" MR.GOODWYNNNN....PLEASE HHHELP MEEE...MR.GOODWYNN MY FLESH THEY'RE SUCKIN' MY FLESH OFF! I MISS MY MOM N' POP, MR.GOODWYN....YOUUUU PRROMMISED !"
patrick hockstetter , once insipid to a man who roams with one too many questions . a boy who never had any of the answers for him , formerly useless to one’s intentions and , bizarrely , now among every single one of the man’s footsteps , stalking him like the very spirits outside of derry , but tormenting him like his very own soul does .
sunken eyes and torn flesh , how the image of maggots squirming in and out of eroding holes blankets his mind like a fishnet , deems him captured in the hold of something he should have never seen … now , simple things , like leaky faucets and dirty drains , with their water droplets , sinking voids of the unknown – obscure noises – they terrify him , for a setting he never wants to return to , yet can never escape , when vines of those ominous woods , moss burgeoning that sewer tunnel , patrick’s own intestines practically wind around his ankles and drag him back down to a level of hell .
he should be smarter than this , letting an open door invite a monster into what he currently calls home . yet , sleeplessness makes an innocent man foolish , therefore bound to fall into any opportunity of a trap . a gurgling bubble , spitting water , and then his voice . sam beckons and fails to leave before anything can go unheard . he stills against the familiarity of crying whines as his fingers grip around splintering wood . perhaps if a piece pokes him hard enough , he’ll wake up ? snap from a daunting delusion , but then again , delusions of his don’t exactly chirp from the depths of anywhere besides his own head . all he can do is stare , grow lost in a state of deranged wonder . and as blood bubbles up in the wake of every syllable , pooling and staining white porcelain , growing darker among every word , all he can do is think —- about the kid’s insides and the pulp that smeared every inch of his palms , that took days to scrub out from under his fingernails . and even then , the smallest spec of the boy never fails to leave him , persists , reminds him of what he’s done and what he needs to fix . or else , he might just be a dead man .
appearing drained of his veins and arteries , now pale as a ghost from head to toe , he actually wonders if that blood might not be patrick’s , but a threat to his own .
