#msredact

‘      hey,   ghosts !   tussle   my   hair   or   something,   let’s   have   some   fun !      ’ / @msredact

(  the  quiet  hum  of  the  bookstore  serves  as  background  as  helena  takes  inventory  of  the  new  arrivals  for  the  week.  )    the  clack  of  computer  keys,  the  clearing  of  her  throat.  she  hadn’t  noticed  when  the  cup  was  sat  up  on  the  desk  in  front  of  her,  but  the  waft  of  somewhat  stale  coffee  -  presumably  from  the  small  coffee  corner  set  up  just  across  the  way  from  her  -  coaxes  honeyed  eyes  to  lift  from  what  she’s  doing.        “oh.  is⸻  for  me?”          (  color  her  delighted,  kissed  a  rose  color  as  a  bashful  smile  takes  hold.  )          “thank  you,  @msredact​​.”        cup  lifted,  tilted  to  her  lips  where  she  swallows  down  a  gulp  she  soon  wishes  she  didn’t.        (  acrid,  unpleasant  and  almost  entirely  cold.  )            “wow.  that’s  ⸻  that’s  really  awful.”          she  laughs,  scrunching  a  pierced  nose  at  the  taste  as  she  rounds  the  desk  to  make  her  way  towards  the  coffee  station.          “i’m  so  sorry.  i’ll  brew  a  fresh  pot.  do  you  want  a  muffin  or  something?  promise  they’re  not  as  bad  as  that  car  oil  i  just  drank.  i  made  them  myself.”  

"It looks gross as hell. What did you do, walk into a chainsaw?"

"I took care of it, okay? I'm fine."

         they've   been   together   so   long   that   things   like   this   have   settled   into   a   routine,      wearing   the   other's   clothes      ;      what's   different   this   time,      though      ...      is   how   he's   the   one   wearing   something   of   her's   instead   of   the   other   way   around.      weirdly   enough,      it   doesn't   seem   misplaced      —      settling   on   his   figure   like   any   old   vintage   store   find.         "         i      am      ?         "         eyes   fall   to   the   shirt,      faded   with   time   but   undoubtedly   well   loved.      the   faint   markings   of   a   joy   division   logo   stained   with   a   few   suspicious   maroon   spots   here      +      there.         "         well,      shit.      how      the      turns      have      tabled,         "         ah,      yes.         "         i      look      pretty      fuckin'      good      in      it,      though      ...      don't      y'think      ?         "

         if   mike's   being   completely   honest      :      he   kind   of   was.      he's   heard   all   about   the   local   conspiracy   theorist   dolores   through   whispers      +      rumours      (      even   losers   of   hawkins   hear   gossip   too,      surprisingly      ).      he's   come   all   this   way   to   tell   her   that   he's   right      —      &&      yet,      seeing   her   rather      ...      devoid   of   her   usual   rather   rambunctious   conduct   to   life,      he's   starting   to   feel   bad.         "         i      was      just      coming      to      give      you      this,         "         he   offers   out   a   file   of   papers,      a   few   discarded   documents   peeking   out   here      +      there.      he's   been   collecting   some   evidence   too.      mostly   from   him      &&      dusting   working   out   to   see   what   exactly   is   the   upside   down.      there's   no   point   in   making   someone   feel   more   like   a   freak,      he   knows   firsthand   how   shitty   it   feels.

     The motel Roxanne was hiding out at only had a VCR and a shitty, overly static-y fourteen inch TV. Luckily, there was a video store nearby to peruse. She thought about stuffing a few VHS’s under her shirt, but it would be far too noticeable for her sickly frame. Roxie approaches the cashier counter and slams down a copy of Alucarda. “Ya’ll got Basket Case here?” The stale gum she’s been chewing for over an hour snaps between her molars. “...Ya sell food here at all? Somethin’ smells good... Or am I just about to have a stroke?”

she   looks   like   a   little   girl,   a   little   girl   who   has   been   ruthlessly scolded,   arms   festooned   in   bruises   and   scrapes   hugging   bent   legs,   while   eyes   that   have   seen   more   than   her   youth   should   allow   survey   @msredact,   considering   the   honesty   +   fallacy   that   modifies   her   words,   that   twists   them   like   a   puzzle,   seeking   to   detect   the   weak   point,   the   ulterior   motive   that   overpowers   them.   weren't   they   all   alone?   she   was   alone,   certainly,   when   the   tick   tick   of   the   clock   beckoned   her   into   the   darkness   of   her   mind,   when   it   imprisoned   her   within   the   confines   of   her   consciousness,   where   she   once   had   control   and   now   feels   not   even   the   slightest   shred   of   safety.   she   is   alone   because   she   cannot   return   to   her   body,   she   cannot   crawl   or fight   with claws   and   jaws   into   the   real   world,   where   an   inert   carcass   slumbers.   she   is   afraid   of   it.   she   will   never   tell,   because   what   good   is   it   if   she   lets   her   fears   hang   from   her   mouth,   like   dusty   cobwebs ?   they   were   all   worried   enough   as   it   was,   without   having   to   deal   with   her   paranoia.   no,   keep   your   composure,   and   when   the   monster   comes,   pretend   it   doesn't   terrify   you.   " we   all   die   alone "   dark   words   for   a   child,   boundlessly   gloomy   musing,   and   though   not   entirely   appropriate   response,   she   blurts   it   out,   with   only   a   sly   smile   painting   weeping   lips.