𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱.

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊  —  relentlessly condemned is the individual human being. the priest calls it a sinner in need of penance. the neighbor calls it a criminal in need of punishment. the psychologist calls it a disease in need of a cure. yet the damned thing will not heed its place.

independent & selective. strong content warnings apply: graphic descriptions, body horror, violence, gore, & substance abuse. 

                          [ 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔡 ] — [ 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 ] — [ 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔰 ] — [ 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔯 ]

𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑: cold case foundation / come back alive / euvsdisinfo database / nexta / just transition alliance / thousand currents / polaris project / writegirl / girls who code / built by girls /  music together / ascap music outreach

      𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 of a century storm brewing. the coming year’s wrath, it’s sworn revenge upon the dastardly humans that dared celebrate its brother’s waning days. an icy armageddon that would bury the region in an average american man’s height in snow. winds expected to reduce visibility to the tip of your nose, a nose that would turn black as pitch if you dared stick it outside.

woe are the tourists who doled out an unholy chunk of change to spend the summit of the season in the robust of beauty of the sierra nevada only for their resorts to be converted into luxury bunkers.

christmas itself had been calm. whimsical flurries danced outside delicately frosted panes. a roaring fire that the solo mansion didn’t really need with its utopian hvac. but the allure of an orange glow while colleagues-turned-clan exchanged gifts and sipped from hand thrown mugs ( brimming brand of hot chocolate with way too many vowels in its name ) was magical contrast to the glittering blue outside. it felt like the nutcracker come to life with expensive tinsel and an enormous tree covered in antique ornaments. a spellbinding experience that lasted until dawn the next day when the ranch’s resident terminator began doomsday prepping with insulated tarps.

skywalker ranch already announced their closure for new year’s months in advance. to provide some much needed r&r for the ranch’s relentless rescue rangers and the staff that kept the prehistorics in check while they were on the road. instead, the website directed visitors to a variety of alternatives. many of which were now being preemptively canceled.

well, the more humble shows at least. those that drew in the big crowds were crossing their fingers, toes, ts, and profit margins that the storm fucked off enough for them to bribe some wallets with a fiery lights and overpriced swiss miss.

to be fair to them, eddie was counting on it too. that awkward stretch between christmas and new year’s eve was an physiological roller coaster. he took advantage of being the voluntold errand boy to snag essentials off his own list while he checked the weather app downloaded just for this occasion like an addict on ebay.

each day the heavens were looking a little less heavenly. winter greys brooded themselves into ornerier shades. eddie himself was starting to err on the side of rethinking his scheme to spend the last and first moments of the year with a certain someone special.

then the 31st finally arrived, and oh how she sparkled. how she shined. as if she hadn’t kept an entire populace hostage for a whole week. eddie gave it till noon for the weather to rear its fickle head. alas, the very mountains that often amplified the climate’s mood worked in his favor. overnight, the peaks took the brunt of the oncoming vortex, shattering the storm into a wind and light snowfall that gone by first light.

with mother nature’s apparent blessing, there was only one challenge left: actually asking chrissy if she’d spend new year’s eve with him. the most important factor of this grand plan which he'd put off until now. he told himself it was because things might need changing and he didn’t want to bother her with something unsalvageable. in reality . . . reality turned eddie’s thoughts to static. it’s not like he was asking her on a date, not really. they were friends, there was no reason for his heart to be going faster than dio’s after being startled by his own shadow. it was an invitation to a friendly hang out. that was all. they wouldn’t even be alone alone.

and yet the idea of her saying yes was equally if not far more terrifying than a no. because then he’d have to make sure she was having fun and nothing fucked up – no matter how inevitable that last part was. that it was worth giving up all the better options she had to spend a last and first with him.

fuck. eddie winced at the minutes ticking by. he needed to ask her, now, before she made other plans.

                  . . . what if she already had other plans.

                                                                  fuck.

bobbing and weaving across the property, eddie dodged all other members of staff in case one of them needed a favor that required a four-wheel drive.

❝ heeey, chrissy — no, uh, so, chrissy, hmmm. g-good after-noon — good afternoon? jesus christ. ❞ eddie rounded the medical pens, expecting no one to be there. ❝ oh, hey, you. i thought the doc moved ya. ❞ he chirped at the juvenile trike staring at him with a beak-full of vitamin-enriched alfalfa.

the trike grunted as her human visitor leaned on the rails on her enclosure, extending a hand through the bars. she ambled over, her right forelimb encased in an excruciatingly pink cast covered in sharpie doodles and get-well-soons. still chewing, the trike bopped the offered limb with her beak, no doubt inspecting for a treat. with no intriguing scents, her interest dwindled.

