Her fingers grip the glass until she's halfway worried it'll shatter around her hand. Forcing herself to let it go, she holds onto herself instead, arms crossed, palms pressing into her elbows. It's not the same, and it's exactly the same. It's a mistake, but it still happened, and it's still nauseating.

Joan's just like her.

"The first person I ever killed...like, real person, alive person." The difference matters to her, if not to nearly anyone else here. Beth stares at the dark liquid in her glass like it'll offer more explanation. "That was just what he did. He didn't need to be drunk. And I knew -" Her throat closes up, and she can't make it open again as long as what she's trying to say is I knew he'd do it to me, too, over and over and - She squeezes her eyes shut.