#boyvigil

Foolish youth does not realize his mistake, does not understand the grievous ERROR which may cost him his life. The way to judge the difference, that thin line between dreams and reality ( the narrow threshold between safety and DEATH ), is nonexistent; girl of porcelain skin and chocolate curtains of hair stands before him, but she is not her ( not NANCY ). Boy hopes to approach his friend, to offer comfort and to console; he merely walks closer to his DOOM.

❝ ... Yeah. Yeah, I did. ❞

Dark gaze screws shut against the world, too upset to do more than curl inwards, mien crumpling into that of fear. She’d be TERRIFIED, a perfect expression of the very concept of dread. Still, pretense does not break, does not falter even when mind senses youth approaching; she does not resist his touch, even when useless blood curdles at the sensation ( revolting! disgusting! ). The truth would be revealed soon enough.

❝ It doesn’t matter, Quentin, I-... ❞

Pale throat swallows, once, as if in attempt to quash the very idea of her fear.

@boyvigil * prompt! * “ 6…worried “ * notes: based from THIS song

      𝐀n anxiety ridden sigh escaped the girl’s lips as she stared into the inky BLACK sky. Though the rain was cold & soft, something Laurie loved oh-so much, she couldn’t find a lick of comfort at the moment. Time was no longer a part of their existance, but yet, she was more than aware that Quentin had been gone for far too long.

        In the darkness, Laurie paced seemingly endlessly through the abandoned house her & the other survivors managed to find. Thunder crackled outside like another SNARLING BEAST with its’ fangs pressed to their naked necks, & it only did more than raise her already-catastrophizing train of thought.

   “  I’m sorry...  “

    No one was around, & Laurie’s ears were so heavily desperate for a sound that she let herself slip a whisper under her breath. She couldn’t believe the things she roared at Quentin in her earlier blinding rage. Quentin was one of the sole people here she felt comfortable with completely, hell, Quentin was the brother she wished so much for over the deranged one she was given, but now, she was questioning if things would ever be the same.

  Staring through the fractured window besides the back opening, the blonde’s mind raced with thoughts, no, belittling judgements of herself. Her body ached with everything she wished she did, I could have understood where he was coming from, I could have maybe said this a different way, I could have not been such a horrible perso-

   Oh god — I ruined everything.

            Laurie’s hand covered her mouth gently as she felt the salty taste of sadness fill her up once more. Quentin is such a lovely kid, a beautiful, unique man, & I broke him away from myself, after everything he’s been through, we’ve been through, I DID THIS. She couldn’t help but let the tears trickle down her freckled face, eyes gazing into the pouring scene outside in any last ditch hopes for keeping the crying at bay.

  & it seemed it only got worse.

   In the distance, the weeping girl could salvage the outline of something coming towards the house. It was undeniable who it was. 

    In a haste, Laurie grabbed the back-door handle like her life depended on it, tearing it open like she had no hope. The cold air smacked her in the face, raindrops kissing her skin, & it felt good. Walking into the night’s windy body, the girl’s body began to shake, seeing the equally drenched Quentin walk to her, arms huddled on himself, like he was guarding himself ( “ oh god, is he guarding himself from me? “)

      She was wordless as sobs wracked her small body. Wordless, except for one phrase.

 “ Quentin, Oh — Oh my god,

NANCY HATES ASKING FOR HELP. she’s always been like this, her entire life -- if there’s something she needs to know, she can find it herself. there’s always a book that’ll tell her what she needs to know. but . . . in this place, she’s yet to find anything that’ll make things just a little easier to stay alive.

she’s not sure why her first thought is to seek out quentin. she doesn’t trust any of the other survivors, and yet . . . she feels like he’d give good advice. all the same, it takes a lot for nancy to sit down next to him at the camp fire. she really, really hopes that he doesn’t laugh at her for not knowing these things.

Send me a NUMBER for your muse to: 004. — Hit muse with a blunt object.

❝ RUN, RUN! ❞

Answering shriek precedes him, slicing through the blackness to harass young ears. Threat stalks through the maze of rusted pipes and steam, blades let scrape long and loud against the nearest one. Nothing Quentin could offer or withhold would surpass this, the specter’s most greatest of pleasures. There was joy in undead blood pumping needlessly through his veins, the ADRENALINE of pursuit still viable even after his untimely demise ( curse them all, make them pay! ). Freddy still thrilled to the chase ( the REWARD for his many hours of patience during teens’ wakefulness ); there was nothing else to it. If Quentin expected a more logical answer, well....

Silhouette hunts, passing through billowing streams of heat let loose from a busted pipe, high-pitched sound engulfed by manic cackles. The seconds are SAVORED, tongue wallowing in the taste of feverish bliss. It had been too long since the last foray, too long indeed ( he would fix that ). Inevitably, invariably, monster rounds the very last corner, spotting prey for the first time tonight. Where once small youth had stood, now stands defiance in teenage form. Sharp TEETH embody the grin that stretches ruined features now, undeterred by this act of rebellion, breathing fast and EXCITED. It would be no fun if the pig didn’t run ( he would fix that, too ).

❝ I want you to RUN! ❞

Dark was the night, and cold was the ground, someone sang, in a low and sad gospel tone, once. He remembers its croon under the static of an old radio in his father’s office. And it is dark, and it is cold. The campfire sits in silence, save for a dull crackle, unchanging, un-snuffed flames that he finds himself grateful for. It’s hard to be grateful for what the entity “gives” them. And the old song turns in his head—and he wonders why it comes to mind now. Maybe he’d heard Kate playing it, once.

It would be quiet—peaceful with the low breathing of other survivors around the campfire, if not for the restless twitches of one of his companions nearby. He sits, reclined, awake alone—like a watchdog, he thinks dryly. The bird—one of the entity’s crows, perches by him, like it didn’t quite have anywhere better to be. Jake blinks, bleary in the cool night, drops his gaze to the source of the uneasy sound.

There’s a long moment of trepidation —it’s not his business. Everyone here had nightmares—if you didn’t, he’d have to guess there was something else wrong. Besides, the kid–Quentin, looked like he’d never gotten a lick of sleep in his life. Jake’s gaze falls on the tree line for a long time, trying to gather some peace of mind from the distant sway and rustle, trying to focus on stillness. The boy mumbles something louder, desperate, fearful, next to him, repeats it, eyebrows furrowed down. Jake curls his fingers against the wood of the log, frowns at the ground. It’s not his business.