#BLADEDLEGACY

†   ╼     and i think that’s what a father is  /  — a blade that never stops cutting .    ind & sel :     katherine krueger    from wes craven’s   a nightmare on elm street    franchise .    reimagined & headcanon based .  exploring themes of:   loss of identity ,   the final girl is the killer ,    family legacies ,  the terrors of girlhood ,   childhood trauma and coming of age .   written by lenny .

                             ( google doc + pinterest + playlist )

      a bright light in a sea of darkness  ------   katherine descends upon this dream-like wasteland pristine ,   untouched  ;     ivory spilling over the stained flooring like milk ,      angelic gown nipping at the base of pale ankles ,    of wandering feet  ,     that continue to on their aimlessly against all discouragement these grim surroundings have to offer .     winged back hunched as she crouches down to touch the boiler ,   plastic halo hanging crookedly above a crown of dark hair that spills over boney shoulders ,     silver cross dangling between the jut of her collarbone ,   xylophone bones popping along the length of her spine as a hand settles flat atop lukewarm steel  ,     the boiler room eerily silent .

It’s a house he took out of her memory, not his. It’s cleaner, prettier, smells better. The prism of a child’s brain puts bright flowers around her home, hope for a future in the very ground it stands on. Now demolished, it lives in the dream as a reality, and the second step of the porch creaks just like so many years ago. It shrouds her in the spirit of the forlorn past, clinging to Kathy like an affectionate cat. Here, everything depends on her - whether the kettle will ever boil the water again, whether what little books Loretta brought home will ever be read. 

His gentlest smile, something he hasn’t practiced for decades, is for her, the extension of him. Easily bored and collectively shunned, he’d make up friends, walking through grass-covered wastelands, striking the long stems with a stick or his switchblade knife. The friends were convenient, and disappeared exactly when he no longer had time for them. But Kathy won’t disappear, even though she still feels like part of the very dreams he creates.

“When you really don’t wanna die, you find new powers inside yourself.”

Hell was full of dread and despair, but fear wasn’t what made Krueger come back. It was the pure rage, the spite and hate that rose whenever he saw some Johnny or Penny strolling through the Springwood park with a baby carriage, as though “Son Of A Hundred Maniacs” had never left their lips in a fit of childish cruelty.

Krueger takes Kathy’s hand, so gently one would never guess he’d grown up without his parents’ example, and encourages her to follow him into the kitchen, where a blue fridge still rattles on, saving the non-existent dairy from heat, and points out a drawing held on the fridge door by two magnets. On it there’s a family, drawn by a child’s awkward hand with cheap crayons: dad, mom, and daughter. The details are minimal, but they are unmistakably him, Loretta, and Kathy.

“Look. Remember this? I do.”

He’s hungry for the look on her face, her sorrow and maybe some love, staking them out like a predator in the shadows, but when he bares his teeth, you couldn’t possibly tell a smile apart from a snarl.

“This is what they took from us, Katherine.”

death doesn’t discriminate between sinners  &  saints ,     that’s what she’s always been told .      &   yet here he is  ,     unscattered  ,     hands caked in the blood of screaming innocence  ,     standing on two legs ,       flashing that smile sharp as razors that she’s sure  ,    were she to stumble ,    would slice straight through her .      had his crimes been so blasphemious neither hell nor heaven would have him ?     is he doomed to wander this limbo for all of eternity ,     or is this an open gate to the maw of hell in itself  ,     deprived of sanity  &  reason ?        it looks harmless enough .     welcoming even ,    reeling her in with familiar scents and sounds  ,    but she tried ,     if she really tried ,    she’s sure she could peel the wallpaper with her nails to find mold underneath .        she enters anyways  ,    tossing aside any regard :     a willing victim .

❛       nobody wants to die .         not really .   ❜

her mother didn’t  ------    she’s sure of it ,    though katherine dares not utter aloud those feastering thoughts .     loretta was a   lively woman ,   what little glimpses she remembers were full of color  ,    bright speckles in a sea of darkness  .    tenderness unlike no other  .  lacing ribbons like vines in brown curls ,     kissing bruises on blue knees .   she’d never been quite so gentle herself  ,    she could only   pretend -   play into expectations and social conventions  ,    going by unnoticed .  

      ❛    quit it ,     old man !    ❜      a whine ,   a plea .    harsh tugging at the hand that easily guides her through this open memoir .    a sudden fervor rises ,   cheeks burning   &    lashes low as she ducks behind a curtain of hair  ,    feeling like an open wound on display  /  dreading exposure .    katherine can no longer recognize the hands of the child who once traced over those lines ,   fingers just ghosts  ,    conditioned to roam along vaguely familiar roads ,     no real aim  ,    no real intent  :    lost in the breaches where memories should be .    but she recognizes the handwriting --- the signature .    ❛    this is ...     beyond embarassing ...    ❜    crippling embrassment pulsates through her  ----      she wishes a hole in the ground would open up    &      swallow her whole  .    nothing cuts as deep as vunerability .    

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