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cami040405 · 2 months ago

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Between Art and Silence - Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Chapter 7: Fragments of Truth

Summary: Bo begins his plot to plant doubts in your mind and Vincent, afraid of losing you, begins to devise a plan.

Chapter 6 here!

(A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this part, I was very busy with work and only found time to finish writing yesterday, I hope you like it!)

Bo watched from the top of the stairs, leaning against the rotten banister, where the varnish was already giving way to the splinters of exposed wood. The lit cigarette between his fingers trembled slightly, although his face was expressionless. The smoke rose in lazy spirals, framing the man's tense silhouette.

He didn't need to hear words. He had seen.

He had felt.

You were walking up the stairs with your eyes filled with a tenderness he hadn't seen in years. Not since Trudy died. Not since everything that was still delicate in that house was swallowed up by the darkness. And Vincent... your damned silent brother, who barely looked at anyone, was now spending too much time near you. Too much time watching. Too much time clinging.

Bo inhaled deeply, holding the cigarette tightly. The heat from the embers bit his fingers, but he didn't care.

"Damn it, Vincent..." he muttered between his teeth.

He bent down and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the now-closed door to his room. He wasn’t stupid. He could be rude, impatient, even brutal—but he was never stupid.

You were different from the others. He’d noticed it the second you’d crossed the town line with that curious gaze, scanning everything as if searching for meaning in the cracks. You weren’t like the others, and that was why you were dangerous.

Not because you screamed or fought. But because you thought. Because you felt. And, even worse… because you were starting to awaken something in Vincent.

Bo stood up slowly, his gaze hardening. His mind was buzzing with possibilities. Like a grumpy chess player, looking ten moves ahead. He knew he couldn’t act violently so soon. Not with you. Not with Vincent like this. Because Vincent wasn’t a small problem. He was a powder keg—and you were becoming the match.

Bo walked into the living room, past the family portraits, and stopped in front of his mother’s. Trudy smiled in the painting, her maternal expression frozen in time. It ate at him. Part of him wanted to please her, even after she was dead. Another part wanted to break that portrait and forget her forever.

“This isn’t going to end well,” he told himself.

But it wasn’t anger that was driving him now.

It was fear.

Fear of losing control. Of seeing everything they had built—however twisted, however dark—fall apart because Vincent was now starting to feel, and when Vincent felt, he was unpredictable. Bo had spent his entire life trying to protect his brother from a world that spat on him. That mocked his mask. That called him a freak. And now a girl had appeared, and with a kiss on the mask… undid years of isolation.

No.

He couldn’t let that happen without resistance. Bo stubbed out his cigarette hard against the wall. The bitter smell of smoke mixed with the wax that permeated the house. There was time. He knew how to play it cool. And you… You still didn't know all the masks Ambrose was hiding.

Not even his.

Bo wiped his greasy fingers with a grimy rag, his gaze fixed on the deserted road through the gas station window. The entire city seemed suspended in a dead time, and yet he could feel the tension vibrating beneath the cracked sidewalks as if the entire earth was breathing with difficulty.

You. Vincent.

He squeezed the rag in his hands until the fabric tore. What irritated him the most was not Vincent's attachment, but the fact that he himself was beginning to understand why.

You were... alive. Curious. Attentive. Unlike the people who usually passed by Ambrose and looked only at what they wanted to see. You looked beyond the surface. And that was too dangerous.

But Bo was a patient man. Since he was a child, he had been forced to wait. Wait in silence, with his ankles tied to the legs of the wooden chair, the ropes biting into his skin until they opened wounds. Trudy said it was for his own good, that he was "too electric." That he needed to learn to obey.

Vincent cried. But he cried in secret, behind his mask and behind the walls. Bo was the only one who got hit, the only one who stood up to him. Bo was the one who stood up for himself, the one who yelled back. The one who bled first.

Deep down, he always believed that Vincent was the favorite. The "good" twin. The twin who had talent. Who, despite his deformity, was still his mother's darling. She said that Vincent was a gift from God, while Bo was the storm, the evil twin.

Years later, it still burned. Even with Trudy dead, the echo of her voice still lived in the corners of the house.

Now, you appeared. Sweet, sensitive... and dangerous. Bo needed to stop you from breaking what was left of Vincent's loyalty. But he couldn't be direct. Not now. He needed to plant doubts.

Small but precise seeds.

Later that afternoon, he found you alone in the backyard, sitting on a stone step near an old iron basin. The sun barely filtered through the gray clouds. You stared at the horizon as if the world outside was still accessible. As if freedom was just a road ahead.

Bo approached silently. He coughed lightly, just so as not to scare you.

“Golden hour,” he said, stopping beside you. “My mother loved this time of day. She said it hid imperfections.”

You smiled with one corner of your mouth, but didn’t answer.

“Vincent likes it too,” he continued, as if talking to himself. “He usually goes out to draw at this time… when he’s not too busy.”

You looked at him, curious. There was always a dubious tone in Bo’s words.

“Busy with what?”

Bo shrugged.

“With his things. With… the little secrets we keep here.”

You frowned. But Bo just smiled. That smile of someone who knows more than they should. Of someone who tries to seem cordial, but speaks with barbs.

“You like my brother, right?” he asked, as if commenting on the weather.

You hesitated.

“He’s been nice to me… differently.”

Bo nodded slowly. He lit a cigarette, letting the silence between them last.

“Vincent is… complicated. Silent, yes. But not empty. He feels. More than he seems. More than he should, sometimes.”

“And is that bad?”

Bo exhaled smoke through his nose.

“It depends. Have you ever seen someone keep a feeling inside for too long? It festeres. And then, when it finally comes out… it destroys everything.”

You didn’t answer. But the tension in the air increased. Bo noticed.

“You know, sometimes I think he only doesn’t hurt you because he doesn’t understand what he feels yet. Because deep down… he’s afraid of himself.”

You looked up. Bo’s gaze was fixed on you.

“But what if he’s just trying to protect someone?” — you replied firmly.

Bo laughed dryly.

— Protect? Y/N, my dear, no one here knows how to do that. We learned to survive, not to take care of others.

He took another drag and threw the butt on the floor.

— You seem strong. But strength is also measured when it’s time to leave before everything falls on your head.

You remained silent. You knew there was truth in his words. But also manipulation. A careful game of shadows and broken truths. Bo took two steps back and said goodbye with a simple:

— Good night, dear.

And he disappeared around the side of the house.

You stood there. The wind messed up your hair. And for the first time… you felt doubt creep in like a thin crack beneath your feet.

After a while, you walked slowly back to the Sinclair house, the cold wind blowing against your face and the coat doing little to contain the shiver that ran up your spine. But it wasn't just the weather.

There was something different in your mind now — like a planted seed, germinating in silence. The conversation with Bo echoed in your head like a dissonant song.

"Do you really know him?"

You wanted to ignore it. You wanted to believe that Bo was just trying to manipulate you. But there was something in his gaze… something that brought truth mixed with lies, enough to destabilize your certainties.

You arrived at the house and hesitated for a second before entering. The door creaked, but there was no one in the hall. The hallways were quiet, as if the entire house was holding its breath. You went up to your room and closed the door behind you. You leaned against the wood, your eyes closed, trying to control the lump in your throat.

Vincent.

His touch was still present in your memory—the warmth beneath his glove, the slight tremor of his breath behind his mask, the way he drew back after the kiss on his cheek, as if he didn’t know how to react. There was sweetness in him. Fragility. But now, the shadow of doubt threatened to cover it all.

What if Bo was right?

What if Vincent was complicit in everything, even if silently?

Outside, the sun was hiding behind heavy clouds. The light inside the room seemed weaker, more muted. You sat up in bed and took the old document you had found at the gas station out of your pocket. The woman in the photo stared at you with happy eyes, frozen in time—a voiceless victim, like the mannequins in the basement.

“What did you see, Vincent?” you murmured to yourself. “What did you do?”

Down below, hidden behind the house, Bo watched from the back porch, a cigarette burning between his fingers and his gaze fixed on your bedroom window. His jaw was clenched, his eyes half-closed. For a moment, he seemed lost in old memories.

His mother’s screams. The chair they tied him to. The restraints. The feeling of helplessness, of anger. And, above all, the frustration of never having been the “perfect son.”

That role had always been Vincent’s, the silent twin. The favorite.

“You always did everything she wanted,” Bo murmured, as if speaking to the past. “Always so proper... so obedient...”

The cigarette crackled in his fingers, lightly burning his skin, but he didn’t react.

“But now you want her? Do you want her to see you with different eyes? No. That’s not going to happen.”

Bo took a step back, lighting another cigarette.

“I’m going to open her eyes. Slowly. I’m going to show her who you really are, little brother. And when she sees... when she understands...”

He left the sentence hanging, a bitter smile curving his lips.

Bo knew he couldn’t make you run away—not now. But he could do what he did best: twist truths, manipulate silences, push people into the abyss using only words.

And he had barely begun.

Meanwhile, Vincent was alone in his sanctuary of shadows and wax. The workshop, lit by a few lamps hanging from the ceiling, was quiet—only the rhythmic sound of tools being organized by skilled hands filled the room.

But his mind, on the contrary, was a whirlwind. The mask over his face was now heavier than ever. He could feel the sweat dripping beneath it, the heated leather pressing against his scarred face, reminding him of everything he was trying to forget.

He used it to hide. To protect himself. But also... to keep others from seeing what remained inside. He looked at the life-size wax sculpture he had been secretly molding for the last few nights. It wasn’t a victim. It wasn’t a trophy.

It was you.

The delicate curve of your face, your eyes slightly closed like when you smiled without showing your teeth, your hair molded with obsessive patience, flowing down your shoulders. He wasn’t recreating you out of violence, as he had done so many other times. He did it because he wanted to preserve you. Because somehow, his presence had reconfigured everything he knew as right.

But now... Bo was moving.

Vincent knew. He could see it in the sidelong glances, the venom-filled silences. Bo was unpredictable, but he was methodical. He wouldn’t kill you impulsively—he would break you inside, make you turn away from Vincent. Run from him in fear.

The memory of the kiss on his mask still burned into his skin.

You.

The first person since your mother who had touched you without horror. You hadn’t screamed when you first saw him. You hadn’t recoiled. You hadn’t treated him like a monster. And more than that, you listened to him. Even in your silence. Even without words.

But that was what scared him.

What if you found out?

