for a minute. Tara is curled in the bed looking much younger than her thirteen years, her face pressed into the pillow and the blankets nearly kicked off the bed. She doesn't want to wake Tara on accident, but the decision is made for her when she sees a tiny frown steal across Tara's face as she shivers faintly.
Sam takes cautious, quiet steps until she's close enough to reach down and gently tug the blankets up and over Tara's shoulders. It's a bad idea, she knows it is, but she lowers herself until she's perched at the edge of the mattress. She brushes a few strands of hair out of Tara's face, only to freeze when Tara stirs.
"Sam?" She sounds like she's still half-asleep, but the hope and vulnerability in her voice are enough to make Sam feel like the worst person in the world.
"I'm here," she whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Tara's head. Her hair smells like grapefruit. It's an open secret that she steals Sam's shampoo and conditioner, the sort of thing that Sam pretends to be grumpy about while still being hopelessly and obviously endeared by her little sister wanting to be just like her.
If only she could be the sister that Tara deserves.
"Missed you," Tara mumbles, snuggling closer to Sam until her head is pillowed on Sam's legs. Sam bites her lip to keep from crying and gently combs through Tara's hair with her fingers. She tries to memorize what it's like to feel the warmth of Tara's face pressed against her, the exact sound of the sleepy contented noises she makes as Sam scratches careful nails against her scalp.
When she feels Tara's breathing drop back into the even cadence of sleep, she presses a final kiss to Tara's cheek and thinks I love you so much, and I'm so sorry for everything.
She closes the door to Tara's room behind her as she leaves, pausing next to the couch on her way to the front door. "If I ever hear so much as a whisper that you aren't taking care of her and loving her the ways she deserves..." She doesn't bother to look over at her mom, just lets the unspoken threat hang in the air for a second before walking out of the door and into the bleak grey light of a burgeoning dawn.
II.
As soon as she sees the name Wes Hicks on her phone screen, she knows something bad has happened. She made it nearly impossible for anyone to track her down—new phone, no social media, nothing that could link her to Woodsboro—so the only way that he would have found her is if his mom had helped. And given her history with Deputy Hicks, she doubts that the woman would have agreed to help find Sam unless the situation was dire.
Knowing that still does absolutely nothing to prepare her to hear that Tara has been stabbed. And when Wes says that it was someone in a Ghostface mask, the world goes white and over-bright around the edges.
Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault—
Tara is hurt because of her. Even leaving wasn't enough to keep Tara safe from her—from her fucked-up family history. She hears her mother's voice saying "You'll hurt her" and bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper. The quick flare of pain is a pinprick of light against the blinding sun of the fact that Tara was hurt and she couldn't stop it, and she swallows down the nausea threatening to overwhelm her.
When Richie says he'll come with her, she clings to him because he is the only person in her life who doesn't see her as a worthless failure. She might have only fallen into a relationship with him because she was lonely and he was there, but in this moment she is grateful to have at least one person that won't look at her like a killer when she goes back to Woodsboro. Nobody else knows the truth of her parentage, but she knows it's only a matter of time before it comes out, and everyone but Tara already either hates her or thinks she's the type of disaster to drag everyone down with her.
(Her mind helpfully reminds her that Tara might well hate her now too, and Sam tries not to think of the mug she keeps tucked safely in the back of her sock drawer in her dingy apartment.)
She breaks away from Richie's embrace and shoves all of the fear and guilt and shame deep down into her gut. She deserves Tara's hate, deserves everyone's hate, but that's not the point. Her feelings don't matter. All that she cares about now is seeing Tara and keeping her safe. She makes a silent promise to herself that she's going to protect Tara.
No matter what else happens, no matter what it takes, she's going to make sure that Tara makes it out of this alive.
III.
Sam goes back to her apartment in Modesto and packs everything up into a handful of boxes to bring back to Woodsboro. She doesn't let anyone come with her, despite Tara's protests. This is something she needs to do alone.
What she would never admit out loud is that part of her is ashamed for anyone to see the tiny, dirty building she's been living in. Even once she got clean and started doing better for herself, she still couldn't muster the energy to care about making somewhere feel like home. She bounced from one extended-stay motel to another before finally graduating to an actual apartment, but they were always just places to store her stuff and sleep at night. The walls remained perpetually bare save for the nicotine stains leaking through the haphazard paint job, and her cabinets were never more than half-filled with mismatched dishes she got for a nickel apiece at the thrift store.
It takes one trip to the thrift store donations door and a grand total of five boxes to leave her apartment as bare as the day she moved in (although still noticeably cleaner). She carries the boxes to her car, drops the apartment keys into the slot at the rental office, and pointedly avoids looking in the rearview mirror the entire way back to Woodsboro.
