#monstrauma01.

HE’D  SEEN  THE  BODY,  DEHUMANISED IN ALL       his     (     no,   its     )     entirety  and  stripped  of  recognition.          he’d  seen  all  the  grief  that  came  with  it,   the  condolences  and  the  motions  of  that  cold  and  unforgiving  maiden  named  death.          her  frosty  fingertips  dared  not  be  selective  in  what  they  touched,   and  will  byers  had  been  claimed,   taken  somewhere  so  far  away  so  only  the  body  would  be  trawled  from  the  depths.

all  of  that     ——     mourning,   that’s  what  they  call  it     ——     mourning  seemed  palatable  to  lucas  as  he  let  his  fingers  trace  the  wooden  signs  left  behind  by  his  fallen  comrade :   CASTLE  BYERS.          ALL  FRIENDS  WELCOME.          soldier  on,   will   !          once  a  boy,   now  a  dead  man  walking.          by  no  stretch  of  the  mind  a  desired  outcome     (     for  didn’t  he  yearn  for  his  friend’s  return  with  as  much  fervour  as  them  all   ?     )     but  a  tangible  one.          it  was  real,   it  happened  to  people  everyday,   and  real  he  could  work  with.

the  inhabitant  he  was  greeted  by  upon  pulling  back  the  fort’s  curtain  was  not  real.          somebody  pinch  me,   dustin,  mom,   somebody,   anybody,   please   !          this  was  the  trivial  plot  fodder  of  a  shitty  horror  movie,   and  the  thing  before  him,   inhabiting  this  treasured  abode  was  not  will  byers,   nor  was  it  the  body.          it  simply  didn’t  exist,   couldn’t  exist.          it  wouldn’t  exist,   grit  coating  lucas’  throat  until  his  words  come  out  raw  and  merciless.

❛          YOU’RE  NOT  WILL.          you’re——     will’s  dead,   so  you’re  not  real.          ❜          rationality  exhibits  a  sharp  stab  of  conflict,   a  cutting  edge  that  takes  offense  to  this  intruder.          this  was  castle  byers  and  would  stand  as  legacy  to  will’s  life :   even  with  the  hollow  absence  of  its  founder,   impostors  have  no  place  in  this  sacred  refuge.         he  finds  explanation  and  clings  to  it  like  a  lifeline,   so  that  he  may  not  drown  in  an  abyss  akin  to  will.

❛         hallucinations  don’t  scare  me.          ❜          not  will,   not  hallucination,   what  are  you ?          unsteady  footing  holds  its  ground  in  the  vacant  entrance,   the  crunch  of  autumnal  leaves  underfoot.          ❛          that’s what  you  are,   huh ?          yeah.          that’s  all  you  are,   nothin’  but  a  big  phony.          ❜

IT’S AN APTLY TIMED INTERLUDE     /          a not-so-reassuring reprieve from his quotidian ailment.          out of the frying pan,  into the fire   !          the threat of henry bowers has been left to gather dust,  an assailant once hot on his heels,  the swell of richie’s breath still precariously sporadic.          hands grip onto bloodied knees and head bows forth,  the ramifications of the chase still demanding air from his lungs.          that foolish mouth,  scampering ahead like a hare   !

a newfound peril makes itself known.          his respite is brief.          somewhere in the dip of his chest,  he knows its source,  needs not turn to bear witness to the     ...     thing that has made his heart lurch into the dry gutter of his throat,  windpipe momentarily rendered ineffectual.          it’s the same hiemal chill that had passed over him by the statue,  a frigid gust that bites his cheeks,  once boy     /     now gelid lake of ice.

he knows its source     ——     and still,  when he turns to look,  teeth chattering and eyes jammed open by fearful anticipation,  the surprise sends him jolting back by several staggered steps.          he sucks in a hefty breath and it aches,  as if the needles of the coniferous trees surrounding him had all rallied and punctured him like a voodoo doll at once.          seclusion in the barrens' outskirts had been an appealing shelter from bullies,  but welcomed a far greater evil in their place.

❛          y-you’re not real   !          ❜          steady trembling molars,  eyes drawn unwillingly to the far sharper teeth of his company.          he remembers the smell     ——     thanks whatever god is out there that he’s not close enough to experience it again,  all rot and carcass and meat of children.          yet.          ❛          just like those ph-phony flicks,  werewolves don’t exist   !          ❜          desperate logic,  desperate wit,  but his feet still slowly course backward,  sneakers squelching in the matted sweep of decomposing leaves and betraying his every step.

          THIS ONE’S ITALIAN.          he’s called alberto,  and she’s predacious in her pursuit,  a modest claim that she picked up a little of the language herself,  nothing monumental,  before speaking in effortless fluency   ;   dove sei stato tutta la mia vita ?          bensonhurst-born,  she explains,  little italy’s pocket rendering her well-versed     —     and capable of wrapping him around her little finger until she can coil herself around his throat like a blood python.          she indulges his charm until she’s bored,  says she must be getting back,  the streets are dangerous at this time of night,  and he’s all too willing to seize the role of chivalrous male and escort her back if it means he’ll get to visit her hotel room.

          he’s carrying her by the time they reach the cortez’s reception,  legs hooked around his waist and staking her claim before anybody gets any smart ideas     ——     she knows liz is likely rolling her eyes behind the desk and smirks,  wolfish,  as she offers breathy directions to her penthouse against his mouth,  steadies herself against the railing halfway up and doesn’t hide her delight once they’re safely tucked in seclusion.          HARD PART’S OVER.          ❛          finalmente,  mm ?          we’re alone.          ❜          her tongue pinches between her teeth demurely,  though the implications of her words are far from chaste.          they leave their shed layers strewn across wooden flooring,  her only caution being not to knock over any of her cultivated art sculptures as they go.

           the sex is nothing to brag about,  but that was never what she was here for.          it’s when he’s most euphoric,  and she can feel his heart thrumming like a drum that she strikes,  palm pressed against his jugular before the incision is made,  deft and clean,  and his breath escapes like the winter wind,  mournful betrayal furrowing his brow.          she saps his vitality with one satisfied inhalation before lunging,  eager to consume the warm rush of blood as it streams.          she has no interest in sinewy flesh,  only feeds until the source runs dry and his body stills,  a useless cadaver to be disposed of for all she cares.

          pink neon flickers on the walls,  a cotton-candy juxtaposition to the gory scene she leaves behind,  her sheets dyed crimson,  her skin drenched in a matching shade.          she bathes,  sheathes herself in silk robe and ignores the abattoir of her bed in favour of the drinks trolley,  the sound of glass clinking idly beneath a skylight littered with stars     ——     and the sound of something else entirely.           she doesn’t turn to look,  voice drawling with mild disinterest.          ❛          punctual as always,  i see.          ❜          her praise is directed at nobody in particular,  only making the assumption that the presence must be housekeeping.           ❛          the linens need changing.          bathtub,  as well,  if that’s not too much for you to cope with.          ❜