What if you saw what he’d already done?

What if you looked at him the way everyone else had—with revulsion and fear?

Vincent sat on the cold floor of the workshop, leaning his back against one of the shelves. His hands were shaking slightly. He looked at his fingers, covered in dried wax and calluses. How many lives had passed through his hands? How many had been paralyzed by his obedience?

He obeyed. He always had. Ever since he was a child. He obeyed his mother, the idea of art. He obeyed Bo, the veiled violence of her orders. Because it was easier to keep quiet and follow than to fight. Because fighting always ended in pain. Because his scream had never been heard—and so he had learned to keep quiet.

But you… You were waking something up inside him. And that was what made him panic. Because he knew he couldn’t have you. Not in this place. Not among the lies, the hidden bodies, and the voices of the past echoing off the wax walls. Vincent stood, his eyes fixed on your molded figure before him. He touched the sculpture, his fingers resting on the curve of your shoulder with an almost reverent care. He wanted to protect you. But protecting you also meant keeping you from the truth.

And you were already too close.

What are you going to do, Vincent?

Are you going to lock her up here, like the others? Are you going to lie to her until the end?

Or are you going to let her go and bear the pain of being left behind?

But he couldn't choose either option.

Because, for the first time, he wanted to be seen.

And being seen by you... meant showing everything—including the monster he'd always hidden.

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small-sinclair · 9 months ago

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Broken Reflection

Whumptober 5: Sunburn

Dad!Bo Sinclair x daughter/child!reader (5-6 years old)

Tw: yelling, Bo being a bit aggressive, soft ending

Healing Salve

“I told you over and over to stay away from Vincent’s wax melter!” He snaps, his anger building up. “You have any idea how stupid you are? Any clue?”

You could hear him yelling from the stairs as he came up to the bathroom where you were. You were shaking as you tried to put aloe on your burns, but tears stung your eyes and made it blur. You didn’t mean to be that close to the wax melter; you just wanted to look inside it! How were you supposed to know that was hot to touch and could burn you when you rested your arm against the metal? How are you supposed to learn if you never try it? Bo told you time and time, over and over, not to go into Vincent’s workspace without him, but you were curios today and went down in secret. You always wanted to see what it looked like on the inside, so who was Bo to be mad at because he never told you?

“Answer me!” His shouts, his hand hitting the door, causing you jump. “You’re just as stupid as your mother! Didn’t know how to listen to a simple thing... are you dumb or something?” You tried not to flinch when he yelled, but your shoulder jerked and tensed as he yelled, “Now, I gotta make sure you ain’t leavin’ dis house! ‘Cause I thought you were better than dat!” His eyes harden when your eyes didn’t look up at his. “Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you!”

His hand turned you around and grabbed a hold of your face, forcing you to look up—

Bo’s angry blue eyes broken when a sob escaped your lips, crying out, “I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”

Hsi tight grip loosens, and he lets go as he steps away from you. He looked down at his hands, realizing they were shaking, then looked at himself in the mirror on the wall in the hall. He didn’t see himself; he saw Trudy and his father with a victory smile as if they were saying that they taught him well. He was becoming like his own parents, and it burned him.

“Sunshine,” he breathed, his eyes softening. “Darlin’, I-I didn’t mean...shit, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He took slow steps and knelt in front of your trembling form. “My God—Papa’s so sorry. He didn’t mean for his anger to be like that. He’s sorry...he’s so sorry.” His hands still shook as he held your arms, feeling like you were glass. He’ll do better; he has to do better.

And he compared you to your mother—

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, holding back a sob. “I’m sorry—”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he hushes softly, his fingers being gentle as he looked over you. “Dida get hurt anywhere else?”

You shook your head as fat tears fell slow.

“Hey, hey,” he cupped his large, calloused hand over your cheek, thumbing away a tear. “It’ll be right. It’ll be right, I swear.” He scooped you up in his arms, holding you tightly as he stood up, and takes the healing salve. “I’ll take care of it...I’m here. Papa’s here.”

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vampyreelf · 2 years ago

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Runaway

Request: hello! ive been having MAJOR house of wax/vincent brainrot....im wondering if you can do a vincent sinclair small fic? or something like that, im not used to fic terms,,,,,, it can be anything you want to write abt :3

A/N: Vincent Sinclair is so pookie, having brainrot about him is so valid and I totally get you, I hope you like it, let me know. 🫶

Summary: After suffering a mental breakdown, you decide to go on a road trip. You stumble upon a small town called Ambrose, and things escalate from there.

Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Warnings: just your run of the mill murder mentions, nothing much and dark undertones, this was low key fluffly.

GIF by @coppoladelrey

After you had a mental breakdown for being too overworked, you decided to go on a road trip so you can relax and just see new places. You avoided the highways because driving on those was extremely depressing so you were in country roads, now you were in Louisiana. It was hot and you were so thankful for your A/C being so powerful.

You decided to stop in a small town that you stumbled upon, it was around 1:00 PM and it was time to get more snacks and water, you parked your car in front of the small shop and you left the car. When you tried to enter the shop, it was locked. You found it odd since it was 24 hours, but you decided to wait to open again, you were in no rush so you decided to wait in your car.

Losing track of time playing games on your phone, you heard someone knocking at your window, you yelled and put your hand on your chest. You looked and you saw a man in a suit, you smiled tightly at him and left the car to be able to talk to him.

“You alright, sugar?” Bo thought it was extremely odd that not even Lester was able to see where you were coming from.

“Yeah, just passing by. I needed to buy some snacks for the journey, but it seems to be closed.” You pointed at the shop and Bo smiled at you.

“I think the owner had to leave for a few hours, you’re than welcomed to wait. But you shouldn’t in the car, come on I’ll walk you around the city, we have a wax museum that’s really cool. I’m Bo, by the way.” He raised his hand for you to shake and you did, you also introduced yourself.

The two of you walked towards the museum, and Bo kept asking questions such as why you were travelling, where you were heading and why you were by yourself. You didn't like the fact that he was almost interrogating you but you tried to keep your answers to a minimum. You weren’t to divulge the state of your mental health for this trip to be possible, you didn't resent Bo, you simply blamed it on southern hospitality so you remained pleasant and polite.

“Here we are, I have the keys to it so I can show you around.” Bo opened the door and allowed you to enter before him and he started telling the story about the museum. “Trudy was the woman that started it all, she had great talent we try to keep her legacy alive.” You looked at the the wax figures and they’re amazing, you’ve never seen anything like this before.

“It’s beautiful, who’s the current artist?” You asked whilst still looking at the statues, it was like nothing you’ve ever seen in your life before.

“His name is Vincent.” Bo informed you, he was watching you admiring Vincent’s work with genuine wonder and that made him smile.

“I’d love to meet him.” That was the only outcome for you, meeting the genius behind these sculptures, you felt a connection with him even though you have no idea who he is.

“He’s, well how do you say it? A recluse?” Bo explained to you and the way you deflated made his heart clench, why was he so affected by your sadness? He already looked at you with this sense of protection, he didn't want to kill you, it was strange.

“That’s a pity, it would be great to meet him.” You looked so sad, and Bo couldn’t have that. Vincent would kill him but if it was a bad idea Vincent was going to kill you anyway.

“Well, he lives down here. You can try to talk to him, can’t make any promises though.” Bo showed you the way and so you did, it was dark and you could tell that candles were lit.

Vincent was freaking out, why would Bo do this? Vincent didn't want to kill you at all, and you seemed very interested in his art. Ever since you and Bo entered the museum, Vincent was admiring you and he wanted to make you his muse.

“Hello? Vincent? I was looking at your art and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’d love to meet you if you want.” The hope in your voice was the most amazing thing for Vincent, you were so respectful and you loved his art Vincent’s heart was skipping a beat, he wanted to get to know you but you would scream and run away as soon as you saw him. “I hope you can hear me, your art is amazing.” Vincent took a deep breath and showed in your field of vision and he couldn’t even look up to your face of disgust.

“Hi! I’m so glad to meet you, Bo said that you were more of an introvert so it’s an honour.” You got close to him and raised your hand to shake Vincent’s, he reluctantly raised his and looked at you and you had the biggest smile Vincent has ever seen. He didn't say anything and you assumed that he was a man of few words. “Well, I think that I should leave you be. You’re probably very busy and I didn't mean to intrude, so I should get going.” Vincent started panicking, he didn't want you to leave.

Vincent grabbed your arm and guided you to one of his almost finished figure, you were admiring Vincent’s work and he was admiring you, your eyes, your cheeks, your complexion. He didn't want you to leave, and he didn't want you to die, he needed you.

“That’s amazing, Vincent. Thank you for showing me this.” You put your hand in his arm and smiled at him warmly, you couldn’t deny that his shy nature drew you in. You wanted to learn more about him, maybe you could stay a bit longer in this town. Vincent nodded and in a bold move, he put his hand on top of yours. “I hope that you can say yes, but totally alright if you don’t…would you like to go out for a cup of coffee with me?” You internally cringed with how awkward you were but Vincent couldn’t help but love it. He nodded and he was glad he did, because he was able to see the biggest smile he has ever seen.

“Great, well I better find a hotel. Do you know any?” Vincent nodded his head, he would need Bo’s help to keep you here. He doesn��t want you to leave.

You’re his, his muse, forever.

Bo already got your car broken when he didn't hear any screams he realised that Vincent didn't want you to leave, at all. Meanwhile, you and Vincent were spending this time contemplating art and talking about it, you were so excited where this was taking you, and Vincent already knew that you weren’t leaving at all.

#vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x you #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x y/n #house of wax fanfiction #house of wax 2005 #slasher fanfiction #slasher x reader

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unknownmelodies · 1 month ago

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Sinclair Voyance lore drop

ft. sinclair brothers (mainly about bo)

Back when the start of the band, Bo felt guilt for everything sometimes, he feels at times that they made their little siblings life harder with his stupid dreams, the many arguments he had with his mom, then crying into vincents hair telling him he's had enough, with one last argument causing Trudy to tell Bo to get the fuck out of her house, and he ended up bringing his brothers with him, not wanting to be alone but not letting their brothers remain with a woman like Trudy, he had stupid thoughts early on thinking vincent and lester would have had it better with Trudy back at home without him, vincent was talented, lester was a ray of sunshine, and he was maybe just envious..and rebellious. but after years had passed those thoughts were quickly swipped away beacuse Bo knows the thruth of everything now, he is reassured now that what he did was the better choice for him, and the others. And never wants Trudy to see him, and his brothers. even though trudy somehow invades his mind time to time...