She doesn't bother unpacking her things in the house she and Tara are renting. They'll be headed to New York in a few short weeks, and it doesn't seem worth it. Tara shoots the boxes pointed looks every time she comes into Sam's room—they're a far cry from the closet and drawers in Tara's room that Sam had insisted on filling with Tara's belongings as soon as they moved in—but Sam pretends to be oblivious and Tara never says anything out loud.
As soon as they move into their apartment in New York, however, Tara seems to have had enough of the boxes.
"Come on," she says, dragging Sam up and off the floor in the living room. They don't own any furniture outside of beds yet, but lugging boxes up the stairs had left them both too sweaty and exhausted to care.
"Can't we do it later?" Sam whines. "It's not like this stuff is going anywhere. We're supposed to meet Chad and Mindy for dinner soon anyways."
"Okay, first of all, we're not supposed to meet them for like, another three hours. It's not even going to take half that long to unpack your stuff. And second, I don't want you living out of boxes anymore."
Sam shrugs. "It's not a big deal."
"It is to me." Tara pulls them to a halt and tugs Sam until they're facing each other. "This is your home too, okay?"
The thought of having a home after so many years prods at old scar tissue, and Sam swallows hard. "Fine. But I still want to have enough time to shower before dinner."
"Yeah, you do smell pretty rank," Tara tosses over her shoulder, laughing as she opens the door to Sam's room.
They each take a box, and Sam is hanging up clothes in the closet when she hears a muffled noise from Tara's direction.
"Tara? You okay?"
She steps out of the closet and freezes as she sees Tara kneeling next to a box and holding a familiar mug in her hands.
"You kept it."
Sam tenses. She doesn't know what to say, isn't sure how to interpret the odd tone of Tara's voice. She gives a slow nod and tries to brace herself for the possibility that maybe Tara wishes she hadn't kept it. "I did."
Tara is still staring down at the mug. She runs a finger along the words that Sam knows by heart, and even from across the room Sam can see the way that she's chewing at her lower lip.
She cautiously makes her way over to Tara, settling next to her on the floor. "I'm sorry, if that's weird. I just wanted—" She cuts herself off before she can finish that thought, changes tack instead. "I don't have to keep it, if you don't want me—"
The rest of the sentence dissolves into a quiet oof as Tara tackles her in a hug. Slim arms wrap around her and squeeze until Sam can barely breathe, but she hugs Tara back just as tightly.
"I thought you forgot about me."
The words are muffled against Sam's chest, but they break her heart nonetheless.
"Never," she swears. "I could never forget you. Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done, but I—I was a mess, and I was dragging you down with me. And if mom had been right—"
Tara pulls back a little. Her brow crinkles in confusion as she looks up at Sam. "If mom had been right about what?"
"That I..." Sam hesitates, the old lingering fear bubbling up that if she says it out loud it will make it true. That Tara will see her for the monster she really is.
But if anyone deserves her honesty, it's Tara, so she forces herself to continue.
"That I would hurt you. More than I already was. That I would turn out like him."
She can't bring herself to look at Tara as she says it. She's a coward and she knows it, but she doesn't think she would survive seeing the love in Tara's eyes turn to fear.
"Sam." When she doesn't respond, Tara tries again. "Sam, look at me."
A hand against her cheek gently forces Sam to look down and meet Tara's gaze.
"You will never hurt me, Sam. Not like that."
Sam shakes her head, blinking back tears. "But I already have. I left you, and then you were hurt because of me, and—"
"Hey. That was not your fault. You were a kid back then, and the things Richie and Amber did are on them, not you." Tara's eyes are soft as she looks up at Sam. "I trust you. Okay?"
It's an echo of the conversation they had in the hospital after Dewey was killed. Sam wishes she could trust herself the way that Tara seems to, but she pushes her fears to the back of her mind for the moment and just nods weakly. "Okay."
Tara pulls away a second later and Sam panics that maybe she's done something wrong, but then she sees Tara setting the mug prominently on the windowsill before turning and giving Sam a teasing smile.
"You might be my only sister, but I still think that you're the best."
It soothes a long-held hurt deep in Sam's chest, and she manages to mumble, "And you're still a dork," in return. If either of them hears the tremble in her voice, they don't comment on it, and they both go back to unpacking in comfortable silence.
Every few seconds, though, Sam's eyes dart over to the mug on the windowsill, and it feels like a piece of herself slots back into place.
IV.
It's funny, she thinks, how five years can simultaneously change nothing and everything.
She and Tara slip back into old patterns like no time has gone by. They tease each other for having shit taste in pizza toppings (basic pepperoni for Sam and what she thinks is an unhinged combo of banana peppers, pineapple, and bacon for Tara), they argue over what movie to watch even though they both know Sam will let Tara win nine times out of ten, and Sam regularly crushes Tara at various board games.
It's everything Sam never thought she would get to have again, and she tucks each and every moment inside of herself like it's something precious.
And yet.
There are so many other things that are different now, too.
