Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

Vecna's Curse

You reach the trailer park by the time the sky meets that middling stage between night and day, but no birds sing their morning song today.

Everything's grey and stale, almost sour in the way the mist seeps over the brown lawns and plastic garden furniture. It sends a chill creeping up your neck so the stray hairs that tickle the nape stand on end.

Your feet feel numb when they step onto Wayne's porch. God, it's been years since you were here. You wonder where the older Munson is right now. Poor man, finding the body.

Your heart's so far up in your mouth, you think you could bite down and taste the large mass of bloody muscle. Then, with a deep breath, you place a foot to the step of the trailer - the one whose mailbox reads: Munson.

One of the older officers stops you.

"Woah, little miss," He blocks the door with his massive body. "You can't go in there."

Little miss?

You narrow your eyes.

"Why?" You cock your chin. "Scared I'll faint?"

Secretly, you think you might. But he doesn't need to know that.

He explains, "This ain't no place for a little girl like you." After, he allows his eyes to travel slowly down your person with what appears to be the faintest sneer under the nose.

"Well this little girl's seen more blood than you ever will." You fold your arms over your chest.

"Ma'am if you think you can make me uncomfortable, talking about feminine stuff-"

"-I wasn't."

The officer's brows pinch as to what on earth you might mean by that, whereas you grind your teeth. It's a stand off.

Luckily, Powell interrupts.

"Let her in." He orders. "She knows the boy and might be of help."

The officer's mustache twitches, his mouth opening at once to protest, but Powell fixes him with a stern glare so he slinks off, muttering, to a gaggle of other officers on guard out front.

You offer Powell half a smile, uncertain and dog-tired from the early wake-up call, but you're grateful for him sticking up for you.

"Is Eddie here?" You ask searchingly, your eyes no doubt widening to look big and afraid. You haven't seen him. Again, you hope he's alright.

Powell only shakes his head, face tight and hard, making the heart that's been pulsing in your mouth sink down to the pit of your stomach.

The chief steps aside in the doorframe for you to sidle your way in. Callahan's already there, pale like he's seen a ghost.

"Rookie's first murder." He tries to joke, slapping a palm to your shoulder.

"Don't be crass, man," You mutter. "Also... murder?" The word leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

"See for yourself." Callahan leads you along into the room.

He shifts his body out the way, revealing a form underneath a white sheet, flumped lifelessly on the floor in the living room. Buzzing around, the odd fly already clings to it. They also buzz around the windows, crawling all over the glass, their wings vibrating with a sound not too dissimilar to tiny chainsaws. The whole ordeal makes your mouth dry completely up, forcing your lips apart to sip small breaths of cold air in. You need it to keep yourself from buckling.

When the coroner peels back the sheet, you want to cry out to stop! But no sound comes out besides a pathetic, frayed wince.

Chrissy Cunningham.