#slasher band au #band au #slasher au #slasher #slasher! band au #slasher!band au #melodyrants #THIS BARELY MAKES SENSE AAAAAAAAAAAAH #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #trudy sinclair #house of wax headcanons #house of wax 2005 headcanons #bo sinclair headcanons #vincent sinclair headcanons #lester sinclair headcanons

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msookyspooky · 2 years ago

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No because imagine the Sinclair brother's not use to affection and being pampered and being a mess about it.

♡♡♡

Imagine Vincent never receiving any nurturing physical touch since Trudy died. Covering his face completely as a man instead of a partial mask he had as a child. Always standoffish to others and deep diving in his work to ignore anything outside completing the town. Throwing his life away to think himself even more a thing than man that didn't deserve love....Absolutely ready to cry when his s/o brushes his hair and peppers his imperfect face in kisses. When they kiss him when his mask falls off. When they playfight with him and treat him like a normal human being instead of an ugly emotionless thing his parents and society told him he was and even his twin echoed at times. Someone didn't think he was a freak. Someone loved him. Someone gave him affection without fear and he's almost got happy tears in his eye over it.

Imagine Bo never receiving much physical affection growing up as the burden child; acting like he didn't need something so weak anyways because it was better than hurting so bad from not being wanted. Not having many partners with his sole purpose being Ambrose and when he did get a person they were tied up and unwilling and didn't touch him unless instructed because it was safer for him emotionally that way to be in control. They can't run away or hurt you that way... He's for once speechless over his s/o offering a backrub after he worked so hard on something yet they want nothing in return. Or they absent-mindedly comb their fingers through his hair while watching tv not minding the scar under his crown of his hair. Not minding the scars on his wrist and kissing them when he got too deep in thoughts of the past. The few reminders he was as much a freak as his brother and they didn't care. Or they hug him from behind when he's not busy just because or make him lunch with a note because they thought of him...Without force, someone thought of him. How speechless he is at the butterflies he feels that he doesn't know what to do. Someone actually thought kindly of him without judging him or force.

Imagine Lester as the forgotten youngest that just wants so badly to be family and included yet also feels distant from his brothers and his parents and Mama's 'wish' to restore the town. Living a lonely life as a roadkill clean up man living alone somewhere in the woods away from Ambrose because of people judging his grimy appearance, his job, his humor and of course what his family does...Blushing and smiling a love struck wobbly grin when his s/o displays interest in him and his work. Chuckling and blushing when they hug him despite the smell or help wash him up when he gets home after a long day. Washing his face and hair and body tenderly while asking about his day. Showing interest. Someone cares enough to know about him or pay attention to him. Smitten when they cuddle him and he hugs them tight soaking in these cuddles like they'll be taken from him.

#idc Bo may be a perv and a cold asshole but I think with an s/o he's easily taken aback by affection he's not use to #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax (2005)

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barenecessiteas · 8 months ago

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More Random Sinclair Headcanons Cuz I Can't Get Them Out of My Head

Hello my lovelies, I'm back with more House of Wax Headcanons that absolutely nobody wanted or asked for lol. Since we got Victor and Trudy out of the way, we can now move on to the boys. I'm starting off with beautiful sweet summer child Lester because he doesn't get enough love. Hope you enjoy 😊

Lester Sinclair

Lester was definitely an unplanned baby. His parents already felt like they had their hands full with the twins, so they kinda freaked out when Trudy got pregnant again

Trudy was particularly freaked because she was worried something would be physically wrong with him, like how the twins were conjoined. That and her post partum was already terrible from the twins she wasn't looking forward to that

Thankfully, Lester was born perfectly healthy. Both Trudy and Victor were SO relieved

He was also a very calm and happy baby overall. He didn't really cry that much, and when he did it was easy to soothe him once they figured out what he needed (like feeding, a nap, etc.)

The twins were 6 when Lester was born. A few days after Trudy gave birth to him, Bo asked if they could take him back to the hospital because he "didn't like him because he was weird looking" 😭

He warmed up to Lester more as he got older because Lester always seemed to smile and laugh at everything Bo did. To this day he still has no idea why baby Lester found him so entertaining but he just kinda accepted it

Vincent was definitely more receptive to having a new baby in the house. For the first year or so, he just kinda liked to hang around and watch Lester. Though because of the mask Lester would just kinda stare back at him most of the time

That was until he accidentally knocked Vincent's mask off. He was a little over a year old, Vincent was picking him up, and he went to touch Vincent's face

Vincent was horrified at first because he was SURE Lester would cry at the sight of his face

Lester, however, just started smiling, giggling, and gently grabbing at Vincent's face. This was the first time he ever smiled at Vincent

This did help Vincent's self esteem a little, and he would take his mask off if it was just him and Lester around

As he got older, Lester was just naturally a happier and more easy going child. He always found ways to entertain himself or keep himself occupied

Part of this is because, even as a baby, he picked up on the fact that his parents seemed to argue less if he was all cute and smiley and laughing. Babies are very perceptive, and it seemed like this helped to keep his family from arguing as much because they'd be cooing and fawning over him on how cute this baby was

This is the main reason why he got much less attention from his parents. It wasn't necessarily on purpose, Trudy and Victor had the mentality of "Well he's so self-sufficient and easy to manage that it's okay if we focus on our other two kids a little more"

He was closer to his father than he was with his mother. Even though Victor wasn't around as much, Lester loved having him talk about anatomy and bones. He thought it was so cool as a kid!

Vincent was more interested in that stuff too, but more from an artistic standpoint. Still, this helped them bond a little as they grew up

He and Bo bonded over a shared love of shooting and hunting. Their dad would take them out on occasion and they loved it. Vincent wasn't really interested in that stuff as much, so it was often just Bo, Lester, and Victor

Both he and Bo have excellent marksmanship because of this

He was also one of those kids that came home completely covered and dirt and mud or whatever when he played outside. He never cared about getting dirty and he just loved playing outside

Whenever he had nightmares as a kid, he would go crawl into either Bo or Vincent's bed with them instead of going to his parents. He just spent more time with his brothers, so it never really crossed his mind to seek his parents out

Bo would act all bothered by the fact that his baby brother was snuggling up to him in bed, but he never actually minded

Vincent never once complained when Lester snuck into his bed after a nightmare. He'd even tuck Lester in before climbing back in to sleep

He loves animals so much, always has since he was little

This is kinda where the roadkill fascination came in? At first he'd always be sad whenever he'd see a dead squirrel or deer in the road. It still makes him a little sad, but Trudy would always try to soothe him by saying it was just the circle of life or whatever. He just kinda sees it as a natural part of life now

Lester hated seeing cars keep running over animals, even though they were already dead and couldn't feel it. That's when he'd start picking up roadkill as a kid and bringing them into the woods around the town

Victor had told him that dead animals help the trees and plants grow, so he figured it was better than having them flattened in the road

Trudy was less than thrilled whenever Lester would come back home smelling like roadkill with blood and dirt on his hands. Bo and Vincent thought it was hysterical

It became routine that Lester always needed a thorough bath before supper. The frequent washing actually made him prone to really annoying eczema. He liked being clean but he couldn't stand the itching

Trudy was the one who would help him put on lotion and ointment to make him feel better. She was also the one to always patch him up when he got hurt playing outside. It was probably some of her most motherly moments just doing those simple things alone

After Trudy and Victor both passed, it was Lester's idea to move out of the house. He moved into the cabin their family had in the woods where Victor would take him and Bo when they went hunting

He figured it would be easier for Bo and Vincent to not have to deal with the roadkill smell and his constant long showers (because Bo always loved to complain about this stuff to him)

He was already pretty self sufficient and independent anyway, and he'd be close to home. He still got to frequently see his brothers

Bo acted relieved when Lester moved out, but he secretly missed having his baby brother in the house with him. But don't tell him I told you that. He'll deny it until the day he dies

Lester is very much aware of the killings and wax project, as I'm sure most of us believe. He was absolutely pissed when he found out about it though

He doesn't really enjoy it that much, but his loyalty to his family outweighs any reservations he has about leading people to their death

Not everyone they send to Ambrose dies. Lester will usually vouches for the people who are nice to him, and Bo and Vincent will go along with it

It's when people would treat him like shit that he started not minding about them dying so much lol

He is Jonesy's second favorite person in the whole wide world (after Vincent). Whenever he comes over he lets Jonesy tackle him to the floor with kisses

He visits his brothers at least a few times a week. He comes over for dinner most days and tends to spend the day with them over the weekends

Bo again acts annoyed but he's secretly thrilled whenever Lester comes home to spend time with them. They'll drink beer and watch TV together whenever he's over

Lester encourages Vincent to join them in playing pool. Sometimes it'll even just be him and Vincent playing together

These are his happiest moments, when it's just him, his brothers, and Jonesy

Alright I'll stop here before you all get annoyed with me lol. Hope you all enjoyed these 💕

#Lester Sinclair #house of wax Lester Sinclair #house of wax Lester #house of wax 2005 #Bo Sinclair #house of wax Bo Sinclair #house of wax Bo #Vincent Sinclair #house of wax Vincent Sinclair #house of wax Vincent #Trudy Sinclair #house of wax Trudy Sinclair #house of wax Trudy #Victor Sinclair #house of wax Victor Sinclair #house of wax Victor #Jonesy Sinclair #house of wax Jonesy Sinclair #house of wax Jonesy

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adalwolfgang · 2 years ago

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What shall I tell my ma...

Chapter 1

Teen!Beaugard (Bo) Sinclair x Teen!Fem!reader

Summary: You met Beaugard Sinclair back in 1989 when Ambrose was still heavily settled with people. This is how it yalls story started.

A/N for future chapters: Bo is 17 and you're 16 and the story takes place in 1989, back then if you told a kid to go left, they'd go right. I asked my ma who was born in 1974 in a rural town questions before writing this and all I got to say is, back then things were very different. Kids underage did things they shouldn't have been doing but did it anyway. That being said I don't condone kids under the age of 18 doing anything that's mentioned below or in future chapters. This is fictional, not real life. I also plan to make this a series if people ask for it enough.

Warnings: 1989, Victor and Trudy Sinclair, Bo being Bo, Small harassment, Characters might be a little ooc.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner(s)!