Like how Tara's hair smells like tropical citrus while Sam's smells of eucalyptus, their shampoo bottles diligently separate in the shower.
Or how there's an edge to Tara's voice sometimes when she throws barbs at Sam, like she's daring Sam to fight back or leave or do anything other than stand there and let the words batter her.
It's like walking down a familiar staircase only to find that the last step has unexpectedly disappeared, her foot passing through thin air instead of meeting solid ground and leaving Sam flailing in an attempt to catch herself before someone ends up hurt.
Sometimes she looks at Tara and isn't sure if she's seeing the Tara of the present, the one who's tough and resilient and fiercely independent even as she slinks into Sam's bed in the middle of the night after a nightmare, or if she's seeing the version of her sister that's been living in her head ever since she left, a snapshot frozen in time. Every day, she feels like she's navigating murky waters made up of the years they spent apart, the ghosts of their past selves superimposed over the present.
It grates on Tara. She knows it does. She can read it in the way that Tara jerks away from her touch sometimes, how she wakes some nights to the sound of Tara's footsteps pausing outside her bedroom door before eventually continuing down the hall without coming in.
They've talked about it a few times, because Sam is determined not to let things fester in silence ever again. Tara says that she needs space to breathe and Sam says that she's just worried about something happening again, and the conversations usually end with an uneasy truce and both of them exhausted.
Sometimes she dreams of the two of them drowning in the middle of the ocean. She always tries to reach for Tara, tries to help keep her afloat, but she only drags her under the waves in the process. She is dead weight in spite of her good intentions, and she can't fault Tara for lashing out. They're both just trying to survive the best they can.
On nights when sleep is impossible, her mind drifts to the stories she used to read Tara when they were kids. Of little red riding hood and wolves, fairytales with clear lines in the sand between good guys and bad.
She thought back then that she would always be one of the good ones. She didn't want to be a princess, but there was never any doubt in her mind that she would be the one to fight against all the evils in the world if she needed to. She would be the one to protect those she cared about. To protect Tara.
(She remembers Tara crawling into her bed one night, five years old with wide, scared eyes.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
A sniffle. "I heard something in my closet. What if the monsters get me?"
"I'll keep you safe." A quiet kiss against the crown of Tara's head to seal the promise. "Anyone who tries to hurt you will have to go through me first.")
These days, she's not so sure what side of the line she truly belongs on. Broken promises to her sister, the twisted pleasure of hurting another person, Billy's eyes searching for hers in every reflection—those aren't the traits of a knight in shining armor. Maybe she's been a wolf this whole time, just pretending at being a good person until her true nature is revealed.
The faces of everyone she's known swim across her ceiling on those nights, accusatory glares wreathed in shadows.
She thinks of the bitterness in the eyes of the man she thought was her father as he stared at her and her mother and said, "I don't even know who you are anymore."
She thinks of being young and broken and desperate, of looking for anyone and anything that could make her forget who she was. Of rough hands on her body, pushing and pulling while she tried to swim back to consciousness through the haze of drugs clouding her mind, wondering all the while if it might be better if she just let it pull her under forever.
She thinks of her mother calling her her father's daughter, of the approval in Billy's eyes every time she's gripped the handle of the knife.
She thinks of Richie and how naïve she had been to let him get close to her. To let him get close to Tara. She worries that she'll make the same mistake again in the future.
But mostly, she thinks of Tara.
She sees the surprise on Tara's face when Sam first saw her in the hospital, how small her voice had been when she'd said, "You came."
She sees Tara's face streaked with tears, blood staining her clothes and biting her lip to try to pretend like she isn't in pain.
She hears the vitriol in Tara's voice telling her that she needs to let her go, that she doesn't want a life forever defined by violence and a family legacy that shouldn't be hers to bear.
She thinks of all of those things, and she wonders whether she will ever be able to make up for any of it.
V.
Tara's phone buzzes on the table between them. Tara picks it up, glances at the screen, then silences it and sets it back down.
"You can get that if you want," Sam says. "I'm practically falling asleep in my food anyways."
Tara stabs at a piece of broccoli with more force than is strictly necessary. "Nah, it's no one important."
Sam opens her mouth to say something else but is interrupted by Tara's phone going off again. She raises an eyebrow at her. "You sure about that?"
"Positive," Tara snaps, silencing the phone without even checking to see who's calling. She glares down at her plate and Sam holds back a sigh. There's only one person who could be calling that would be able to ruin Tara's mood that quickly.
"You know," she says quietly, "It's okay if you want to talk to mom."
Tara's head jerks up and Sam knows that she guessed correctly.
"I have nothing to say to her unless she's calling to apologize to you." There's a thread of steel in Tara's voice, and as sweet as her protectiveness is, it still makes Sam worry.
"I just don't want you to lose another person because of me. She's still your mom, and if you ever wanted to talk to her that would be totally okay. You don't have to cut her off on my behalf."
