THIS WAS HER OWN PERSONAL HELL. surrounded by two concrete walls and two iron ones, bars stretching floor to ceiling, cramped in one of two holding cells at the woodsboro police station—IT’S A TRAP. they must know this; they have to know this. even with the insurmountable evidence stacked against her—the burner phone, the back-up burner phone, the murder weapon, still stained with the latest victim’s blood, the voice modifier—THAT FUCKING COSTUME—all combined with the fact that she was always alone during the times of the attacks. with no one else to point a finger to, and five people slaughtered over the span of two days, there’s no where else to turn. it’s just overnight, sid, it’s just a precaution. there’s—I know you didn’t do it. dewey’s apologetic tone and empathetic look in his eyes are permanently burned into sidney’s mind; mostly, the hint of crushing disappointment behind them.
he thinks I did it, she murmurs to herself in the echo chamber that is her mind. knees fold into her chest as she sits on the stiff cot in the corner, back pressed against cold, unforgiving concrete. he thinks I’m a monster.
she’s brought out of her thoughts by the sound of something hitting the ground—and suddenly she’s aware of how distant and quiet the bullpen is, her stomach twisting for a moment as she shifts in her spot. ‘ dewey? ’ she calls out from the corner, through tears that have since started to dry on her cheek. no answer. so she rises slowly, taking a step, two, three, until she’s up to the cell door, fingers curling around the bars as she attempts to get a better perspective into the bullpen. ‘ dewey? ’
LEAKING THE SCREAM 5 SCRIPT: feat. @slashhers
