the mind is a wonderful place, but also the most terrifying thing. so easily acceptable to suggestions. to be manipulated. to be able to change. how many glasses of wine was it to forget your shamble of a marriage this time, karen wheeler ? a woman who had moved past so much trauma just to get more and more and more. dreams are not meant to be woken up in a deep sweat, yet there's an echoed scream. it sounds like a woman's from a long time ago, something only a sweet young blonde girl would remember as she watched her mothers' bones snap one by one and contort as she was lifted into the air. a choked scream, a car crash outside of the wheeler residence, and someone more recognizable to her screaming ' mom, help! '
the lights flash, hopefully to jerk karen 'awake', as outside she sees - if she was to look outside- a car flipped, her daughter's car - formerly her own mercury grand marquis colony park, with a shambled mess of a body in clothes that look shockingly like nancy's if she looked from far away. there's pounding on the front door, a blonde with glasses, one of the lenses' cracked, with blood dripping from his side as it appears he was hit by the car before it swerved and crashed in front of the home. he's banging on the front door. a distraction. " hello? help! anyone! " the teenager is wearing clothes that are a bit dated to be a hawkins student now. " ---- please, call the police! there's been an accident, " the boy’s clothes feel wrong the longer she looks at him. it's outdated. a pale yellow button-down tucked too neatly into high-waisted, pressed slacks that end just a little too short at the ankle. argyle socks. scuffed brown loafers like they’ve been worn down from pacing an attic with a radio attached to his hand as if it was glued to it. something he wouldn't let go. a thin cardigan hangs off his shoulders, the sleeves fraying at the cuffs, darkened with blood where his side is clutched tight. his hair is parted with care, combed flat and obedient, like someone once told him that being neat was the same thing as being safe- being normal. ( my name is henry creel, i am a normal boy. ) his glasses slide crooked on his nose, one lens spiderwebbed, cutting into his cheek when he moves.
he looks young. too young. maybe fourteen. fifteen at most. the kind of boy karen would have smiled at during a pta meeting and thought, someone should look out for him.. if she cared about the children in her life. his knuckles leave wet, red smears on the white door with every knock.
" please, " he says again, softer now. not frantic. disappointed. like he already knows how this ends. " my mother’s still out there. she can’t move. i tried to help her but i think i made it worse. "
the porch light flickers, there's a sound of maybe a heartbeat, or a old grandfather clock echoing in the world. if karen glanced at what she would have assumed was nancy and her car previously, she would find a fully different vehicle with a all too recognizable woman that henry is unaware that karen knows. a one VIRGINIA CREEL. " please, @4tr0phy, i don't know what to do ! "
@4tr0phy / sc.