"Yeah, well, she seems to conveniently have forgotten that she's still your mom too," Tara retorts. "And besides, if we're being honest, I lost her a long time ago anyways. Hard to be a good mom when all you're interested in is the bottom of a bottle."
Sam tries to hide her flinch at the statement, but she knows she's failed when Tara immediately reaches for her hand.
"Her issues aren't your fault," she says firmly. "She could have made different choices, and you're not doing anyone any favors by taking responsibility for her being a shitty mom."
It's the most recent in a long string of instances where Sam feels like their roles have been reversed, that Tara has somehow become the older sister taking care of Sam rather than the other way around. She has the ability to talk about things and lay it all out in the open in a way that Sam has never quite mastered, and she's not afraid to confront things head-on.
There's an insightfulness in her responses that leaves Sam scrambling to keep up sometimes. So often Tara says things that Sam has longed to hear for too many years to count, but there's always a twinge of shame at putting that burden on Tara's shoulders. That shouldn't be something her baby sister has to do, and just like all the other times before this one Sam silently swears to do better, to do whatever she has to do to become the sister that Tara deserves.
She hums noncommittally in response to Tara, not wanting to re-open old wounds tonight. "All I'm saying is that if you ever do decide you want to talk to her, I would support you, you know?"
Tara rolls her eyes. "Of course I know that, dummy." She scoots her chair so that she can rest her head against Sam's shoulder. There are a few seconds of quiet, and then—
"You totally need to work on your martyr complex in therapy though."
Sam makes a strangled sound that she means to sound affronted, but it quickly dissolves into giggles as she feels Tara's shit-eating grin against her shoulder.
"Shut up," she mutters, shoving at Tara playfully. "At least I'm in therapy, unlike some people."
They're both still laughing when Quinn walks into the apartment. She pokes her head into the dining room, looks at the two of them, and mutters, "God, you guys are so weird," before heading for her room.
It sets off a fresh round of giggles for them both, and Sam thinks that maybe they really can figure this all out, shitty moms and all.
VI.
Things calm down and slowly return to normal—or what passes for normal, for them—after the showdown with the Baileys. Injuries heal, they move into a new apartment that takes up almost an entire floor in a narrow building (leading to Chad dubbing it the "Core Four Floor"), and everyone gets really great therapists.
It's easier, between her and Tara now. Sam still worries and oversteps in spite of her best efforts, but she's also trying to give Tara space to build a life that isn't so closely intertwined with hers. Every time she texts Tara and doesn't get a response within ten minutes her heart still climbs into her throat as she imagines all the things that could have gone wrong, but the fact that she paces their apartment rather than running across the city to find her sister is still progress. The sort of progress that gets her teased by Mindy for wearing their new rug out well before its anticipated lifespan, but still. She'll take it.
She both loves and hates seeing Tara grow and expand beyond the limits the violence they've lived through has placed on them. Loves it because how could she not? This is everything she wants for Tara—a chance to heal, to move forward and be happy. She missed five years of Tara's life because of her own poor choices, and she worries that she watches her now with almost too much intensity. It's just that she wants to remember every small step towards freedom from the weight of their shared trauma, wants to memorize the grin on Tara's face when she slaps a printout of her grades for the semester on the kitchen table and the paper shows straight As, wants to brand the shy smile Tara wears as Sam helps her get ready for a date with Chad across the insides of her eyelids so that she can replace all of her nightmares with the image of her sister's joy.
Anger still simmers just below the surface of Tara's skin, ready to explode outwards at a moment's notice, but she's also so, so much stronger than Sam was at eighteen. Fierce pride fills Sam as she watches Tara move through the world, sees how smart and kind and determined she is. She does her best to ignore the ache at the knowledge that she missed out on seeing Tara grow into this person and focuses instead on how grateful she is that her sister has been able to do better than her.
But even as she revels in seeing Tara without a cloud of fear hanging over her, it hurts her just as much. For every small moment that fills her with pride, her brain reminds her that Tara could have been living this life—could have been living a life even better than this one—long ago were it not for the darkness Sam inadvertently dragged her into.
The guilt only intensifies on the especially bad days when she sees Billy. It's less frequent now, but there are times when she meets his eyes in a puddle in the street, or in the reflection of a window as she walks past a shop. He always watches her with the same mocking smile, shaking his head as if to say, Are you really this naive?
Sometimes she dreams of the feeling of a knife in her hand, of the slick glide as she plunges it through flesh and bone. She smells the metallic tang in the air and breathes deep, filling her lungs until the world is cloaked in a red haze. It's the color of power. Of revenge, of a birthright she never asked for but has inherited nonetheless. And in those dreams...she feels free.
But the feeling always fades when she sees her hands stained in rust and crimson. She looks down and it's not Richie or Bailey or any other Ghostface—it's Tara on the other end of the knife, Tara staring up at her with wide eyes filled with trust and betrayal.