❝ mind if i bounce some ideas off you? maybe give me some feedback? ❞ the trike responded by scrapping her beak on the floor, plucking bits of shorn grass. ❝ appreciate it. ❞

practice did not make perfect. in fact, it made worse. the more eddie tried to scrap together a simple request, the more warbling it became until it lost itself in a babbling meander of over-explanations and ums.

snapping his fingers, bouncing a fist off its twin’s palm, eroding a gully with his pacing. ❝ okay, wait, i got it! ❞

the bars clanged, startling the trike from her nap. she snorted in annoyance but promptly tilted her head, her interest re-stirred by the change in her visitor’s attitude. eddie cleared his throat, breathed in and, ❝ hey, chris — chrissy! hey, chrissy, i was wondering, uh, if you’d co-chaperon with me tonight. i wanted to take the lollipop guild to go see some fireworks since mother nature decided to cut us some slack. but i don’t think boba schwarzenegger trusts me to bring them back alive by myself. so, uh, yeah. ❞ damn. he thought he had more than that.

eddie deflated against the bars. ❝ a fossil for your thoughts? ❞

the trike offered him several sleepy blinks of advice before rolling over with a prolonged groan. ❝ yeah, that’s, uh, that’s what i thought. ❞

@greenscrunchy / continued from x

𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍, she was one -ward away from a legal name scold.

      at some point during this forage through the van, eddie hoped chrissy would have a vote of confidence for him somewhere. it’d be entirely misplaced if she did manage to conjure one out of inexistence, but maybe it would’ve slowed the heart drumming at lightspeed in his chest or shake off some of the doubt that he’d survive to see morning.

      they were wholly unprepared, both equally beyond their league. chrissy fled from the pistol as if it was a timebomb with only seconds left till detonation, and eddie himself was no better. placebo had him favoring a smaller gun while a rifle slept in a sarcophagus of foam and plastic an arm’s length away. eddie dreaded the feel of its cool weight again in his hands, yet somehow he convinced himself, for a very brief stint of audacity, that he could emulate the ranch’s resident terminator.

      god, he wished he knew how boba did it. never taste fear. able to manhandle chaos into submission. know every counter to any situation. be the grim reaper knocking at death’s door. actually protect people with a potent mixture of brute force and competency. but eddie was anything but. not some ‘80s action hero made real, no, he was the guy who could outrun a trike but nearly pissed himself first time at the shooting range.

      with his attention torn between his self-aggrandizing woe and the direction of the harrowing cry, eddie didn’t notice chrissy extracting herself from the van until it was too late to stop her. her dismount forced him to give ground and stand before with his jaw agape, the vapors of his breath a bold lie in the face how icy were his veins.

      ❝ chris — ❞ his voice got as far as her name before it stumbled into the back of his throat, shattering like glass across his tongue. fuck, he prayed chrissy was merciful enough to pretend that his stinging eyes and sniffling were a result of the cold and not the tar-pit of anxiety that was currently dragging him into the thick rubber soles of his boots.

      he breathed in, his adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in a storm, as eddie bought himself a second before attempting to speak again. this time he evaded her name. ❝ if– if that sos was real, then there’s people trapped in that hotel. if we both go, and something happens, who’s gonna tell the others that there’s families who need help? one of us has to stay. if i go, the worst thing that’ll happen is i get eaten by one or more godzillas. if you go, even if nothing happens, bob’ll go medieval on my ass. and i’ll be honest, i’d rather take my chances with the big fucking lizards. ❞

      the companion to that flickering ember of humor was more whimper than laugh. eddie retrieved the pistol chrissy had understandably discarded. he held it between them, licking his lips as he studied the dull glint of moonlight glancing off its alien body.

      less than a handful of days ago, the adrenaline screaming through this bloodstream was a joyful cry as he flew down glistening slopes on a snow tube with his friends. the happy shrieks as they collided together and ended up in a tangled heap of michelin man gloves and squeaky boots. eddie still tasted the rich hot chocolate from the resort’s lounge. with its coating of cinnamon and fluffy house-made marshmallows on his tongue. what he’d give to be back there by that enormous fire, exchanging mischievous glances and snorting cackles with colleagues-turned-family as the steaming mug painfully melted the frost from his fingers.

