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What’s real is this, this grime that covers her. It sneaks underneath her fingernails, infecting the crescents she carves into her palms. It soaks into her greasy hair, all through the strands that cling to her forehead against her will. No matter how many times she re-ties it, she can still feel the filth clouding her thoughts. It’s tangled into her leg hairs, a dirt wall between her skin and clothes. It has entered her every breath so frequently that she’s grown accustomed to the smell. She barely even notices it anymore, yet it’s all she can think of.
or,
Veronica comforts Betty after a vivid nightmare about TBK