That's the worst part. Seeing how Tara still looks at her with the remnants of trust even after Sam has stabbed her. Like she can't conceive of a world in which Sam would hurt her without reason.
She wakes from those dreams with screams choking her throat. If she could just crawl into bed with Tara she knows it would help, knows that feeling the steady rise and fall of Tara's breathing would ease the panic from her body.
But no matter how much Tara trusts her, Sam can't trust herself. She hears Billy's voice chastising her for thinking she could ever deserve anything good, hears her mother saying You'll hurt her again, and so she always walks pointedly past Tara's door and curls into a ball on the couch instead. She refuses to do anything that might put Tara at risk, and even though the guilt of how she might hurt Tara in the future grows heavier with each passing day, she tells herself that she's doing her best.
Her best still can't guarantee that another psycho won't pick up the Ghostface mantle and come after them again, though, and Sam knows the odds aren't in their favor. If Sidney's life is anything to go by, they may never be truly safe again, and so Sam tries to remain vigilant for the slightest sign that things might be starting again.
Aside from a handful of relatively minor run-ins with people who still believe the conspiracies about Sam orchestrating all of the killings, things remain quiet for long enough that Sam wonders if maybe they might finally catch a break. Weeks turn into months, and Sam is on the verge of lowering her guard when it happens.
She's on her way to meet the others for dinner. One second she's weaving through Chelsea Market to get to the High Line, and the next she's frozen in place as she catches a glimpse of familiar black and white through the crowd.
He's standing halfway behind a rack of postcards a shop has on display, but there's no doubt in her mind that it's a Ghostface. There's a chance it's just someone wearing the costume as a joke or to fuck with tourists. It could all be a massive coincidence. But when his head swivels in her direction and locks onto her, she knows.
She has a knife in her pocket and another in her boot. There's probably even time to reach for the Taser in her bag. She could try to run, maybe use the crowd to her advantage, but instead she stops.
She sees him start to come towards her, that god-awful mask leering at her, but it's different than before. The same fear pounds through her, but there's also an unexpected acceptance. She's tired, worn past the point of threadbare, and she doesn't know if she's strong enough to protect Tara again. She almost couldn't the first two times, and now—now, she's so much less than she was.
She thinks of the five of them—her and Tara and Chad and Mindy and Danny—sitting in the apartment the night before, relaxed and safe and happy. She remembers the gentle warmth of Tara curled into her side as Mindy and Chad threw popcorn at the TV and each other, and how Danny had looked at her and Tara with so much fondness and love that she had to close her eyes for a minute to keep from crying.
She tries to imagine destroying the bits of joy they've been able to carve out for themselves again, thinks of blood staining the walls of the apartment, spreading across the floor in pools so wide and deep they're almost black. She hears panicked cries and screams for help and sees an image of Tara lying in her arms covered in blood, her eyes empty and sightless.
And she makes her decision.
She can't—won't—ruin this for them again. They will mourn her, and her death might destroy them in a different kind of way, but with her gone they might finally have a chance at true peace. They'll find a way to move forward eventually, even Tara, and Sam relaxes her hands at her sides.
She won't fight it. She stares at the approaching Ghostface for a moment before closing her eyes. She doesn't want him to be the last thing she sees. She thinks instead of Tara, of the life she'll be able to live when she isn't haunted by the ghosts of Sam's past. Chad and Mindy and Danny will take care of her. They'll keep her safe when Sam can't anymore, and maybe this will be what allows Tara to find a more permanent freedom than she could ever hope to attain while still linked with Sam.
"Sam!"
The panicked scream cuts through the fuzzy calm in her mind, and her eyes jerk open. She'd recognize Tara's voice anywhere. But if Tara is here then she's in danger, and her hand is pulling her knife from her pocket before she is even consciously aware of moving.
"Get the fuck away from her!"
She sees Chad tackle the Ghostface to the ground just before Tara reaches her, skidding into her with enough force that it almost sends them both flying. Sam catches them at the last second, automatically spinning to push Tara behind her.
"What the fuck, man?"
Her eyes land on a gangly teen rubbing his cheek, a bruise forming against pale skin and a Ghostface mask dangling from one hand.
"You better get the fuck out of here," Chad snaps, shoving the kid down the center path of the market.
"Jesus, bro, I just wanted an autograph," the kid mumbles, but he doesn't try to stick around, just heads in the opposite direction from them after a quick glance over at Sam.
Just a kid. Everything's fine. Everyone is okay. It wasn't real.
She tips sideways as the adrenaline leaves her all at once, and she's almost surprised to feel Tara's arms wrap around her to keep her upright.
"Sam—hey, Sam, it's okay, you're okay." Tara shuffles them so that they're leaning against a pillar, and Sam sags against it. "Chad!"
He's next to them a second later, moving so that Sam is sandwiched between him and Tara. She's dimly aware of the two of them exchanging a series of pointed looks before they guide her out of the market and back towards the subway.