      ❝ if you stay, you might have to shoot something. ❞ thus far, eddie avoided looking at chrissy directly. but not now. not when he was speaking with enough clarity to cut through his own fog of tumult. ❝ if you come with, you will. ❞

      with as much ginger as he could muster, eddie offered her the butt of the pistol again, now a solid void of black cold eclipsing his pale hands. this should have been the end of the debate, no other arguments needed to be made, but the lucid nightmare from before decided then to seed itself once more into their psyche.

      its cry began as before: a bellow of a surreal note that swallowed the spear-shaped silhouettes of pines, as if the earth itself was opening up and crying out for its fickle denizens in anger and pain. but it changed, and so quickly that it took eddie a second to recognize the transformation. dark brows drew into a disturbed knot as instinct realized before conscious thought. what the young man thought was a change in a singular sound was a second.

      eddie felt dead on his feet when reality sharpened. he gasped, an insignificant sound that brushed his lower lip as a hellish pitch swarmed the first like lightning splitting thunder. the cacophony continued, the monotonous note violently squealing in bursts of scarlet panic. the echoes tore at the air in desperation so primeval eddie nearly grabbed chrissy and ran, forsaking the van as a useless hunk that could not protect either of them from whatever was making those sounds.

      and then it was over. the braying was cut short. silence turned to the forest. thick, oozing, twisting the sweet reminiscence on his tongue into a metallic tang. ed hadn't moved an inch, yet his lungs trembled, shaking loose knot of nerves lodged in his throat broke loose. with a gulp, it scraped down his to hit his stomach like a stone.

𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 whose stories long ago ended. scratched glass, groaning halls, creaking wood. pearly wainscoting aged to a dreary cream spackled with droplet stains of an eerily earthy colour. rooms once dressed in a modern fashion now blanched of its sparkling array. mirrors free of reflection, portraits leeched of life. vases once homages to the garden outside an urn for vestigial rot. its mothersoil beyond now twisted, overgrown. the old house was a whisper, sharing secrets that transpired between its peeling walls to the ear eager enough to hear. nowhere louder was its storytelling louder than in the attic.

      guarded by an elusive ladder, each rotten rung a threat. but soles that dared to test their weight were greeted by thick tiers of dust. chests of varnished oak sequestered memories of people since forgotten. photographs of flesh and blood with pink-cheeked faces now rendered brittle bone somewhere in the earth. the pinafores they wore adorned dress form sentinels watching from the corners of treasure stacks.

      creeping close to a century, the delights of the tomb rested among the motes and the tiny beasts that sheltered in the shade. a mystique violently interrupted as the hatchway was thrown open. fragile wood careened on its hinges, dramatically planting into the floor with the flare of a b-grade acteur. ❝ jesus ! ❞ came the startled cry from the wavy mop responsible after giving his own heart a running start.

      he appeared like a rabbit from a hat from a square of light. immediately, a balled fist went to his mouth. an ineffective shield against the ensuing coughing fit after the particle explosion unleashed by his own doing. wiry arms bulked up by a leather jacket hoisted the rest of him into the gloom. the young man skittered to his feet, inspecting the steepled room with flashing eyes as he continued to choke his lungs to freedom in a menagerie of raspy barks.

      velveteen irises gave off a preternatural shift as they roved every shadow, deep or shallow. nose buried under the collar of his shirt, the intruder dusted off a stack of letters held together by fraying twine. spotting the name of the addressed, he returned to the hatchway satisfied. his face slipped from its makeshift cover as he crouched on one knee near the top of the ladder.

      ❝ ready to earn that crypt-keeper badge, girl scout? ❞ eddie chimed as he extended his arms into the light towards the painfully tiny girl perched below.

"Never fear the golding of a sunset. It means more than just the closing of another day. But marks the brightness of a new dawn." — Oliver James

a turned back was small defense from the wave of honesty soaking the darkened bedroom. chrissy had balled herself around a swelling hurricane of inferiority masked by a now faded silhouette of tweety bird, its cheery yellow emblazoned across her nightshirt faded into black shadow. her formerly upward mood had faded with an equal ferocity earlier that afternoon. being hopeful, even happy, something like truly happy, around eddie had become nearly as easy as breathing. natural. but it was as easy and natural to watch her bright little world closing in around her after listening to a crazed and caustic telephone message from none other than laura cunningham.

if nothing else, laura was consistent. there wasn’t a word in the message chrissy hadn’t been pierced by a thousand time before. she knew the cadence of her mother’s derision almost better than the sound of her own private thoughts. but it wasn’t a mother’s ire that bounced around her mind at the speed of a rogue basketball, or even a mother’s doubt.

                        ❝  mine. i say so. ❞

after all his kindness that he’d brought to her doorstep, this is what she had to offer. doubt.

                        ❝ i’m not just saying that, eddie. you –  ❞  god, what was the point? what was the point of her, being such a bottomless pit on whom generosity was wasted because she couldn’t even grasp it long enough for a chance at absolution? honestly, she must not deserve a drop if she was as watertight as a sieve. 

