#ofbaseballbats

        " you don't deserve any of this. i'm... i'm so sorry i dragged you into this mess... "

                ❛❛                 Look,       it’s     not     my     worst     Saturday   night.   ❜❜

                a  fresh  lie,  served  with  the  usual  smile.       what     worse     night     could     be     worse     than     this?   HE   DID   NOTHING   TO   BE   HERE   ON   THIS   NIGHT   OF   TERROR.   He   hadn’t   been   a   part   of   the   original   prank   gone   wrong   ;   yet,   here   he   is   in   another   prank   as   a   means   of   vengeance   for   the   first.   Now,   he   could   respect   it,   to   a   degree.   After-all,   had   it   been   his   sisters?    Yeah,    he’d    want   retribution.    Fuck   them.   They    might   not   have   KILLED    THEM ,    but    it    was    a   butterfly    effect.    What   is   and    isn’t    someone’s    fault?    Though   the   last    prank   was   humiliating   as   a   desired   effect   and    this    was    terror     initially,          consequences    all    too    real    came    after.    He’s    leaning    against    one    of    the    pillars    with    crossed    arms    and    scanning    every    detail    in    the    lodge.    the    only    figure    that    knew    what    they    were    up    against    just    left    the    room    to    find    a    boy    who    apparently    might    already    be    dead.    JOSH.    the    one    who    might    have    the    same    fate    as    the    sisters    he    only    wanted    to    avenge    in    an    ill-state    of    mind.    It’s    the    reason    the    smile    offered    as    charity    fades.    He    frowns    at    the    door,     imagination     getting     the     best     of     him.    He   didn’t   deserve    the   violent   death    of   a   monster.    

He    wants    to    say    it    so    bad:    the    reality    that    they’re    all    fucked.    Splitting    up    always    has    disastrous    effects.    He    finds    himself    unable    to    pin-point    who    he    was    most    angry    at.    Maybe    just    himself.    He    shouldn’t    be    here.    This    was    a    dare    to    himself    to    be    here.    He    could    be    home    instead.    He    pulls    out    a    phone    that    has    ten    pending    messages    to    his    parents,    but    the    service    is    nothing    but    a    blockade.    He’s    frowning    and    decides    to    wander    away    from    the    place    of    attempted    composure. 

|| a  moodboard  of  my  muses  fashion  taste. ||

@ofbaseballbats​​ |  ≬  |   ❛  do  you  have  a  minute ?  ❜

He honestly wasn’t sure Sam was going to come to the party tonight. Of course, he’d invited her anyway, because they’re friends (or at least, they run in the same circles), but it seemed unlikely she’d show up for the very same reason he'd been reluctant to throw the party in the first place: the murders. 

It feels like an especially shitty thing to do, to be hosting this big party right now, when he’s looking at someone who was close friends with two of the victims – but Fern can’t do anything about it now. He just has to hope Sam isn’t here to yell at him for it (though it would probably be deserved).

 @ofbaseballbats​   |  ≬  |     “  you think you’re handling this on your own but you’re not.  that’s not how it works when the people who care about you can see you’re suffering but refusing to ask for help.  ”

Yeah, he probably should’ve seen that one coming; Sam’s not stupid. Quite the opposite, actually – she probably understands what he’s going through better than most – but you’d have to be practically braindead to believe everything’s sunshine and roses right now, considering the scenery. And if not braindead, then just really, really willing to turn a blind eye. Like his mom. 

Still, the fact that he’s in a hospital bed, recovering from being stabbed by a fucking serial killer, is a pretty good indication that he’s probably not fine.

Fern twists the fabric of his blanket between his fingers, staring at his lap instead of looking up at his friend because he already knows what expression is going to be on her face. It’ll be the same worried look she’s worn every time she’s stopped in to visit him; though now, he’s certain it’ll be colored with anger and disappointment. All of which he’s too cowardly to face right now.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and for a moment, it’s all he can think to say. It’s not like he can just tell her he’s not alone, that he still sees Jeremy all the time, because she’d never believe him; hell, sometimes even he thinks he’s gone crazy. Besides, what’s the alternative to acting fine? Breaking down? He’s not sure he’ll be able to put himself back together if he does that.

                  It felt automatic, the swift motion of his lean frame as she grabbed for his bicep & clung in a desperate bid for stability, both physical & emotional. How he moved to practically catch her, steady her by a slim shoulder, her waist. It wasn’t ideal, but with one limb half trapped by her iron grasp it was the second-best choice. Seeing the fear ignited in Sam’s eyes, Connor felt a twinge of guilt in having mentioned anything at all. The teenager was terrified - no matter what the truth was of what happened in those mines, there was no doubt in his mind that it had left a mark. As a detective, Connor Arkeit saw all kinds of things on a daily basis, dealt with suspects & witnesses that presented all sorts of issues & symptoms of trauma, & some chose to use these behaviours as a means by which to lie without ever saying a word. Experience told him this was genuine. The state of pupil dilation, the cold sweat response of anxiety & that look in her eyes was difficult to fake.

                  He offered a sympathetic but firm calm as he held her steady, comfortable being a pillar of strength in that moment. He could only imagine what was going through her mind just then.   ❝ Hey, hey. It’s okay, ❞   he assured with that soothing dusky voice just a little hushed, careful. He didn’t want to spook her further.   ❝ I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just my imagination. ❞   A soft smile, wan yet pointed. Connor wanted to present himself as the calm, rational individual, someone who could offer comfort as much as he could protection.  ❝ I guess I get a little hypervigilant sometimes. I’m sorry if I startled you, Sam. ❞   He was certain that was the case, but one could never assume. For now, he was determined to observe & listen. Gently, he coaxed & guided the girl to sit once more, all the while he considered offering to get her something hot to drink. The warmth was soothing, something to focus on. He had to get her calm first.

                   ❝ You good to continue? ❞   A faint nod came with his question, careful persuasion through kindness. The detective knew this was a safe place for them to talk, away from the scrutiny of others, the still too raw feelings of her friends & the prying eyes. But being isolated, even while in company, seemed too much. Sam had clear signs of PTSD - he couldn’t help her with that, but he could listen to her. He hoped that was enough. Gentle, he guided her into the chair opposite him & once again he took his seat. Though his eyes were on the teen before him, his vigilance extended past this small space. Connor was certain he’d seen...someone outside the window. Whom, he couldn’t determine, but he intended to remain watchful, even as he offered Sam a calm expression & attentive ears.   ❝ You were telling me about that night the year after. ❞