What’s the point in surviving the killer if he takes the very thing that made you feel alive?

Normally, Gale doesn’t get all sappy like that. She didn’t, back in New York. But she’s not there now. Neon lights and blinding smiles were replaced for a moment by the hollow, sad Woodsboro. The town itself wasn’t too bad. What happened in it, however, can’t be erased even by a shitty glass of whiskey.

Gale sits alone. No wonder—all of the tables and seats were devoid of laughter and manly jokes. Her head in her hand, and it must be her fifth drink. She lost count by the time she even walked in here, desperately, albeit futilely, trying to shut off her brain replaying the scene of Dewey’s dead body covered kindly by the police. Did it help? No. Whether she saw his grimace at the moment of his last breaths or not, her imagination created it with a cruel intensity. It’s not as if a woman of her status and posture wouldn’t find another admirer, or dozens of them. But even she, deep down, knows Dewey was the only one.

She barely moves when a new visitor steps inside. A silent side glance, which lingers for a few seconds before she returns to her miserable position with a sigh. It seems as if she was stuck here for eternity. When in reality, only yesterday is when she put on a brave face and still voice. Tomorrow is when she leaves back to the city that never sleeps.

She isn’t sure if she’s ready to be the Gale Weathers again. Now, she’s just some poor, scared little girl, and the worst part is that she can’t even force herself to hate it. In fact, she was almost completely dried out of her fierceness like a wet rag, and instead filled with sorrow. Grief. Longing. And loneliness.

“If you are here to soothe me with tales of dying like a hero, you can leave. I don’t need your pity,” she slurs, raising her unmistakably swaying hand to fake another sip. There is one thing that she hasn’t mentioned: comfort. And a real company. That, that’s what she needs, before and if she goes insane.