                        ❝ you came all this way and i’m a mess. ❞  the vise of her jaw clapped shut as how she truly sounded dawned upon her. belated good sense whispered the danger of what eddie might think she meant, right after the words marched out of her mouth.  ❝ scratch that. having you here…. it’s more than anyone’s done before? i guess i feel awful for wanting you to stay but i really don’t want you to leave. ❞

all the sequestered pain she’d been carrying like buried shards of glass since eddie arrived flayed her insides on the way out, dragging stringy regrets and shriveled, acid-burnt hopes along with them. a piteous river of entrails with so many shameful secrets on display, knotted beyond any hope of detangling and none of her tossing and turning in the middle of the night would sort her out. 

in the midst of her disquiet, chrissy eased to her other side where the pillow wall waited. her stupidest idea possibly ever. just over the top she could see eddie’s head, but that was all. it was a protection and a taunt all at once. a joke she’d cracked at her own expense. her left hand lifted almost without her permission to skate the top of the farcical wall and tug it down, just a little, to pull eddie’s presence a tiny bit closer. maybe this way he could hear what she was really trying to say in between all her bouts of lunacy. 

                        ❝ do you know what left handed people are called?  ❞

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐄 with no intention of coming back. that’s how it felt listening to the violet-grey sadness that slowly flooded his insides with a dreaded sense of déjà vu. like listening to an old recording of his thoughts, spoken out loud in a crunchy, distorted voice. ideas eddie would’ve drowned in if wayne never took him in.

      calloused fingers curled into a loose fist. he had to, to keep from reaching over the barrier to hold her back from going any further. it wouldn’t be the first time the search for each other in the dark. someone’s fingers feeling for a brush with skin that bore similar scars from the same place. eddie wanted nothing more than to be that reassurance again, but he hesitated. scared that if he moved too fast, whatever ledge chrissy was hanging onto would crumble.

      and who could blame her? not like eddie read her autobiography, but her life wasn’t hard to see when she wasn’t surrounded by faces with herculean expectations. chrissy cunningham’s picture perfect life was the exact reason vecna targeted her. a like a picture, it was a two dimensional facade that didn’t hold up to scrutiny. eddie first noticed tiny holes in his own assumptions when the unorthodox pair sat across from each other at a rickety picnic table. then the road trip when they were both supposed to be healthy . . . -er. yet sitting next to her for hours on end, chatter away, his dark eyes reflectively slipping from the road to her under an array of lightning. living in a drifter’s version of domesticity as van hauled them ever closer to california. it was during those hours, destined to be carefree, that eddie learned laura cunningham had no right to be called a mom.

      ed didn’t want to answer. terrified of pushing her any further in a foreboding direction. seeing her eyes like the bottom of a well, unable to tell if it was the light or tears that made them shine. his mouth went cotton dry. ❝ a s-southpaw? ❞

      chris. the plea never cleared eddie’s throat, stuck like a rock in a hard place behind his tongue’s treacherous reply. it took several silent tries to dislodge it. when it did, her name scraped his throat like it grew claws. eddie felt like he was floating, even as the polyester sheets grazed his skin. he’d wanted the quiet to last longer, preferring it to hang over them like distended as he tried to figure out chrissy’s destination to prepare himself to deny their arrival.

      instead eddie cornered himself to think on the fly. panicking in the seconds between his and her response with race to dredge up every synonym and tidbit he knew about lefties. he knew some people had a religious hang-ups. and it wasn’t too long ago teachers were still allowed to crack the back of a kid’s hand with a ruler, encouraging them to switch. that’s what wayne said happened to his brother, and that al went home everyday with a teacher’s brand till the bastard finally dropped out of high school.

Saturday, October 31, 1987

Halloween today.

I actually woke up slowly. That’s kind of a feat, I think, since the bed’s cold. And it must be a little later because the sun is in my eyes again, but I’m not sure I mind, even if I did leave the blinds open overnight. 

chrissy blinked through the last dozy fog of her half-asleep thoughts, unorganized mumbles eventually fading in favor of whatever daring breakfast preparations distant dings of silverware and thunks of bowls seemed to hint at. with remarkable ease, she found herself relaxing into the soundtrack of existence in the tiny, two room apartment. 