Tara refuses to let go of her hand the entire way home, and she only drops it once they're safely inside the apartment and Sam mumbles something about needing to take a shower.
The solitude of the bathroom is jarring, and she misses the warmth of Tara's hand immediately. She turns the water on and cranks the dial hard to one side. It feels like shards of ice against her skin when she steps into it, but at least it's something to focus on other than the guilt threatening to swallow her whole.
She stands under the spray as long as she can handle it, scrubbing at her body in the vain hope that maybe she can rid herself of the shame that clings to her like a second skin. Her hand is shaking almost too violently to grasp the handle when she finally moves to shut the water off. It takes her a few tries before she's able to pick her towel up, and she roughly dries herself off before slipping into sweats and an oversized hoodie. She likes how she can almost disappear into the folds of the fabric. She's grateful to be alive, grateful that they're all still safe, but she's so tired of this.
She's not surprised to see Tara leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom looking a little too casual for it to be coincidence. Tara's eyes skim across her with thinly-veiled worry, and Sam feels a stab of guilt all over again at doing this to her.
She gives Tara's wrist a gentle squeeze as she passes her, and Tara seems to understand the unspoken invitation as she follows Sam into her room.
Sam slides underneath the comforter, curling on her side facing the door. She tenses when Tara climbs into the bed and positions herself between Sam and the door. It doesn't matter that she can hear Chad and Mindy and Danny in the living room, the quiet drone of the TV a reassuring hum. If something happens, she won't be able to protect Tara if Tara is closer to the door, and—
"Stop." Tara's voice is quiet, but she's watching Sam with serious eyes. "Let me protect you, for once."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"Sam, please." She can hear the strain in Tara's voice, tiny cracks splitting wider with each passing moment, and she hates herself for being the cause.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
She focuses on trying to relax her muscles as Tara settles against her. It takes her a few minutes to rein in the instinctive panic at Tara being in a more vulnerable position than her, but she eventually lets out a quiet exhale and sinks back against the mattress.
Tara is laying half on top of her, head pressed against Sam's chest and one hand curled around Sam's wrist with her thumb pressed against the spot where Sam knows her pulse is beating out a steady rhythm. It takes her a second to realize that Tara is breathing in sync with her heartbeat, and she raises her free arm to wrap around Tara's back.
"You didn't run." The words are whisper-quiet, aching with a sadness that Sam wishes she could fix. "You weren't fighting. You were just..."
"Waiting," Sam breathes out. Here, in the dark quiet just the two of them, she can't find it in herself to lie to Tara. It seems like she's destined to hurt Tara no matter what she does, so at least she can give her the truth.
Tara's hand tightens around her wrist, but she nods against Sam's chest.
"I know."
A breath.
"Sam, I—"
A muffled sob escapes her mouth, and Sam instantly shifts, sitting up a little so that she can pull Tara fully into her arms.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, repeating the words into the soft curtain of Tara's hair. It smells of bergamot and citrus these days, the same as Sam's, and she inhales until her lungs feel tight and over-full. Maybe if she holds Tara tightly enough, breathes deep enough, she can communicate without words how sorry she is for everything. How she would take Tara's fear and sadness and pain into herself if she could so that Tara can have the normal life she deserves.
"No," Tara says, shaking her head. Her tears have soaked through Sam's hoodie, and the fabric is rough against Sam's skin as Tara moves. "I don't need you to be sorry. I need—" She catches another sob in her chest before it can escape. She tilts her head up until she's able to look Sam in the eyes. "I need you here, Sam."
"I'm here." She knows it's not really what Tara means, but it's all she has to offer.
Tara shifts so that she can reach up, one fingertip tracing the scar beneath Sam's ear from where she hit her head after going over the railing with Richie. She's quiet for a moment, then says, "I know you are. But I was—I was so scared tonight, Sam. Seeing you just standing there. I can't do this without you."
"You can." The response comes out before she can think better of it. "You can, Tara, you—"
"I don't want to." Tara cuts her off mid-sentence, and Sam feels like she's in a free-fall when she looks at Tara's face and sees the unspoken words written there. Her chest tightens until she can't get a breath in, the room spinning around them as she closes her eyes and shakes her head.
"You—" She tries to speak but can't get enough air, and her fingers tighten convulsively in the sheets as she gasps for breath.
"Hey, Sam—Sam, look at me. Open your eyes, Sam." Tara's voice has an edge of fear that's enough to break through the rising panic, and Sam forces her eyes open. Tara moves so that one hand is pressed flat against Sam's chest as the other cradles her cheek. "Just breathe."
It takes a few minutes for Sam to get herself back under control, the wheezes slowly subsiding into rough breaths, and she wishes the mattress could swallow her up. This isn't how things should be. She's the older sister, and fresh shame grips her at how weak she's being.
