𝐖𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍. ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉ ʰᵃʳʳⁱⁿᵍᵗᵒⁿ ¹

( 000 )

000. 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗮𝗰'𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗱𝗼𝘁𝗲 !

THERE WAS NOTHING THAT LORI PHILBIN HATED MORE THAN THUMBTACKS. Sure, an odd thing to have a loathing for— but nevertheless not something she'd even consider lifting a grudge from. It happened on May 26th in the very peak of fourth grade, at the back of Ms. Darby's English classroom. It was Seniors day. The day every fourth grader brought crafted gifts to the old-age home across the street. It was supposed to be a happy day, and it was, to begin, until Tommy Wendall and his pudgy fingers had made the biggest mistake, basically, ever.

The scene was set in place; the thumbtacks were sitting point-up on the floor, and Lorraine Philbin with her little sharply-cut bangs and obscure disposition was trotting over to the craft table. Tommy Wendall did not notice his thumbtacks falling. Maybe it was the size of his large belly that prevented him from seeing over his side, or the fact that he was far too focused on his makeshift pinboard. The ten year old girl had inevitably landed her shimmery pink sneaker right on the very point of three blue thumbtacks, abnormally large ones, sitting up on the tiled floor.

    You'd think there's no reasoning behind being rushed home in a crazed frenzy for three simple tacks logged between the sole of a shoe and a fourth-grader's foot— a particularly tempered fourth grader, to add. But that was the case. There was just no getting those thumbtacks out solely by Ms. Darby's plucky little fingers. It was stuck, and stuck good. At least for a long while.

Lori Philbin had thumbtacks in her foot. That was the very thought that slid into everyone's mind when they heard her name. It was quite the scene to remember— for at each glance to her small and little, but newly distraught face, instant images flashed like beams of Lorraine rushing down the halls that May afternoon, carried bridal style in the arms of the school nurse, wailing like a dying bird. She ruined Seniors Day. Even teachers made the faces, Lori could tell— because very year, during attendance, she'd get the same bug-eyed expression when the list would round down to last names "P". She was the one with the thumbtacks.

Benevolently, every little rumor slowly dispersed with time and with every harsh grin pulled by the girl's lips— she'd frowned her way into a different reputation by the time high school hit. But nonetheless, it was still quite impossibly hard to forget Lori Philbin and her blue thumbtacks in the back of Ms. Darby's English classroom, as if it were subconsciously printed in the very back of everyone's mind— only ever brought to realization with the right comment. And it was a constant reminder to her, too, because every time she'd take off her socks, there they were— the tiniest scars, almost resembling little freckles, on the bottom of her left foot.

But the monstrosities did not stop there. It was the night before the holidays, of 79', when the wrath of said-thumbtacks reemerged for another go. The Philbins were setting up their freshly-cut pine tree in the foyer. The Anderson's, next-door neighbors were over to help. The Andersons were weird people. Maybe it was the fact that they didn't know about Lori's fourth grade incident, unlike everyone else in town, or the fact that they were just peculiar and nobody knew why.

The older couple had shown up bearing gifts, along with bags of decor held in both sets of hands. Everything seemed to be going well that evening. All things were "jolly and bright" until the young girl was asked to retrieve, quote-unquote, the christmas ornaments from one of their bags. But when she had reached her curious hand in the bag, for ornaments to peek at before having to bring the bag to the adults, the very tip of her index finger clenched tightly around the point of a particularly sharp needle. Might you've guessed, a thumbtack.

Technically, it wasn't a full thumbtack. It was some type of makeshift hook, glued to a shiny red ball, that Mrs. Anderson labeled as her own "christmas craft" once Lori had whirled back into the foyer wailing her bleeding finger for all eyes to see. They didn't go to the hospital that time. It was the holidays, anyway, and the Philbins were already far too invested in their traditional eggnog making for their minds to distraught, let alone bring their dramatic child to the emergency, again. So they bandaged up her finger. The mark remains on her skin, just the same as the one on her foot.

    Lori was not terrified of thumbtacks. She wouldn't cower away, dramatize a scream or start sobbing at the sight of them— because traumatic events often do that to people, but these were no traumatic happenings. They were just simple pins. But the tempered incidents and the freckle-shaped scars and the omnipresent stories playing over and over again conjured up a certain disdain for them, a certain disdain that she simply could not shake.

    So, in finishing truth, there really was nothing that Lori Philbin hated more than thumbtacks. That is until, a particularly-adored cassette tape fell into the hands of King of Hawkins High— (specifically one who carried a bat of nails that looked oddly similar to those large thumbtacks)— and suddenly, there was something all new to hate.

𝙅𝙐𝙇𝙄 !
please you don't know how excited i am.

i know this isn't even like a prologue
but i just had no idea what to title this

i've been working on this story for a while and i'm so excited to finally be putting it out! Lori is my absolute icon and i hope u like her as much as i do!!

that is all! virtual hugs <3

enjoy!