There’s so much noise coming from the kitchen. Eddie must be up and letting his mad scientist side take over. Him and the TV aren’t exactly working together but something about it sounds nice. Homey. I love that. 

chrissy sighed toward the ceiling, but it was a whoosh of happy effort against a fluttering of autumn sunbeams. light funneled through her tiny bedroom window, its makeshift curtain rod festooned with a gamely attempt at bloody handprints on ripped white undershirts masquerading as curtains. honestly, it was a little silly; from across the room the handprints looked more like balding chrysanthemums, their optimistic magenta shade not quite so sanguine up close or far away. no passersby taking more than a split second to look at the boo-on-a-budget would catch a lasting fright. which, as far as chrissy was concerned, was perfectly acceptable.

the hiss of something hot swapping surfaces and the surge of a breaking news jingle on their pocket-square sized television brought the threads of her wakefulness together. mental diary abandoned, bare feet hit the chilly floor in determined finality. days began with or without her, no matter what season, so it was best to break out ahead before it got the best of her. or before eddie munson got the best of the galley. 

eddie’s would-be culinary exploits were often more mis than adventure despite all the attentive enthusiasm befitting a michelin star chef. sure, he was giving their now shared kitchen a run for its money in terms of resilience (and their budget, watched over faithfully by herself, a run for its money in terms of cleaning product costs). yet the strawberry blonde couldn’t find much will to play stingy with her space when her effusive metalhead derived such joy from a task so mundane. 

yes, it was going to be a good day when the tricks befitting a halloween weekend were far more frightful than the thought of breakfast treats. that was to say, not at all. 

chrissy really hadn’t expected such a bold greeting to slip from her mouth on the tail end of a yawn. a year ago, she might not even have been capable. but away the pet name flew and her excitement with it, making a mad dash for the spark in eddie’s eyes. embarrassment folded under contentment at the vision of a cloud of frizzy brown hair leaning over the counter, snapping his jaws like a creature of the night. nothing had ever been sweeter. in the spirit of impulsivity chrissy pranced across their sliver of living room and past the counter to wind tight arms around his middle. ❝ g'morning. ❞  the air seemed to soften around them even further, melting all the essence of living down to the warmth she clung to. eddie’s shirt was soft when she pressed her forehead into it — soft and warm and smelling like pancakes. like home.

                        ❝ let’s see. ❞  hope rose with her spirits and she burrowed her way under his arm to peek at the masterpiece beyond. comfy as eddie was, his torso was in the way.

                         ❝ aww, he’s got big teeth! and a stem! i love him. thank you…. ❞  an arm snuck forward to snag three grapes, all of which chrissy popped into her mouth at once. she allowed herself the time it took to finish chewing slowly before letting the resident artist go with a squeeze in favor of admiring his presentation.  ❝ the pumpkin was a good idea, too - i can smell it. did you make yourself one or are you going to help me with this one? ❞

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 in any centerfold that enraptured every facet of eddie’s being like a candid chrissy could. she was as happy as a bunny in the sun, and if it wasn’t for the counter to hold him steady, eddie would be a puddle gathering in his sneakers. speaking of rabbits, that famed muscle in his chest started to thump around like one as chrissy tunneled under his arm, investigating her franken pancake like a kitten. a gesture so endearing, thoughts organized in a linear train suddenly sprung a dozen different directions. bouncing around the inside of his skull like the tazmanian devils, eddie struggled to reel them back. too lost he was in the watercolor reality.

      this was not how he pictured his first full year free of high school’s brain draining clutches. freshman year, the future started developing blur on its edges. spreading like weeds, it fogged the whole picture till colorful maybes were clusters of fuzzy ovals. his daydreaming tiptoed around what life would look like once that diploma was his, fair and square. instead it strolled through cruel twists and turns, plotting themselves into the next club meet. what speculations eddie stepped in when he wasn’t careful were painfully cut and dry. a full-time mechanic, if he was lucky. a girlfriend at some point, if he was luckier. or maybe he’d drift through life, let his time tick away to the beat of a graveyard shift.

      like wayne.

      gloom surrounding his uncle’s way of life gutted the younger munson. he felt guilty, allowing such a sad impression of his uncle percolate on the flipside of a humble hero’s portrait, but it was impossible not to sink in a stagnant well of trepidation whenever he found wayne collapsed from exhaustion, a plate of leftovers fresh from the fridge already forgotten on the table. eddie loved his uncle, in a capacity the english language failed to ascribe. still, he didn’t want his story to be an adaptation of either of his paternal figures’.

      growing up for eddie was the reverse of what it meant to his peers. for the average kid, rising up the ranks meant more freedoms, more potential to be unlocked. for ed, it was an hourglass falling to the floor in slow-mo. all the time in the world was running out. soon he’d be stuck. stuck where, though, he’d been terrified to find out.

      but eddie made a choice. a really fucking crazy one at that. as the anniversary of vecna’s wrath approached, eddie felt an itch. a persistent gnawing on the crown of his spine that chewed its way up the brainstem before burrowing into a foxhole at the back of his skull. shifts at the plant dragged on longer than usual. he even got sloppy at practice, fumbling with a string of notes before falling into a catatonic rift mid-melody.

      anxiety helped itself to a week before eddie surrendered enough courage to admit what was wrong. he needed chrissy. and saying that made eddie feel just as rotten as the agitation eating him from the innards out. as if he expected her to be the solution to his nightmares when she endured so much worse. what really got him, what really kept his eyes staring holes through the window at the shivering shades of night was the fear that maybe chrissy needed him too.

      six months later, there was a damn munson in california. living in a cosy apartment, celebrating halloween with a girl who reminded him every night that she fit perfectly in his arms. a sunny day in the upside down was more believable than the dream he was living.

      all dreams, however, came with their caveats. eddie’s was his archrivalry with the stove.