"Don't do that." Tara's thumb brushes across Sam's cheek, the touch infinitely gentle. "Don't blame yourself for things that aren't your fault."
Sam bites back the But all of this is my fault that is her immediate, natural response. She stays quiet instead, waits to see what Tara will do or say next.
"I need you to promise me that you'll fight, Sam." Tara's eyes are bright with unshed tears as she speaks. "I know it's selfish, and that this has been harder on you than any of us, but—I need you to stay. I need you to stay here with me, alive. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but—"
"It doesn't make you a bad person," Sam says softly. And it's the truth. She would have to be a raging hypocrite to think any less of Tara for this.
"I know we can't control everything, but I need you to promise that you'll do everything you can to stay here," Tara says. "Even if you can't do that for yourself, I need you to do it for me."
And just like that, Tara seems to have found a way to the heart of the issue.
Sam is good at fighting for other people. Maybe even great at it. But she won't fight for herself. Not anymore.
It's something her therapist has been trying to get her to work on, but no matter how many times other people tell her that she's worth it, that she's good and important and deserving of happiness just as much as anyone else, she can't quite get it to sink in. The echoes of her mother's voice never fully leave her head, and seeing the people around her live with scars that are the direct result of their connection to her...how can she fight for herself when her life means that others may yet suffer more?
She'd convinced herself that everyone else—that Tara—would be okay without her. But here Tara is, staring up at her with tear-stained cheeks and wide eyes begging her to say yes to life. To say yes to continuing to struggle, to fighting to reclaim the joy and security and hope that has been ripped from their lives.
And she doesn't know if she would be able to say yes to all of that for herself, but for Tara—for Tara, she would drag herself through hell and out the other side. She will do anything possible for her little sister as long as there is breath in her body, and so there's really nothing for her to do but nod.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Tara is watching her with mingled hope and disbelief, like she's still surprised sometimes that all she has to do with Sam is ask.
"Okay." Sam blows out a rough breath. "I promise."
Tara throws herself at Sam in response, burying her face in the crook of Sam's neck. She mumbles thank-yous into Sam's skin, hands fisting in her shirt with an almost desperate fervor, and Sam grips Tara back just as tightly.
After a few minutes, she carefully eases them back so that they're lying on the bed again. Tara goes with her willingly, bringing one leg up so that she's wrapped around Sam like a koala.
"Love you," she murmurs, exhaustion clear in her voice, and Sam smiles faintly and drops a kiss against the top of her head.
"I love you too. Now go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
VII.
She starts sketching one day on a whim. It's a way to try to give her brain something to focus on when she's on the bus or subway other than constantly scanning for threats. In the beginning it's just doodles on the backs of receipts or loose pages from a newspaper someone left on a seat, absent-minded things that she doesn't have to glance at for more than a second at a time. Even that much feels dangerous, like she's giving the universe an opportunity to prove once again that it's only a matter of time before the worst happens.
But her therapist tells her that's normal, and that she needs to give her body a chance to learn that it doesn't always have to be braced for a blow. Every subway ride that doesn't end with bloodshed and death is a tiny counterweight to the rest of her life. And gradually, she finds herself willing to look down at what she's drawing for longer stretches of time. Ten seconds here, thirty there—it adds up over time, single snowflakes accumulating rather than an avalanche, but it still feels good.
She draws all sorts of things. The bugs she and Tara would look at when they would go to the nature center, wolves and fairytale creatures from their childhood, the stray cat that lives by the dumpsters outside their building that Tara has not-so-secretly adopted. She tries to sketch things that remind her of the good in the world, like she's trying to remind herself of all the little things worth staying alive for. She's made good on her promise to Tara to keep fighting, but she figures extra reminders of what she's fighting for can't hurt.
She doesn't tell anyone about the drawings. Most of the time she slips the scraps of paper into a trash can when she gets off the subway. It's not that she's embarrassed by them or actively trying to keep them a secret. It's just that she'd almost forgotten what it was like to have something for herself and no one else, and she kind of likes having a piece of herself that has absolutely no tie to anything related to who she is or where she comes from or the things she's seen and done.
One night she comes home to Tara folding laundry on the couch. They trade off who has to lug the hamper to the laundromat and back, and she frowns as she tries to remember if it was her turn or Tara's. She gives up after a second and sits down next to Tara to help, only to pause when Tara rummages in her pocket and pulls out a bit of paper. The ink is smudged from going through the wash, but the lines are still visible enough to make out the beetle Sam had drawn.
"Any idea where this came from?" Tara asks, and Sam shrugs a little awkwardly and doesn't say anything.
Tara raises an eyebrow at her, but there's a smile hinting at the corners of her mouth. "I know Danny can't draw for shit after I got stuck with him for Pictionary that one time, so unless you've got someone else sending you fucking amazing drawings that I would find in your laundry, I'm pretty sure you know exactly who drew this."
