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summary: in which; having woken up bloodied and bewildered, you were unsure of what to do aside from rush to the nearest police station. Seeking assistance, you find yourself faced with Detective Styles, a man who has considerably more knowledge than you initially do and who can invariably detect when you're dishonest.
includes: detective Harry, written in the second person.
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
Arroyo Grande, California, October 31, 1992.
The sky was dark, indistinct overcast bearing down onto the puddles below. Echoing your steps, water pooled around your feet as the sky mimicked the colour of your nightgown. The fabric that was once a delicate white, was now stained with the hatred of your past; a past you could not remember—coiling your stomach with fear.
Your trail seemed never-ending, bare feet smacking the cobblestones like a slap to one's cheek. A slap you still felt lingering, your reddened cheek throbbing with whatever impact was caused. A strike by a hand you did not know and, if you were, to be honest, you were not sure you would like to remember. You were sure it was a fierce impact with how a welt formed near the edge of your jaw and a small cut sliced across the corner of your lower lip. Your fingers explored the jagged surface, and you wondered if perhaps the knowledge would be better left unknown. The thought did nothing to soothe you.
Your eyes were frantic, matching your breath as your chest heaved—searching for something you could not remember. Perhaps this was a familiar place, although the repeated, quick beat of your heart and the heavy, slapping sound of your steps drowned out any recognition. You could not focus, feeling a bile rise in your throat despite your repeated tries to swallow it.
You wondered whether you should stop, for no one had been following you and, at first glance, no one appeared nearby. You weren't sure if you were supposed to be fleeing someone in the first place.
Perhaps you had harmed yourself, and the crimson leakage was a cause of your own actions. Maybe you were insane, having lost your mind like you'd lost her shoes. You had no recollection of anything save the cold pavement beneath your feet. Perhaps you never had any shoes. Maybe you had been abruptly woken and forced to leave your home, as it was dark and you were dressed in a cotton nightgown. If you ever had a home, that is. You weren't sure of anything.
The town surrounding you was ghostly, the sole sound being the wind: a quiet howl brushing past you and creating goosebumps on the bare skin of your arms, chilled and wrapped around yourself. Folding them across your chest, you ran with your back hunched and neck craned, gathering any warmth in the center of your body. It mimicked a scream, the wind, for the way it brushed past you as a caressing touch sent you coiling into yourself. You wondered what it could have been. For your hectic night, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary. It was as though you had woken up in some Halloween horror film, and while you didn't wholly oppose that idea—for any reality was sounder than the one you were presently undergoing—being slaughtered as Georgie Denbrough had wasn't all that appealing.