You step over the small grate as you make your way to the front door of the gas station. A canister held firmly in your hand. Your fathers truck ran out of gas, so he sent you into town with $10 to fetch some for him. In return, he'd given you 5 more dollars to buy a treat for yourself at the gas station. It wasn't uncommon for kids your age to be running errands like this for your parents or anyone for that matter.

The door chimed as you entered. Led Zeppelin meets your ears as you spot a radio resting on the counter. You walk around a bit, looking over the selection of drinks and snacks. As you do, a brunette around your age it seemed, walked out of the back room holding a dirty rag. When it spots you, a small smirk appearing on his face.

"How can ah help ya little lady?" He wipes his hands clean with the rag before tossing it over his shoulder and going behind the counter. His eyes never leaving yours.

You raise the canister a little in your hand, "In need of some gas. Whatever $10 will get me." You place the canister on the counter, along with a drink you picked up from the cooler. "I'd also like to buy this please."

"We got plenty uh fuel, no problem'." He took the canister off the counter and walked to the back. After a couple minutes, he came back, setting the now full canister on the counter. As he rings up your drink, he try's making small talk. "Are ya headin' sumwhere in particular or yer uh local?"

"I live just outside of Ambrose, just never really had a reason to stop by here until now," You explain to the young man as you watch him ring you up. You give him a puzzled look when all he charges you for is the drink.

"I see." That wasn't interesting at all he thought. When he notices your confusion, his smirk grows bigger. "On thuh house since yer uh new face." His eyes wander over your figure before looking back up at your face. "Yer uh purdy little thang though," he looks you up and down once more, clicking his tongue in thought. "Ya got anybody waitin' for ya back home?" he asked with a teasing grin.

You bite the inside of your cheek, your grip tightening on the handle of the canister. "Just my parents. I best get back before my dad runs me a new one for wasting time," You explain as you give a polite smile. His face falls a little in disappointment before perking back up as if his demeanor hadn't changed.

"How often do ya thank you'll come back here again? Sure ya can't stay uh bit? It gets quite borin' here alone..." He leans his elbow on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. His eyes traveling up your body, lingering for a moment on the curve of your hip. He smirked teasingly, "Ah promise, you'd enjoy yerself."

You give a nervous laugh nodding your head to him before muttering a small goodbye and retreating out of the station with the canister and your drink held firmly in your hands. Bo watches your retreating form, smiling and shaking his head to himself as he lets out a small sigh. His eyes spot a couple of bills laying under a notepad, this causes him to smile softly at the cash. "Touché darlin'...."

A few days go by as you carry on with life. The small interaction at the gas station long forgotten. You walk down the street of Ambrose, a small list of errands your mother had tasked you to do for the day. As you read over the list, you hear someone call out, "Hey!" You look around for the voice, quickly spotting the guy from the gas station a few days prior sitting in an old Chevy k-30. He hops out of the truck and start jogging over to you. "Where ya goin', purdy girl?" He walked right infront of you, blocking your path.

Your faces show a little of puzzlement and amusement. You ignore his question, instead asking one of your own. "Aren't you that mechanic at the station?"

"The mechanic, yeah. Bo Sinclair." He nodded with a grin, his eyes moving up and down your body before they meet yours again. "...And you?" He asked, casually wrapping an arm around your waist. "Purdy girl like you gotta' hav' uh name." He asked playfully.

Your face heats up a little from the bold gesture, a nervous smile appearing on your face. "Why do you want to know my name?"

"Cuz ah just wanna make sure ah git' yer name right when I'm introducin' ya to mah ma as mah new girlfriend!" Bo said, that teasing smirk back on his face, he was clearly not backing down. "So? Whut shall ah tell mah ma when ya come back home with may fer dinner?" He said, the playful tone in his voice clear.

"Mhm....well, as interesting as it would be meeting your ma, I have errands to do, so I'll have to politely decline. But I'll generous with telling you my name since you gave me yours. It's (Name)." You explain as you move away from his grasp, making sure your list wasn't crumbled. You start walking again, leaving Bo to talk to himself for a second.

"Name," Bo said, tasting how it rolled off his tongue. "I like thet." He had a grin on his face, the sound of your name on his tongue felt oddly charming to him. "Ah promise mah ma ain't scary," he cuts himself off before adding "atleast not tuh guest's." He comes back to reality when he notices you walking away. He lets out a short huff in annoyance before calling out to you, "The more ya reject uh man, the more he wants ya!" Bo shouted, as if it was the truth, a smug grin plastered on his face. "It's gist the way it iz!" He shouted, shrugging before he continued with a teasing tone. "But ya gist keep playin' chur little game girl! Eventchly you'll give into me!" He shouted one final time before you turned a corner, a smirk still plastered on his face. "I know it..."

Tags: @ninakuli

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loveandmurders · 3 months ago

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Red string and crimson hands (poly!Sinclair brothers x f!reader) - Part I

Hi everyone, I'm posting the first part of a new series requested by @mrstargayen09

The request: "In a world where soulmates are connected by an invisible red string, Y/N has always seen hers—threading through city streets, weaving between strangers, leading her toward someone she has never met. She’s always dreamed of a soft, fairy-tale romance, but fate has other plans. One rainy night, she finally follows the string to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Inside, she finds the Sinclair brothers again, mysterious and beautiful men with intense eyes and blood-stained hands. The string ties them together, but the sight before her freezes her heart—each of them is kneeling beside a lifeless body, fresh blood pooling beneath them. They look at her, fear flashing across their face. Y/N should run. She should scream. But instead, she steps closer. Something about them—about the way their string glows brighter, about the sorrow in their eyes—tells her there’s more to the story than just a crime. As they grow closer, Y/N learns the truth: the Sinclair brothers aren’t murderers by choice. They've been cursed, bound to take lives in exchange for their own survival and the continuation of their legacy. The weight of their actions has nearly crushed them—until she arrived, the one person who could rewrite their fate. But can love really bloom when their hands are stained with blood? Or will fate demand its price, tearing them apart just as they’ve finally found each other?

Back story: They're childhood friends and Y/N thought they stopped the killing after Trudy and Dr Sinclair died."

Warnings: no proof reading, reader wakes up at the hospital, amnesia, mentions of pain, panic, sadness, despair, blood, killers

When you opened your eyes, white was the first thing greeting you back to the world of the living.

But it was so bright, it made you wince in pain, and you unconsciously brought your hand over your face to protect yourself. For a brief instant, you thought that darkness was much nicer.

After a little while, you found the strength to blink your eyes open again; your survival instinct was probably kicking in and trying very hard to make sure you were in a safe place. It was funny in a way, because you didn’t remember being in danger before, and if you had been more attentive, you would have wondered where that thought came from. As you opened your eyes, your attention didn’t land on the room around you, but on the first colour greeting you back to reality: red.

But unlike the brightness that seemed to completely engulf you, red was in the form of a string dancing in the air, like a playful friend waiting to be followed. You didn’t understand what it was; it seemed so unreal. You wondered if you were dreaming. That was until a doctor arrived next to your bed. She called your name once or twice before you finally looked up at her. You quickly glanced around you, and understood you were at the hospital. Your body fully woke up as pain made its presence known. You tried not to groan but you were getting physically uncomfortable. It even made you forget about the red string waving at you.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked

You wanted to reply but you struggled to talk and frowned in worry. She shushed you, trying to appease you. You eventually managed to creak out a “What happened?”

“You don’t remember? You had a bad bike accident. But you got very lucky, with just a few broken ribs and a head trauma. We just need to make sure that no other kind of damage happened.” she explained to you and you tried to remember the accident, but your memory seemed hazy.

“My parents…” you whispered and she nodded

“We found your wallet, and called them right away. I need you to rest some more before I let them come and see you, okay?” she replied

You wanted to see them right away, but actually your eyelids were already heavy. She gave you some painkillers, and with the relief of the pain leaving your body, you fell asleep almost instantly.

When you woke up again, you were in pain once more, but you felt more awake this time. You managed to talk almost normally too. The doctor came back and sat in front of you. She started to test your capacity to control your body, while keeping you in bed. And then she asked you questions about your past.

You quickly realised that a lot of it was gone.

You remembered your name, your parents names, who was the president and other things directly linked to the present or to usual knowledge (you still knew how to read and write for instance), but you had massive black holes in your memory. For example, you didn’t remember the city you were born in.

It was making you panic. You needed to remember your past, you needed to remember all of this, otherwise how would you know who you were? The doctor appeased you once again, she understood it was frightening, but she was hopeful. You were doing well otherwise, and it wasn’t uncommon for an accident like that to alter the memory temporarily. She was certain it would come back to you very soon.

She finally agreed for your parents to visit you. You were so happy to see them and you started to cry. The shock of everything was hitting you hard as they tenderly hugged you, trying to calm you down.

“It’s alright, baby, you’re fine” your mother whispered to you and you nodded, the tears were slowly stopping.

When you told them you didn’t remember your past, your parents exchanged a look.

“You mean you don’t remember Ambrose?” your father asked and you nodded, even if the name seemed vaguely familiar.

“Maybe that accident is a miracle then” your mother murmured and your eyes widened at such words “No, I mean… I’m so sorry you’re in pain and you have no idea how terrified your father and I were when we got called by the hospital but… Ambrose is… a bad place with a lot of bad people, and it’s for the best if you don’t have to remember it anymore. Trust me, it’ll make things a lot simpler” your mother explained and you tried to believe her.

All the time you spent at the hospital, you had only two things in mind: the name of Ambrose and the red string. One night, you had asked about it to your parents, because you knew you could trust them.

“Oh so you can still see it?” your mother hummed

“In your mother’s family, one person per generation can see the string attaching them to their soulmates” your father explained “and in this generation, it’s you. You’ve always been able to see it, since the moment you were born.”

“And I didn’t follow it?” you asked

Your parents stayed silent for a little moment.