      ❝ shit. ❞ velvet eyes boggled as the young man was made jarringly aware of an acrid tickle under his nose. even panicked, eddie was prudent when he extracted himself from chrissy’s arms before hobbling backwards to the smoldering pan. ❝ jesus christ! ❞ he yelped as the spatula flew from his hands. precious seconds were splattered on the counter as eddie fumbled with the rescue utensil.

      the pancake hit the plate with a dense fwap. by some spooky miracle, the smoke was worse than its suggestion. only the center of the flat amber cake suffered. a crispy blackened heart easily disguised up by a generous slather of agave ( ah-gayv? aga-vee? aga-veh? ) syrup from the mexican mom-and-pop just down the street. eddie would know. the syrup’s earthy sweetness salvaged his earlier attempts that his poverty-raised stomach refused to waste.

i need to atone for my recent history . — @antithesederzeit / holy war

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀 to produce an asshole gaping enough to rattle the harrington regime. it’d been one hell of a shake-up, the white collar king deposed by a blue collar hellion. it was enough to put the fear in much of the high school’s populace, but from eddie’s vantage point billy hargrove’s true nature couldn’t be more obvious. birds of a feather don’t always flock together, but they sure as hell recognize their kin. and eddie munson could see it, clear as day, all the way down in the seedy mud of his social trenches.

      hargrove would’ve loved to convince the hawkins-bred that he was a power fantasy adonis. the rightful heir to every chick. while that facade meant something to some, it read pitiful chest thumping to eddie. nothing without sad, self-loathing purpose in every blowhard, big bad wolfism. he was overcompensating himself into a monster, to protect himself from what lurked at home. which is why little billy beseeching with curved humility between his legs tickled eddie’s family history.

      a wily smile chided his he-manic counterpart for his inability to tell the difference between himself and one wild, little sister. maybe hargrove witnessing their respective middle fingers more than their actual faces was to blame for the mistake in identity.

      passively perched on the patchy red paint on the curb, eddie rapped his fingers in succession against a half-hollowed coke can. the sweet brown sucrose inside sloshed, stickily harmonizing with the metallic echo.

                           ❝ please let someone be here, plea —  ❞  and as if loftily answering a prayer, the door flew open from the inside. 

but who waited beyond the knob wasn’t any kind of anticipated, if unimaginable, underworld monstrosity. nor was it a badge-toting figurehead of hawkins safety and security. it was a ghoul with the face of a terrified and bloody eddie munson, clutching a makeshift spear in one hand and the doorknob in the other. truly, he looked so shocked that for a moment chrissy almost believed he was real. 

the once-cheerleader automatically let out a strangled bleat in fright, but all the air was stolen from the sound halfway through. her shock stumbled down a cliff of surprise rolling all the way down into a pit of…..sadness. this vision of eddie looked so like the world they were in —  grungy, dusty, slathered in rot. so thoroughly mangled that there was no chance he could be alive. he could be nothing other than the manifestation of this place’s manic feeding frenzy on souls and bodies alike. ….which implied he’d entered their now shared purgatory while still alive only to fall and be consumed by the acidic hatred that had conjured this place however long ago. 

oh. 

here stood her confirmation that this barren slice of the universe was not a second chance at whatever passed as living here in this poor excuse for “hawkins", inverted. genuine existence was only mimicked. she was dead. and so was he. like a gunshot, chrissy’s chest was riven by the sensation of missing him. could you miss someone you barely knew? someone who wasn’t there? 

yet — almost-eddie said her name. as if her appearance was the least likely sight in hell he could muster up. she didn’t blame this shade his stupefaction, at least not for too long. this mutated world of darkness trapping them could very well birth all manner of hallucinations, could be dangling false hope in front of her at any moment. manufactured, cruel fictions to match the cruel imitation of life chrissy had lived thus far and a crueler imprint of the town she’d called home.

what was left of her heart sank quickly to the ichor-slicked soles of her sneakers. he sounded so much like eddie, this ghost. or…..she thought. guilt assuaged slumping shoulders as she realized how little she really knew of this young man from whom humble hawkins seemed to expect the worst. and he’d been so kind to her up until the moment her memories stopped. [ did you find it? eddie? ] generous with his time and his humour [ you’re not what i thought you’d be like ], clever with his attempts at making her smile. [ how could i forget?! ] a mere few hours after meeting him (again) was enough time gone to know he’d not lay a harming finger on her if he drove her home. ready to help her despite his confusion. 

oh, living and breathing chrissy, so starved of understanding had she been that the moment eddie munson stared through her like glass, she felt secure for the first time in… no. that was a pointless enumeration. she’d be ashamed of herself if she went any further. 

