𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒..
Music is what feelings sound like. As the silly brains of the smallest creatures -a moth drawn to a light-, ours too is bound to its inertial instinct to seek itself out in rhythms and beats. It dreads and d...
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BILLIE CARTER'S NEW JOURNALING PASTIME was between her sleepy hands, on the borderline of numbness. The entirety of the car carried at least two different tones of snoring, both coming from her right side, where Devin and Sam were bunked together, way off into the dreams of an uncomfortable sleep. One blanket would not suddenly make the car a comfortable place to sleep. In fact, Billie was pretty sure Devin was going to wake up with bruises from how many times the car took a hole in the asphalt and his forehead hit, with it, the window he leant against. Either that, or soon the window would break, though frankly, she felt it was unlikely.
Sam was the most comfortable in the car, probably because he was small and as the youngest he had the privilege of staying in the middle: Devin's soft arm for pillow, Billie's unspoken permission to push his feet into hers or just rest them on top.
Barry was in the front. Sleepiness obviously had no rest in threatening to make his long blinks behind glasses turn into simply closing his eyes and giving up on holding the map and acting like the pillar of the family. He wasn't happy about being in this car, at this time after all... Billie doubted any of them were, not even her stoic father, who always seemed so very passive at everything remotely close to what has been happening to them the past year.
The Carter's were living behind a tragedy and some stupid shrink told Billie to start writing about it, until she's going to be able to find a new therapist again.
We've been in this car for two days. It's been four since mom died and no one wants to talk about it. I don't ask, obviously, but it's written all over their faces... because, honestly, who would want to talk about what cannot be explained? Would any of Stephen King's characters want to talk about what they've seen? What they've been through...?
That night felt like a horror story. I am pretty sure the horror isn't over yet.
From the corner of her eyes, Billie spotted the welcoming sign of a town. That plain placard posted next to the road had a couple of trees shadowing its dust, its dirt and the smudged red graffiti. The end of the dense forest was there, where, over 'Hawkins', 'Hell' was written in capital letters.
Billie turned her head around to follow the sight of the sign, but she gained nothing but losing her train of thought for the permanence of the word. It remained plastered on her brain, an annoying price tag which simply wouldn't come off cleanly; if she tried to remove it, it would leave a mark and the spot would get sticky, to attract even more dirt. Somehow, Billie was pretty sure the whole world was covered in one too many price tags.
If the horror was over, then why would we be moving across the country? They don't fool me for a second.
Hawkins was a town like all others. There weren't high expectations from the State of Indiana after all. Everything notable was a bit further to the east, or all the way west.