“Sometimes soulmates aren’t a good thing” your mother finally replied

“I don’t understand” you replied “if the string…” you started but your parents cut you off

“Please, baby, promise me you won’t try and follow it.” she begged you and you looked up at your father, trying to understand

“Your mother is right… There is a reason why your soulmates aren’t there by your side” your father added

“Soulmates? Plural?” you frowned “Wait you know who they are?!” you exclaimed

“Yes, unfortunately. You grew up all together. And you always said the red strings were attaching you all. And we always hoped it wasn’t true. When you got old enough to understand what it was, we couldn’t deny that they were your soulmates. But they are bad people. Their parents were dangerous, and those children…” your mother said

“A family of monsters.” your father ended

“They live in Ambrose?” you asked

“Lived. We don’t know now, and it doesn’t matter, because when we left, you agreed it was for the best. Awful things happened, and that is why we’re so happy you don’t remember any of it. You don’t have to bear this burden anymore” you mother continued

“You just need to never follow the red string, to actually stay far away from it, and everything will be alright. We know that sometimes you feel sad over the loss of your soulmates, but now you are free from that feeling.” your father added, quite hopeful it would be a new start for you.

Sadness.

Yes, that was definitively what you were feeling as you were quietly watching the red string. You didn’t remember your soulmates, but your heart definitely remembered them and what was forever gone.

From what your parents told you, you had been away from your soulmates for over a decade. You couldn’t imagine how terrible it must have been for yourself: knowing you had soulmates, knowing them, knowing where they were, knowing how to easily find them, and yet deciding to stay away from them. Your father had to be right, they had to be monsters or you wouldn’t have been able to stay away from them.

You didn’t realise tears were cascading down your face, until a nurse came to check on you and worriedly asked you if you were alright. You gently shook your head and tried to smile at him.

It wasn’t just sadness.

It was as if something was missing. It was a hole inside your chest. It was such a cruel and violent desire that you couldn’t satisfy, and it burning you from the inside. You knew that curiosity killed the cat, and with everything your parents told you, you couldn’t have a look at Ambrose or at the end of the red string. It was too dangerous.

You needed to take the chance that you were granting, you needed to move on and to forget about the red string. Maybe that if you were focusing on other things, you could pretend it didn’t exist.

In a way, it was indeed easier, because you didn’t know what you were missing. Or at least, you knew that what was missing was actually something toxic for you and it was better to not have it in your life. You didn’t have any kind of tender memories with those people that would haunt you at night. You even tried to convince yourself that your soulmates weren’t loving or caring about you that much, otherwise they wouldn’t have let you go or they would have found their way back to you. If over a decade, they hadn’t been able to do so, it meant that you didn’t matter that much.

Yes, it was alright, you didn't want something you didn’t know anyways. It was alright if in this existence, you didn’t live with your soulmates either.

Soulmates are such an overrated concept anyways, right?

Trying to get better and out of the hospital allowed you to put the red string aside. Then you worked hard to get back to a normal life.

At night, you were welcoming the pain of your broken ribs, because it allowed you to focus on something else.

Months went by and the accident was just a souvenir now. The only thing it left behind was this “luck” of not remembering Ambrose or your soulmates. You pretended everything was alright in front of your parents, your friends, your colleagues. Yes, you were happy, you were doing well, you were living a perfectly quiet and peaceful life.

But at night, even in the complete darkness of your room, the crimson string was still there, hanging above your head.

Sometimes, you even woke up in the middle of the night, as if the string had tried to pull you by the wrist or the ankle out of your bed. One evening, you even found yourself talking to it, even if you knew it wouldn’t answer you.

“What’s the point? What’s the point of showing me the way to them, if they are bad for me? Aren’t soulmates supposed to bring you happiness and not just sorrow and pain? My parents told me it was better without them, so why are you still there? Why are you still trying to bring me back to them? I forgot about them, about Ambrose. I could be at peace, but no, you have to be there and to remind me they are waiting for me somewhere I don’t want to go anymore. I mean… My parents told me I don’t want to go. And I believe them. They are my parents and… I know that I feel something like fear when I try to remember about that place and them. And it’s not fear about remembering all the awful things that happened, it’s fear of them. So why can’t you just leave me alone?”

You grew obsessed with fairy tales and fanfics talking about soulmates. You tried to cope, in a way, and to forget about your reality. You needed to imagine another existence in which you would have good people awaiting for you.

One afternoon, you were basking in the sun with a book laying on your lap. You were enjoying the soft wind kissing your face as you were leaning against the bench you were sitting on. Everything was alright. You closed your eyes and just relaxed in this quiet atmosphere. You took a deep breath before looking around you again. You watched the red string weaving between strangers, dancing in the street, inviting you to follow it, like always.

When the desire to follow it was getting too strong, you always called your mother. You never told her what it was about, you just pretended you wanted to chat around with her.

One time, you asked her about soulmate and the red string.

“Why are some of us able to see it?” you asked her and she sighed

“We don’t really know. My grandmother always said we had been curse by an evil witch” she tried to laugh

“You don’t believe it?” you wondered

“Before I just thought she was crazy, because she could see her string and her soulmate was a criminal. But now I don’t know” she admitted

“What do you mean, her soulmate was a criminal?” you frowned

“He was a killer actually. It seems that whenever a member of the family sees the red string, it means the soulmate will have hands covered in blood.” she said

“So my soulmates are killers too?” you shivered

“I never said that. But they are toxic and wild animals. Their parents were the worst” your mother replied

“Did they hurt me? Did her soulmate hurt your grandmother?” you questioned some more but were met by silence “Mom?” you called after a little while, wondering if she was still on the phone

“It’s… complicated” your mother replied and after that you hadn’t been able to get any more answers from her.

And it woke up something in you: they were your soulmates, so they couldn’t hurt you.

And you needed to follow the red string.

Part 2

#house of wax x reader #bo sinclair x s/o #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x s/o #vincent sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x reader #poly!sinclairs x s/o #poly!sinclairs x you #poly!sinclairs x reader #slasher x s/o #slasher x you #slasher x reader #poly!slasher x reader #poly!slasher x s/o #poly!slasher x you #lester sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x s/o

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rhyo-writes · 1 year ago

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What Makes a Monster; Prologue

As the title suggests, this is an intro to a new series I've decided to write; my take on the Sinclair twins (House of Wax 2005) and their childhood.

Length: 1k

Fandom: House of Wax 2005

Warnings: references to physical and emotional abuse towards children, allusions to murder and torture, this is a HoW fic so take that as warning

If you asked Bo Sinclair what the biggest lie in Ambrose was, you’d probably expect to hear something about the image of a perfect and loving family his mother was so desperate to achieve. The pretense Trudy was so sure the town would believe if her boys would just behave, if they showed up to church every Sunday, if Bo would just be like his brother. And he might at first be tempted to say that, but it simply wasn’t true, even if technically the biggest lie was about his family, and if it technically was about their perfection. But despite these technicalities, it had nothing to do with the loving facade Trudy so desperately pushed. No, this lie concerned Bo’s other half, his mother’s favorite twin, the little artist following in his mother’s footsteps, the model child that Trudy showered with praise, just as oblivious as the rest of the town to the truth.

Vincent was the lie, the golden boy facade as false as the mask he always wore, and the truth just as mangled as what lay underneath. It made Bo angry, this whole good-twin bad-twin game they’d been thrust into, the endless comparisons, the idolization of his brother, when Bo knew that Vincent was just as twisted as he was. Maybe even more so.

Sure, Bo lashed out. He had a violent temper, and he was quick with his fists, using violence to solve any problem thrust upon him, but that was common knowledge. Everyone knew Bo was a problem, a difficult child, a delinquent, his future a criminal record stretching longer than any list of achievements he could make. Everyone knew of the raging fire burning in his soul, ready to send him over the edge at any second. Even Trudy had given up pretending to love him, whining about her horrid son to her church friends. Everyone saw Bo for who he was, but no one truly saw Vincent.

If Bo was a raging fire, then Vincent was a deceptively calm ocean, serene upon inspection, but with an ever present barrage of deadly currents, hidden just below the surface, invisible until it was far too late for the errant swimmer. Sure, the other kids thought he was a freak, and the adults whispered that he was a bit strange, but they chalked it up to a hard start, to his deformities, to his horrid twin. And sure, their classmates never bullied Vincent the way they did Lester, disturbed by the drawings in Vincent’s sketchbook, saving him from the full force of their hatred up front. But they had no clue just how far that disturbance went, or how dangerous Vincent could be. They had no clue that every day their choice to shun him over outright violence kept them alive, or that the disappearance of the one boy who destroyed Vincent’s work was more than a coincidence.

But Bo knew, how could he not. He knew Vincent, the mirror to his own self, a reflection, perhaps backwards in presentation, but with a soul just as filled with rot and decay as his own. Bo knew that the sculptures of squirrels, rats, mice, and the occasional bat that crowded the shelves of Lester’s room weren’t realistic solely due to Vincent’s skill, but in part as a result of the rotting corpses underneath, an armature not for the squeamish. Bo knew that the stomach churning drawings that filled page after page of Vincent’s sketchbook weren’t the nightmares they were passed off as, but the dark fantasies that lurked like cobwebs etched into his brother’s soul.

And in some dark corner of his brain, Bo Knew that he had to act out, he had create enough chaos and destruction for the two of them, because if he didn’t, the things Vincent would do would be so much worse, and there wouldn’t be enough shadowed crevices or overturned trees in the world to hide the slew of bodies that would follow his brother.

Bo loved Vincent, he really did, but sometimes, a part of him wished that his perfect twin would get in trouble the way he did, for his mother to realize that her precious baby was just as much a freak, they were twins after all, two sides of the same coin. “It’s not fair,” he wanted to scream, “he’s just as awful, just as horrible,” but try as he might to relay the obvious, that they were identical in both mind and body, no one would listen. His mother would backhand him, furious, for how dare he speak that way about her precious little angel, and Bo would go to bed hungry, seething, trying to tell himself he preferred an empty stomach to the hell that was family dinner.

Years later he’d watch victims plead with Vincent, convinced that they just had to get through the web of lies they thought Bo had strung, and that if they could Vincent would help them. These small minded people, dumb with fear, oblivious to the inherent cruelty of Vincent’s work, pleading for their lives as if they were more than a step of the creative process, convinced that Vincent must feel sorry for them. He was the tortured artist, he wanted to save them, he hated killing, delusions that made Bo laugh before he’d smash in their faces.

Little did they know that he was far from complicit, in fact, Vincent lived for the feeling of blood on his hands. Nothing quite got the gears of his brain turning like a fresh face to work with, a fresh canvas awaiting his vision. Because Bo was not the mastermind behind the hell Ambrose had become, as much as he’d love to give himself credit. Bo never had much of a vision for the future, for what they could create, but he had someone who did. Someone just as cruel and sadistic, someone happy to help cover Bo’s tracks if it meant he could create his art. No, Bo was not the one behind the town of wax, Vincent was.