                          ❝ eddie? ❞  even to her own ears she sounded devastated. wrecked. what misfortune had laced the atoms of his essence together into so ripped and chewed a shadow of sentience? nothing that could comfort her in the presence of his ghost, certainly.  ❝ what happened to you? you’re…. a mess.  ❞

chapped lips closed, then opened, then closed again, rendered suddenly unable to string any kind of sufficient thought into speech. all she could feel was sorry. everything she knew was sorry. sorry to see him in such a place, sorry to be haunting the haunted, sorry to have possibly done anything that could drag him into this tartarus pit, this realm of refuse. he’d paid dearly for every act of heroism, judging by the looks of things. a shining, blood-soaked knight in shredded ribbons, complete with a sword.

either all her tears had evaporated or weariness sapped every reaction in extreme from her system. a limp swallow clenched her throat shut long enough to pause all thought of caution and chrissy stepped forward. her bruised arms lifted, powered by winces of pain, to wrap gingerly around this not-quite-eddie’s torso. no breath to reconsider, just the driving force of mourning a life half lived and a thousand chances missed. in cheer, missing by inches brought injurious disaster. what brought them here was miles.

                         ❝ it’s alright if you’re not real, ❞  chrissy mumbled into ruined fabric, utterly depressed. anything above a whisper scraped murder across her vocal cords. her fingers dug into a bony back until spinal ridging uncomfortably collided with the juts of her knuckles. the skeletal pattern was grounding. so frustrating in its physicality. he still faintly smelled like leather and hawkins humidity. you didn’t deserve this. you didn’t deserve anything you were getting. i’m sorry i thought so badly of you. if i could go back i’d make up my own mind about you and never listen to anyone tell me what to believe again. how tantalizing a thought, to admit as much to the real eddie. but his ghost was no replacement. admission to a phantom was like begging a stone for help. like pounding on the door of an abandoned police station that might never have held any remote promise of safety. absolute miserable insanity. still, there was a small childish comfort in embracing a figure that could only be meant to fade from her gaze the moment she gripped it too fiercely in a bid to regain her balance.  ❝ i’m just glad to see you. ❞

so chrissy let go.  easier, when the battle was already lost. 

                        ❝ this place is…..is twisted. i don’t know why it made you look like this. it’s messing with my head, eddie. but i can’t be losing my mind anymore if i’m dead, can i? ❞

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃, was what eddie would’ve said if his brain hadn’t flatlined. jaw rusted ajar by shock, his vengeance upended into an anemic stare. questions that were more sensation than language stacked themselves on his teeth, his tongue, leeching the dusty moisture from the back of his throat. his head wasn’t completely empty. there was something resembling a thought for a brief, crudely puerile moment when eddie’s suede eyes widened because chrissy cunningham remembered him. even in his state of oozing wounds, matted hair, and a complexion not unlike an autopsy.

      eddie was still playing catch up when chrissy’s arms interlocked around his torso. an instinctive arm swam around her, shocked by how close to nothing she felt against him. his protection amended itself into a firmer circle as her lament tumbled like tears down the chewed remains of his shirt.

      you’re not dead, his thawing tongue willed itself to say, not yet. as if on cue, an alien wail shattered the unnatural peace. pale surprise overshadowed by a sudden sharpness of narrowed eyes and iron-soaked resolve. the hard line of his lips bent at a grim angle at the shadows in the encroaching mist.

      an encouraging pat warned the girl of his intentions. ❝ come on, let’s get you inside. ❞ shuffling awkwardly, eddie eased chrissy into the station, gingerly rotating their position so that if any spawn of the upside down chose that moment to strike, it’d be forced to go through ed before it ever got a chance to even look at her.

      the door closed behind them with a bloated thunk. there were better odds finding the holy grail stashed in powell’s desk than a surface not covered in disemboweled rot. fearing he’d drop her, eddie settled chrissy in a chair that looked like a cramped piece of shit even without the upside down tinge. as eddie slipped his jacket around the despondent girl, he took the opportunity to take in the horror she’d been through.