"'Fucking amazing' might be a stretch," Sam mumbles, and she's taken aback when Tara grabs her hand.
"Nope. You don't get to brush this off." She runs a finger over the wings of the beetle, and Sam has to admit that the shading from the cross-hatching does look pretty cool after going through the laundry. "This was always one of my favorites." Sam stares at her in confusion, and she adds, "When we went to the nature center, I mean."
"You remember that?" Sam asks softly.
Tara gives her a look that clearly says duh. "I didn't know you could draw," she says, not bothering to dignify Sam's question with a proper answer. "You've been holding out on me."
"I just do them on the subway sometimes," she says. "Helps to pass the time."
"Hmm." Tara glances up at Sam. "So I've been thinking of getting a tattoo."
Sam blinks at the abrupt change in topic. "Oh. That's cool? Do you know what you want to get?"
"I want you to draw me something," Tara says. Her nose wrinkles a little. "Maybe not a bug, though. They're cool, but I'm not sold on having one permanently on my body."
"What? There are way better artists out there—"
"—and none of them are you," Tara says smoothly. "I'm sure, Sam. There's nobody else I would want to draw this for me."
Sam hesitates, worrying her lip between her teeth at the request. She can see the familiar set of Tara's jaw that means she's not going to take no for an answer, and after a minute she sighs. "Fine. But you'd better swear you'll only get it if you actually like what I come up with."
"Deal." Tara grins at her, victorious, and Sam can only shake her head and laugh.
It takes her a few weeks to decide what to draw. She sketches so many possibilities that she loses count, crumpling up one after another when they don't feel quite right. She's on her way home from a double when an idea comes to her, and she spends the rest of the subway ride drawing furiously. By the time she walks into the apartment it's after midnight and she sees Tara and Chad asleep on the couch.
"Come on, time for bed," she murmurs, gently waking them and nudging them in the direction of their rooms. It takes her a while to fall asleep, still keyed up from finally having something to show Tara, but when she does, her sleep is blessedly free of nightmares for the first time in ages.
She walks into the kitchen the next morning and sets the piece of paper down on the table in front of Tara. "Here."
Tara picks it up and Sam turns to pour herself a cup of coffee, suddenly shy at the thought of Tara seeing what she's drawn. When she musters the courage to turn back around, she finds Tara holding the paper in her hands like it's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.
She steps behind Tara and looks down at the sketch. It still holds up in the light of day, and she runs her eyes over the lines of the bird depicted mid-flight, sprigs of honeysuckle and yarrow grasped in its feet.
"Larks are one of the only birds that can sing while they fly," Sam says quietly, tipping her head at the paper. "It's cheesy, but it reminded me of you. Of how you don't let anyone or anything set limits on how you move through the world. And the honeysuckle and yarrow are for happiness, undying love, and bravery."
Tara doesn't say anything at first. Sam shifts so that she can see her face and panic spikes in her when she sees the sheen of tears in Tara's eyes. "Hey, are you okay? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Tara sniffles. She doesn't even try to swipe at her tears as they begin to fall, just keeps staring at the drawing. "Nothing is wrong. I just—sometimes I get scared that nobody will ever see me. That I'm never going to be more than the things that have happened to me. But then you go and draw this and it's—" She carefully sets the paper down before abruptly spinning to bury her face in Sam's stomach, hugging her hard enough to hurt.
Sam cradles the back of her head and combs her fingers through her hair, holding her gently until Tara leans back.
"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you for seeing me."
Sam smoothes a loose piece of hair back from Tara's face and gives her a small smile. "What are big sisters for?" When she gets a watery chuckle in response, she asks, "So I take it this means you like it?"
"It's perfect." Tara turns back to look at the drawing and Sam leans down, wrapping her arms around Tara from behind. It's been a long time since she felt like she had more to offer the world than death and destruction, but this? It's undeniably good, pure and right in a way that rekindles something inside of her that she thought had been permanently extinguished.
She thinks that maybe this is what nobody ever says aloud: that you can never fully escape the things you've done in life. There is no easy victory in the aftermath of pain, no erasing years of trauma.
And yet.
And yet, even though there's no going back, maybe it's enough to remember the past without living inside of it. Maybe she doesn't have to drown beneath the weight of the things she can't change. Maybe she can carry the stories and memories with her, can learn from them without being trapped in their shadow.
She thinks of what she asked Sidney what feels like a lifetime ago now.
Will I be okay?
And she remembers Sidney's reply: Eventually.
Maybe she's still not totally there. Maybe she'll never know who she might have become in a different lifetime not saturated in violence, but that's okay. Because she has Tara, and she has Mindy and Chad and now Danny as well. She has mornings like this that she knows in her bones are worth fighting for, are worth staying alive for even on the worst days.
She hugs Tara against her and thinks, Yes.
She might not be okay yet, but for the first time in her life, she genuinely believes that she can get there one day.
Eventually.