#house of wax #house of wax 2005 #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #my writing #trudy sinclair #what makes a monster series

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cami040405 · 3 months ago

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Between Art and Silence - Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Chapter 6: Beneath the Silence of the Walls

Summary: Tension builds in Ambrose as you discover more about the town's past and the Sinclair brothers, a duality continues to grow within you and a strong feeling begins to show itself.

Warnings: Mentions of death and suicide.

Chapter 5 here!

(A/N: This chapter turned out really long, I hope you're enjoying the story and how things are going for you and Vincent.)

The day dawned gray. The clouds weighed down on Ambrose like a thick curtain, muffling the sounds and plunging everything into a timeless torpor. You watched through the window, sitting in an old armchair, still holding the wax sculpture in your hands. During the night, you had barely slept. Your body begged for rest, but your mind refused.

Vincent had not shown up again. Bo had not given any sign of life since the veiled conversation the day before. And Lester… well, you weren't sure what to think of him. He had a simple, almost gentle air. But even the sweetest people could hide thorns. You had to do something. You couldn't stand still. You had to understand. You had to see. You put on your coat, tied your hair in an improvised bun, and left the room with careful steps.

The house was silent. The old boards groaned under your feet, but you tried to ignore the sound, as if you could become invisible at will. Downstairs, the house was a maze of antiques, carved furniture, and old portraits in dark wooden frames. You recognized a few faces in the frames—Trudy, the matriarch. Maybe the father. Twin children. Bo and Vincent’s features, small and still untouched by life.

But it was the hallway to the left of the kitchen that drew you in now. Something in you told you there was more to it than dust and memories. You pushed open a wooden door that led to a dimly lit basement. The smell of mold and rust hit you like a punch, but you went down anyway. Step by step.

Downstairs, a workshop.

But not like the others. This one was rougher. Sawdust on the floor, mannequin parts piled up in a corner, plaster molds and precision tools. There was something almost clinical about the organization of the space. At the back, a black curtain covered what looked like a smaller entrance.

You hesitated.

And then you heard footsteps above.

You froze.

The sound stopped, as if it had been imagined, you approached the curtain with your heart pounding. You pulled it slowly. Just enough to peek.

It was a small room, but what was there…

Mannequins. But not ordinary ones. They were so realistic that you felt a shiver run down your spine. An old man in an armchair. A girl in a wedding dress. A boy holding a balloon. All of them were paralyzed, their eyes lifeless. The wax on them looked… different. Thicker. More organic.

You stepped back. You swallowed hard, the feeling of panic invaded you in cold waves. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t art.

This was macabre.

You left the workshop in silence, your knees weak, your stomach churning. As you returned to the hallway, you heard a voice.

“Woke up early, huh?”

You almost jumped.

Bo. Leaning against the front door, with a lit cigarette and a restrained smile.

You tried to hide your nervousness.

— Yes… I thought I could get to know the house better.

Bo nodded slowly, his gaze scanning you from top to bottom. — Sure. Make yourself at home. My house is your house… for now.

His tone was calm, but it left something like a veiled threat in the air. You swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

— I was thinking about taking a walk. Maybe going to the gas station. See if you've made any progress with the GPS.

Bo took a drag on his cigarette, his gaze locked on yours. — Really? I can drive you. It's best not to walk around alone. The streets aren't safe.

You hesitated.

— I can go alone. It's close, isn't it?

He smiled, this time showing his teeth.

— Stubbornness. I like that.

He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it with his boot. — But that’s okay. Go if you want. Just don’t be alarmed if you end up getting lost.

You nodded and left.

The path to the gas station was short, but the tension made it seem eternal. Every rusty sign, every dry twig cracking made you look over your shoulder. The wind blew hard, carrying dry leaves and the acrid smell of the forgotten city. The gas station seemed abandoned at first glance. The dirty windows, the gas pump with cobwebs. You had decided to explore further, if Bo didn’t want you there, then there was something wrong there.

You went down the stairs to the basement.

Now calmly, you could see that behind the surgical chair, there was a small office. Piled up papers, an old desk, a full trash can. You started to search, without knowing exactly what you were looking for.

And then you found a drawer with files.

Photos of people and cars with license plates from different states, maps with hand-drawn markings and dates written on them.

At the bottom of the drawer, a wallet. With documents. Cards. A photo.

You recognized the face. It was that of a young woman. The same one you had seen in one of the "sculptures" in the workshop.

Your blood ran cold.

Ambrose wasn't just weird. It was a trap.

Trying to stay calm, you put the document in the inside pocket of your coat. You needed proof. You needed to plan carefully. No running away. No alerting the brothers. They were dangerous. And you were in their midst.

As you left the station, you noticed a figure in the distance.

Vincent.

He was standing next to the old movie theater, watching you silently. The mask made it impossible to read his expression, but you felt like he knew you were discovering something.

And as strange as it seemed... he didn't look angry.

He looked... distressed.

You held on to your coat tightly.

The city was crumbling around you. But now you had a thread. A real thread that you would pull until all the wax fell away—revealing what really lay beneath Ambrose.

And maybe, just maybe… beneath Vincent, too.

You walked back to the house with measured steps, feeling the cold wind cutting through the gaps in your coat. The discovery at the gas station still throbbed in your mind like a constant alarm. The document, folded neatly in the inside pocket, felt like it weighed a ton. Every step you took was like walking on broken glass. Still, you kept your face calm.

You had to keep your disguise. You had to figure out who Vincent was.

When you reached the house, the gate was ajar, you crossed the porch and found the door unlocked. The interior seemed quieter than ever, as if the entire house knew what she had seen.

You went down the stairs that led to the basement you had seen earlier. As you passed through the hallway, you heard a soft sound of something being dragged.

You followed the sound.

It was Vincent’s studio — or at least part of it. He was there, but how did he get there so quickly and before you? It was a mystery, but you didn’t want to think about it at the moment. He was sitting at his work table, sculpting in silence. His bare hands covered in paraffin, paint stains on the arms of his sweatshirt. His movement was mesmerizing, methodical. Almost gentle.

You approached him slowly, respecting his space.

“Vincent...” you said hesitantly.

He looked up, slightly surprised. His eyes behind the mask fixed on yours. — “I know you don’t talk much,” you continued, your voice calm, soft, “but maybe… maybe you can listen to me.”

Vincent didn’t move immediately. He just watched. You bit your lower lip, searching for the right words.

“I saw some portraits in the house. Of you… children. Of your mother. Trudy, right?”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Was she an artist too?”

A further pause. Then Vincent took something out of his apron pocket. His small notebook, worn at the edges. He pulled out a pen and scribbled something nimbly. Then he turned the page so that you could see:

“She taught me everything.”

You felt your stomach tighten. It was the first time you had seen direct words from Vincent. His handwriting was clean, precise, almost elegant.

“Were you close to her?”

He wrote again. You turned the page:

"She loved me just the way I was."

You scanned the words carefully, as if they might shatter.

"And... and your father?"

Vincent hesitated. The hand holding the pen shook slightly. He started to write, but stopped. He wrote again. When you turned the page, you read:

"Pain. Only pain."

You took a deep breath, fighting the empathy that overflowed in your voice.

"You didn't deserve this."

He looked away for a second. His fingers touched the surface of the sculpture in front of him, as if he were reconnecting with the art so as not to lose himself in the memories.

You moved a little closer.

"Is that why you... sculpt? To keep her memory alive?"

Vincent answered faster this time. He wrote only one word:

"Yes."

You felt a lump in your throat. There was something tragic about that silent man—something that went far beyond what any mask could hide.

— Vincent... — you spoke softly. — Why am I here?

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out and pointed to a canvas leaning against the corner of the studio.

You walked over to it, pulling back the cloth that covered it. And what you saw made your heart stop for a second.

It was a portrait of you.

Half unfinished, but still vivid. Your face was molded with stunning detail, your eyes expressive, and your hair sculpted with care. But there was something more — the way he had portrayed you. It wasn't just a portrait. It was... affection. Respect. Talent. Something intimate.

You turned slowly to Vincent. He was still standing there, watching.

— You saw me... really saw me — you whispered, moved. — Not as an intruder. But as... as someone.

Vincent lowered his head. He wrote calmly:

"You aren't afraid of me."

You read it. Then, without much thought, you took a step forward.

“No,” you said. “Not from you.”

For a moment, the silence between you was filled with something new. A tenuous trust. A bridge built between two damaged souls. But you were still in enemy territory—and you knew it.

So you asked boldly, without turning away:

“Vincent… What's Ambrose really?”

He froze.

The pencil slipped from your fingers. You didn’t flinch. Your eyes fixed on him.

Vincent hunched his shoulders, as if carrying the weight of an impossible answer. You closed your eyes for a moment. Ambrose was a labyrinth. But inside him, there was someone trying to show you the way. Silently. With gestures, sculptures... and now words. Vincent was not your enemy.

But before you could say more, he slowly reached out and ran his hands through your hair and face, and like a whisper, he said:

"Stay."

The solitary word seemed to vibrate with a silent urgency. There was something in the way he said it—in the slight wavering of tone, in the way he almost tore the sound—that said so much more than the request itself. You looked up at him, uncertain.

"Stay...? But... why?"

Vincent didn't answer right away, because he didn't know how, because he himself didn't fully understand what was going on inside him. His mind, until then accustomed to living in silence and form, in plaster and wax, was in disarray.

When he first saw you, confused at the entrance to the city, he felt the same indifference that protected him from the world. But as the days passed, something changed. You didn’t look at him with pity. Or with horror. You saw in him a man. An artist. Someone who was still human—even if Ambrose’s mirrors had tried to erase that image years ago.

But how to say that? How to explain that the warmth of your presence had become an unexpected refuge?

How to tell you that he didn’t want to let you go, but he also couldn’t bear to see you hurt?

So he wrote.

With more hesitant letters this time, almost timid:

“I don’t want you to go away.”

You read slowly. A deep silence filled the room, dense as Ambrose’s own atmosphere.

“Why?” you asked, your voice somewhere between surprise and the touch of something sweeter, more emotional.

Vincent didn’t answer. Because that was the question he had been asking himself since you arrived. Why you? Why, of all people, did you get through his defenses? Why, when he saw you sleeping that first night, he felt such a visceral, almost instinctive impulse of protection, as if your presence would erase — even if for a few seconds — the dark echo of the house he lived in?