      how was it possible for her to be even smaller than he remembered? her skin, a glass menagerie tinted by faded shades of livor mortis. and her eyes, maybe it was a trick of light straining through heavy motes. maybe it was because the last time eddie saw them was the last time anyone did. but eddie swore the twinkle that outshined gymnasium lights was still there. with ghost behind it, barricading the way between him and the girl hiding.

      any furniture not strapped to the ground by vines was dragged and deposited roughly against the door. eddie worked as quickly as his tremoring muscles allowed, always craning his neck to keep an eye on the object of his disbelief, replaying their one way exchange.

      was he real? he didn’t feel real, but he sure as shit felt alive. and — if you squinted — so did chrissy.

      panting from the strain of his task, the young man crouched in front of her, swallowing a dry knot of tension as he stumbled on what to say. because what the fuck do you say to someone murdered from the inside out? ❝ i’m, uh, i’m glad to see you too. ❞ despite the blood on his lower lip and the hellscape in the window, eddie smiled.

      realizing he was holding his breath, eddie flickered from side-to-side for a way to make her a little more comfortable. fastened to his back with medical tape was an outdoor first aid kit eddie scavenged from the drugstore. he was forced to clear out most of its contents, spoiled by the taint that permeated the upside down’s mimicry, leaving him with gauze, several bandages, and a tube of off-brand neosporin that passed the sniff test with skeptical colors. he needed to be careful retrieving its contents. a circular bite wound on his lower back was still runny, exploding with mauve-y pus if he touched it.

      placing the kit on a coaster of debris, eddie skittered to reclaim the treasonous ration from before. he returned, his joints ached as lowered himself again to meekly offer the can of campbell’s schlock to her.

it’s easier than ever to squint derisively at the phantasmal outline of her neighbor. bouncing between all dark squiggles or nothing but a slouched shadow to her clouded eyes, eddie munson languished like a dramatic noodle alongside max’s focused path from her mom’s clothesline to the fence next door. and back. and forth. and back. every day until she didn’t have to hold on to someone - or until she couldn’t hear the sorrow in lucas’s voice. 

             ❝ then forget i said anything. ❞ 

a sour twist pulled all the muscles around her mouth taut. never good at admitting her need was max mayfield, and even a run-in with a multi-hyphenate villain of “devil game” proportions couldn’t put that habit to bed. but eddie was helping. with all his smarmy commentary, actively resisting any insinuation of goodwill in a way that would make his actual intentions obvious, he’d yet to make her feel like a defective waste of space that struggled to basically function. it was heartwarming. it made her want to kick him. just a little bit. so she angled her wobble a fraction more toward where the grey-brown blob of munson flailed his limbs.

             ❝ so much for helping, now you’re in my way, weirdo. ❞

a sudden whiff of sugar hit the air and max stalled her painful ambulation to sniff around, not unlike the the fluffy mongrel looking on in confusion from his fenced kingdom. max didn’t even need to see him to know.  ❝  hey, when’d you get soda?  ❞

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘, little red snide ‘n rude’s eyes were becoming more and more un-fucked. eddie never asked about her progress directly to avoid triggering her fight or spite response. instead he found niggling ways to test the current limits of her recovery. as far as he could tell, the world still looked like a kindergartener’s watercolor extravaganza. so, maybe mayfield was still unaware that whenever she was outside, there was always a munson or two around.

      a second job, each man worked in shifts. if eddie was at the plant or slumped over the kitchen table, it was wayne posted at the entrance of their shared domicile, observing the mayfield girl’s tough love soliloquy as she stumbled across forest hills’ sad excuse for grass. and when wayne’s eyes burned too low, his nephew relieved him. eddie practically skipped as he crossed the border into the ginger dragon’s lair to give her something to rile at. during the occasional overlap when both munsons were members of the living, wayne joined his nephew from a distance, like now.

      there was no way to see wayne unless you already knew he was there, a hunched silhouette in the gloom of the munson mansion. eddie felt his uncle’s weathered gaze on them. not in a bad way, more like a cocktail of marrow-deep fatigue and a generous serving of uncertainty. wayne didn’t buy the jason carver story the rest of town was remiss to accept. what happened to red was too close to what the older man discovered in his living room the morning of march 22nd.

      a broken body. crumbled bones. blood, everywhere. the walls, the ceiling, the magazine left open on the table. there were still stains on the carpet. bottomless black where eyes should be. fuck, her eyes. the sound they made when vecna —

      rapid blinking anchored eddie back to the mayfield yard. as quietly as he could, eddie cleared his throat. he had hours to kill before his shift, so he chose to focus on max’s sugarhound snarfling rather than the devil responsible for every sick and twisted detail.