"𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬, 𝘢𝘮 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯?"
in which felicity prescott has a disturbing and gruesome past that comes back for the second time around.
(ethan landry x fem! oc)
(spoilers for scream 6! there is language, gore, and basic...
y'all sorry if some stuff is inaccurate, i haven't seen the scream movies in a hot minute so after i do, i might change some things to make it more canon
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If nepotism existed in real life horror movies and the legacy behind the Stab movies, Felicity Prescott was sure she was the biggest nepo-baby of the entire industry. Her mother, the infamous Sidney Prescott, only had a few other children much younger than Felicity with no social presence online.
The opposite can be said for Felicity.
Unlike her half-siblings, Felicity was involved in the incident of Richie's and Amber's murder spree. The name "Felicity Prescott" comes up with thousands of articles about the event in Woodsboro. The "final girl" title is practically attached to her name and face wherever she goes.
After moving out of Woodsboro and saying goodbye to her mother, her mother's husband, and her little half-siblings, Felicity tagged along with her other "final girl" friends, Tara and Sam, to New York.
It hurt, but it didn't hurt as much as walking through the same town she was almost murdered in.
Now, Blackmore University wasn't the worst. It certainly isn't an Ivy League school like Harvard or Columbia—ones Felicity used to shoot for before she was inches away from death—but it isn't too bad. The college parties are similar, though she has no others to compare to other than classic 2000's movies and the word of mouth.
But a major was still a major, right?
Life was turning back to normal. With the new theories and rumors about Sam, ones that took the attention away from Felicity for once in years, the Prescott girl could finally turn back to living out a regular, college student life. Maybe hook up with some people, get wasted at parties, go skinny dipping, or whatever. The possibilities were nearly endless.
But Felicity Prescott should know by her heritage that nothing would ever be okay.
—
A loose grey T-shirt with some irrelevant print on the front hung over Felicity's slumped posture. She could barely feel the twiddling of her own thumbs as she glanced anywhere but the therapist, a clean and pristine woman, in front of her. The girl didn't know whether she would not or simply could not.
Doctor Leta Thatcher was a dark skinned woman with thick curls on her head, pushed back by a simple headband and slicked down into a ponytail. Her white top contrasted heavily with her skin without a stain in sight. In her eyes, Felicity could see this woman had seen many patients before, many sob stories, many broken people.
No doubt did she fix all of them up like the pamphlet from her desk said.
"Felicity?" The older woman asked, adjusting the collar of her blouse. As their eyes connected for a split second, Felicity could see the hint of impatience. "Felicity," she said again, "I can't help you if you won't speak."