He lowered his gaze, as if he was afraid you might see too much.

You took a step closer. Just one. You didn't invade. You didn't force it. You just let the space between you be filled with the truth that grew without words.

"What if I tell you that... I need to understand what's happening here?"

Vincent felt his chest tighten. Like a thorn buried in raw flesh.

Yes, you needed to understand. But there were things... things that even he couldn't face. Slowly, he wrote another sentence.

"There are things you can't see yet."

You felt the shiver down your spine.

"What if I insist?"

Vincent looked up. You saw the pain there. The fear. Not afraid of you—but for you. As if all the chaos about to be revealed could swallow you alive. As if he were the only shield between you and the abyss.

He started to write, but stopped. He looked at you, then at the canvas with the still incomplete portrait. And there, in that silence, you understood.

Vincent was torn. He wanted to keep you there. Because you meant something. Because you saw beauty where others only saw deformity. Because with you around, Ambrose didn’t seem so suffocating. But he also knew what Bo was capable of. What the city was capable of. And worst of all: he knew that one day you would find out everything.

Vincent stepped back from the table a little, as if the weight of the world was on his broad shoulders. His trembling hands now rested on the wooden bench. You, carefully, touched his arm lightly.

He shivered, but didn’t back away.

“You don’t have to tell me everything now,” you murmured. “But I’m not going to run away, Vincent. Not from you.”

For a moment, the silence seemed to suspend time itself.

Vincent’s eyes shone beneath his mask, fixed on you, filled with a painful mix of confusion, fear, and something harder to name—something he’d long thought he couldn’t feel.

With an almost reverent care, you took another step closer. Your heart was beating loudly, but not from fear. There was a tension in the air, yes, but it was soft, like the thread of a secret about to break. Like the stroke of a brush on the first layer of canvas. You raised your hand slowly, lightly resting your fingers on his shoulder. Vincent didn’t pull away. His large, rigid body remained still, but his breathing was slightly shorter, irregular. The muscles, tense beneath the dark fabric, betrayed that he felt it.

Every little touch.

Then, without saying anything else, you leaned in... and placed a soft kiss on the side of his mask, exactly where his cheek would be. It was a silent gesture, but one of overwhelming tenderness.

A kiss that asked for nothing, demanded no answers. A kiss that said: you are worthy of affection, even if you don't believe it yet. Vincent remained still, as if the gesture had frozen the air around him. His trembling hands gripped the bench beneath him. The entire world seemed to shrink until it fit in that moment. He didn't know how to react.

No one had ever touched him like that. Not since... Trudy. But this was different. It was gentle. Free of pity. Free of obligation. You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, still so close.

"I see you, Vincent," you whispered. And then you smiled. A small smile, full of truth. Vincent didn't move. He didn't dare. But inside him, something old and silent, dormant under years of wax, scars, and pain... was beginning to wake up.

And that terrified him as much as it comforted him.

Vincent felt the world spin in silence. That gesture—simple, small, almost ethereal—burned like fire beneath the mask. The exact spot where your lips had touched the cold ceramic now seemed to radiate an unbearable heat, a heat that didn’t come from your skin, but from what you had just awakened inside him.

His chest rose and fell with difficulty, as if breathing required effort. His throat tightened. His hands, still clasped to the sides of the bench, trembled imperceptibly. He didn’t know what to make of that gesture, that sweetness. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

All his life, he had been the monster in the attic. The mistake covered in wax. The hidden, deformed son. He was used to looks of disgust, to stifled laughter, to words spoken behind his back.

But you… you saw him.

And more than that: you chose him at that moment—without demanding that he be different, without fear in your eyes.

He wanted to touch you. He wanted to say something. But his voice was still a territory he didn’t know how to inhabit very well, and touch… touch terrified him. His body was made of scars, of broken memories, of pain that had accumulated like melted wax on his skin. And yet, something inside him—something small and fragile—wanted to try.

But he just stood there. Still. Panting. Feeling more human—and more vulnerable—than he had ever felt before.

You, on the other hand, felt your heart racing… but not from fear. There was a lively tension in your body, like electricity under your skin. The palm of your hand still tingled from the touch on his shoulder. Your lips, which had touched his mask, seemed charged with the echo of something greater than words.

You knew what you had done. You knew you had been bold. But you didn’t regret it. Inside you, a mixture of empathy, tenderness, and curiosity stirred like an underground river. You couldn’t explain exactly why you felt such a connection with him. It was an impulse, yes, but also a conscious choice. You saw him as something beyond the mask, beyond the silence. He was… complex. Painful. And beautiful, in his own twisted and profound way.

And by kissing him there, you wanted to show him that. That he didn’t need to hide. That he could, at least with you, exist. Your chest tightened with a kind of soft anxiety—the kind of anxiety that comes from doing something real and not knowing what the response will be. But in his eyes, even if shy, you saw the reflection of something good. Something that trembled, yes, but that responded.

You understood him more than he could imagine. And deep down, you knew: this was just the beginning of a connection that could both heal… and consume you both.

The silence that followed the kiss was so thick it could be cut with a blade. Vincent remained still. You pulled back slowly, your eyes still locked on his—or on what you could see through the crack in his mask. The heat between you still vibrated, and even without words, there was an exchange. Something undeniable.

You didn't say anything else. You just gave one last gentle, caring look before turning around and going back up to the bedroom.

Vincent stood there.

Alone.

His heart pounding with a strength he didn't recognize. His hands clasped on his knees, as if he was holding back a primitive impulse to follow you. An impulse he would never have allowed himself. The mask hid his expression, but inside... he was in ruins.

You closed the door slowly. The room welcomed you with the faint smell of old wood and the soft light coming through the window. But inside you, everything was a storm.

You threw yourself on the bed, but not to sleep. You lay on your side, your trembling fingers brushing your own lips, you had done it. Kissed the mask of someone you barely knew — and yet, you knew in a strange, almost intimate way. There was a trust there that you yourself didn't fully understand, but that you felt was true.

Your cheeks were still burning. Did he understand what I meant? Did he feel the same? — you thought.

But more than that, you felt like you were diving into something bigger. Something dangerous, but also precious. Vincent was silence, yes. But a silence full of voice, full of pain... and full of beauty. You closed your eyes, letting your breathing slow down little by little. For the first time since you had set foot in Ambrose, you felt a spark of security. Not of the city, not of the situation — but of him. Of Vincent.

And maybe it was crazy, but something inside you told you that he would never hurt you.

At the Sinclair house, while you and Vincent were talking, Bo was in the garage, fiddling with an old engine part. He grabbed a rag to wipe his hands and walked up the creaky steps to the front of the house. The coffee cup was still steaming on the table.

The sound of the street was hollow, almost dead. Bo leaned against the wall, staring at the painting of Trudy in the living room.

“Mama, your little boy is in love,” he murmured, with a half-smile. “He’s going to get screwed. Again…”

Later, when Vincent returned, Bo was waiting in the front hall.

“She’s taking you with her, isn’t she?” Bo said bluntly.

Vincent stopped. The notebook was tucked under his arm. He didn’t say anything. Bo stepped closer, his tone full of calm venom. “Do you think she’ll stay when she finds out who you are? What we are?”

Vincent didn’t move.

“She’ll run. She’ll scream. And you’ll have to decide. Either kill… or lose.”

Vincent's grip on the pad tightened. Bo sighed and stepped closer, low and cruel:

"You want to protect her? Do you think she'll love you? Look at you. A walking scar. A failed artist trapped in the shadow of a rotten past. Do you know what will be left when she finds out? Pity. And then, disgust."

Vincent's hands shook. He turned, ready to leave, but Bo grabbed him tightly by the shoulder.

"I won't let her ruin everything. You may be in love, but I've been taking care of us since the beginning. Ever since Dad killed himself. And if I have to kill her to keep everything going... I'll do it."

Vincent pushed his hand away hard. His eyes burned behind his mask. But he didn't attack. He didn't fight back. He just walked away, as if each step was a protest.

Bo shouted from behind:

"If you're not strong enough, I'll be strong enough for both of us, brother!"

Vincent went into his room and locked the door. His hands were shaking. His eyes were burning. He wanted to destroy everything around him, but he couldn’t.

You were his only light. His only chance at redemption. But keeping you there… was also condemning you. He leaned against the counter. He pulled out his notebook, but didn’t write anything. His fingers gripped the pencil as if they were about to break it. The mask muffled his face, but his eyes… his eyes were watery.

He hadn’t cried in years. Not after Trudy. Not after he’d learned to lock everything inside himself. But now, there was you. You with your deep eyes, your delicate hands, and that look that saw. You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t pulled away. You touched your mouth to his mask—a gesture so intimate, so surreal, that he still wondered if it hadn’t been a figment of his own imagination.

Vincent ran his fingers over his ceramic cheek, as if he could feel the heat still etched there. He wanted to do something. He wanted to respond.

But what?

He hadn't learned how to be loved. Only how to be feared. Manipulated. Silenced. And now... now someone dared to treat him like a man. Like a human. He walked over to the shelf and took out a small wooden slab. He began to carve. His fingers were nimble, methodical. It was the only way he knew how to speak—through art. Through his hands.

It was a bird. Fragile, but with its wings spread. And on the animal's chest, he carved something simple: a curved line like a smile, and a closed eye.

It would be his gift to you. When he was ready. When he could find the courage to offer it.

In the room above, you looked at the wax sculpture Vincent had given you. You ran your fingers over the soft curves, thinking about him.

Downstairs, Vincent was molding wood as if he were trying to shape a future. Both of you separated by the floor of the house. But connected, in silence. And by the beginning of something that neither of you could name yet.

But it burned…

And it grew.

Like a flame in the middle of wax.

