✔️| Stand By Me: Imagines and Preferences ('86)

#24 - Eyeball Chambers (pt. 1)

By the time you made it out the door, your tears had already dried.

Cold air blows on your exposed arms, making goosebumps rise all over, and stinging the drying blood on your face.

Just minutes before, your dad had been drinking, and struck a beer bottle to the left side of your face when you were trying to get him to calm down from his drunken brawling.

It's been 10 years since he started to drink, and it's been 10 years since he's been this abusive. It's been the same ever since your mother left.

You walk down from your porch, and make your way down the front steps.

I gotta get out of there.

Castle Rock is very peaceful, sun up or sun down, so it wasn't a surprise to you when the only sound you could hear was the chirping of crickets.

In fact, it was a much better contrast than the bawling of a drunken father.

Blood starts to drip on your shoulder, the substance trickling down your cheek, and hanging from your jawline. The fact that your face was burning like hell was a major understatement.

Fuck my life. Just fuck it all.

Patching the wound as best as you can with a pack of tissues you continue walking.

"Holy fuck."

The voice from behind startles you. You whip around to find a guy in a crimson polo walking towards you.

"Are you alright?"

The guy wasn't any ordinary person. This guy was Eyeball Chambers. You knew him from school, being partners in crime with Ace Merrill. In fact, you sit next to him in AP literature.

Words can't seem to form, as if you're totally brain dead. It was crazy that a member of the Cobras was caring about you, let alone, speaking to you about a subject that was different from alcohol or sex.

"Fine," You snap, glaring at him, wanting to have your privacy.

He comes closer. You could tell just by his shadow illuminated on the paved walkway.

"That's a nasty cut." You could hear the pain in his voice, and listen to the sharp breath he takes in when he gets a closer look at the wound.

"No shit, Sherlock."

He looks up from the cut, smiling, almost at the verge of laughing.

"What's so funny?"

He shakes his head.

"I never thought that you could have this attitude. You're in my literature class, right? You're just always so quiet...."

You chuckle too. It was true. School had never been your strong subject.

"I can at least help clean you up a bit. Come with me. Please."

You have no other plans. At this moment, it seemed like you wanted to do anything but go back home.

You nod, and let him lead the way.