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queer-dw-tourney · 1 year ago

Text

hello !!!! i would like to welcome everyone to the queer dw characters tournament !!! i thought it would be a fun thing to do for pride month :)

ran by @victoriawaterfield !!!

you're able to submit characters through my askbox, i'm going to keep submissions open for probably about four to five days. any doctor who characters are welcome EXCEPT the doctor and the master, for a few reasons, but mainly because i think they'd sweep. if you are submitting a character please make sure to include the source in which they are said to be queer, this tournament is open to extended universe characters as well, they don't just have to be from doctor who.

auto-qualifiers:

liz shaw (sapphic, lesbian or bisexual depending on the source)

mike yates (achillean, gay or bisexual depending on the source)

jack harkness (pansexual / omnisexual / bisexual depending on the source)

river song (bisexual / pansexual depending on the source)

yasmin khan (sapphic, presumably a lesbian?)

jenny flint (lesbian)

madame vastra (lesbian)

clara oswald (bisexual)

toshiko sato (bisexual)

bill potts (lesbian)

ianto jones (bisexual)

rose noble (transgender)

carla sunday (lesbian)

rogue (gay)

submissions:

gwen cooper (bisexual)

owen harper (bisexual)

oliver harper (gay)

ace mcshane (bisexual / lesbian depending on the source)

bernice summerfield (bisexual)

liv chenka (bisexual)

helen sinclair (lesbian)

tania bell (trans and sapphic)

sam jones (bisexual)

adric (bisexual)

leela (bisexual)

luke smith (gay)

valarie lockwood (bisexual)

cindy wu (bisexual)

fitz kreiner (bisexual)

christian purcell (gay)

chris cwej (bisexual)

calypso jonez (non binary, bisexual)

charlie smith (gay)

matteusz andrzejewski (gay)

nyssa of traken (sapphic)

tegan jovanka (sapphic)

izzy sinclair (lesbian)

trudy (transgender, lesbian)

jane austen (sapphic)

tanya adeola (bisexual / pansexual)

compassion (aromantic, asexual)

beep the meep (non binary)

bliss (bisexual)

heather (sapphic, presumably a lesbian)

roanna lockwood (sapphic, presumably a lesbian)

patricia haggard (sapphic, presumably a lesbian)

#doctor who #liz shaw #mike yates #jack harkness #torchwood #classic who #river song #yasmin khan #jenny flint #madame vastra #clara oswald #toshiko sato #bill potts #ianto jones #rose noble #carla sunday #rogue #queer #queer dw characters tournament

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charleslee-valentine · 1 year ago

Text

Cats in The Cradle

Characters: Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair (no ships)

Word Count: ~6,000

Warnings: Abuse, cyclical abuse, toxic dynamics, Bo has complications from the surgery (missing cerebellum) and obsessive compulsive disorder, mental breakdowns, gun violence, delusions, religious trauma, implied sexual abuse, murder and the wax figures, Bo being mean to Vincent, blood and injury, vomiting, medical irresponsibility, paranoia, trauma bond.

~~~~~~~

Every day in Ambrose is the same. It’s when there’s change the trouble comes along.

Makes Lester world-weary. Got to run off on his little rot-filled road trips for some air. Though he stays tethered to the house, even if only at the end of the night, when he’s got to wander home for normalcy. It ain’t about the protection, he’s got a slugger under the seat for that, and it ain’t the occasional cooking his brothers get up to and burn each time either. He’s grown enough get shit done, even if it’s the ass crack of dawn outside and he ain’t eaten in a whole day, he’ll whip somethin’ up.

That’s the argument anyhow. That he can take well enough good care of himself to be allowed to roam some. Don’t make sense that he’d be the first, bein’ the youngest and all, but the antsier he got, the messier he got with the huntin’, and suddenly his big brothers had to leave Ambrose to track some fella that got out through the trees Lester was s’posed to be watchin’.

Thought that would get him strung up himself. A perfect wax Lester placed inside Trudy’s pride and joy tendin’ to little, pure wax, babies. Maybe down the pet store with Jonsey’s pups that never come to be, or shovelin’ shit out in the cemetery. That’d be like them, to leave him outside to melt and wither away.

Never come though. Got him a reprimandin’ sure, but he left it with a smile anyhow knowin’ big brother wasn’t gonna use his own bowie to slit his throat. And then again when Vinny told him he could leave on the condition he started tendin’ to himself and his chores without help from either brother, and come home every night.

Really if it were up to Vincent, they’d all get the same freedoms, but it weren’t. Never was going to be, when Mama kept him firm in her shadow. Bo’d kill ‘em all if he caught wind of Lester’s thinkin’ it, but fact is he figures Bo just replaced Mama when she keeled over.

Trudy was out her mind the last few years of it. Never went to no homes, despite what Bo likes to tell folks. They stayed and fixed Mama up. Ambrose got empty and miss Trudy got needy. It was every day pickin’ up shifts the tradesmen was droppin’, leavin’ the schoolhouse forever. Old fashioned as it was, s’not like they was learnin’ anything in a one-room, all-grades schoolhouse anyhow.

Still woulda been nice to have a shot at normal. Coulda left with the rush and forgot about highchairs and smelly wax. Nope.

Now Bo’s jus’ as mean as Trudy, enforcin’ his rule with the same flat palm. ‘Cept’n the part where his is rung around with scars.

Different, ‘cause Trudy’s off burnin’ in hell, not missed by a soul, but they stick close with Bo. Know it ain’t really his fault.

The Doc called it compulsions. Some kinda disorder come from havin’ to lose a piece or two of the lowest part of his brain in the surgery. Lester never gonna forget bein’ tiny as can be, sat on the table cause Trudy put him down and forgot him there, while Bo, who seemed so much older back then when the six years made a difference, was strapped down. They’d use the highchair still if they could, but he was too big and awful by then.

Shove him in a standard dining chair and tape his arms underneath. Let him cry and try to kick and pull and bare his teeth. Lester was just learnin’ to speak, and he’d asked what was happening’, curious about all the shouting and pain.

Bo told a little lie turns out. Same thing with the surgery, his mind would wander back then, forgetting what made reality real and made the stuff in his head not. He carved up some critter and left it in the art studio. Said Trudy gave him permission. Well she didn’t. Little Vinny was her artist, and notably, nowhere to be seen in this memory, autonomous enough to stay away, but never going far.

Must’ve hurt him too, listenin’ to Bo losin’ his mind now and again. Knowin’ it was him that leeched off the back of his head and absorbed that one important little piece out his skull. Payback for the whole, not having a tongue, thing.

Nowadays Bo’s a little better, but Ambrose still got to be pretty particular to not send him right back to the pale, polished arms of the hallucinations. Those belong in the casket down the road.

Lester blames Trudy. Even when he goes with to honor her when Bo needs to do it. Every Sunday is when he’s down there, so ‘less he’s got a job Lester’ll come down to see. Vincent’s usually there too, if nobody been through in a while.

They take off their hats and masks, bow their heads, and pray. They pretend they don’t notice Bo’s hips and knees splayed wide in an arc and struggling to walk straight when that metaphorical mask of the Doc’s training wares off. His hands shake. His words don’t come out right. Sometime’s Lester’s the only one in the house usin’ words, while the twins do their motioning about.

Really should’ve gotten more interested in those sign language books he’d been given way back when. It was funny, a lady on the TV could use sign ‘cause she couldn’t hear words and that meant she couldn’t make ‘em. Trudy saw it and was livid. Banned them all from 123 Sesame Street and whooped Bo for even turning it on. Like it was bad to communicate.

If Vincent knew how to make his signs back then, maybe he’d have told the papers the truth. After all it was Mama that did the talking. Givin’ him words gave him the chance to say no. To bein’ her little protege and heir. Like hell she’d ever let that happen. Had to teach it to himself in secret. Bo picked it up from watchin’ and snatchin’ up Vinny’s books and papers to tease.

Lester wishes he were that smart. Hell, Doc even said it himself, sometimes seemed like he was born with even less brain than Beauregard. ‘Cept he had a different name for Bo all the boys promised never to repeat. They’d get nasty, but none of that usin’ Mama and Papa against each other.

Prolly why they’s too scared to tell Bo he’s becomin’ like Trudy. Stumblin’, shakin’, pissed at everything.

Ambrose falls well into his liking. Bo got it all down to memory.

Bodies he don’t like don’t even go on display. Vincent could work his big ass off on a statue for weeks, but if Bo couldn’t squeeze it into however he’d categorized the town in imaginary gridlines, they’d be put on reserve. The wax house held the rejects, mostly. Once upon a time Vincent left Lester a note tellin’ him he sometimes dressed the statues up funny and messed up their makeup if they were his favorites, so Bo would reject them, and he’d get to keep ‘em. Worked every time too.

Be nice if they could laugh about things like that anymore. ‘Specially with Bo.

A new batch come through back in the early spring, just a couple months shy of a year or so ago then, and filled up lots of the empty space. Mostly went to the theater. Baby Jane and sister Blanche didn’t used to be lightin’ the place up with their sad story, they just tossed an old closed sign up ‘til the bodies rolled in.

It pissed Bo off when Lester was helpin’ him and wanted to put his statues in a line. Made sense, like they was all friends together! But Bo had it all mapped in his head, talkin’ who’s clothes matched who, color in their hair matchin’ with the number on their seats. That was more confusin’ than his fits.

Most of the time in Ambrose his workday was tidying, checkin’ on rat traps and the like. But sometimes when Lester could slip in a lunch break or two off patrol he’d see Bo pacin’. Drawin’ lines in the sky with his hands, mutterin’, kickin’ things. Like inside the theater but on the whole town.

Funny thing is they do gotta crown a new Miss Ambrose once in a while.

The silky bright colors of a beauty queen dress stand out far too much against the pale, sunfaded town they live in. Her smile too white, the makeup too sparkly. Bo tears the bodies to bits and takes them back to Vinny, like a child with his broken toy.

There’s nothin’ he can do, and they both know it, but Bo is different from Trudy in that he will admit regret. Not directly, he’d sooner swallow a gator in one bite, but showin’ the broken pieces is still better than tyin’ ‘em down to hide.

At least most of the time it ain’t like that. One thing he’s always picky about is the lights. Town gotta come to life some time, but Bo’s got a tradition. Generators don’t kick on ‘til he flips the switch manually, else he’ll block the sky with the burning neons of mom’s and pop’s updating with the times, and firey orange street lights. Bo insists they don’t got color. Just a disgusting haze that makes it hard to see. Lester takes the accusation of him being wrong, even though he knows it’s Bo’s head.

And he’s gotta see the sky. Star light, star bright, first star and all that- it’s his one shot at a wish. Not even his brother’s knows what he wishes for each night, peekin’ his head out the window ‘fore callin’ down to Vincent to flip the switch.

Maybe to make Ambrose perfect the way he sees it in his head, so he can stop runnin’ around town tryin’ to adjust it all. Finding those little pockets of feelings and digging in until anythin’ that stands out has to go.

Way back when, Lester kinda hoped Bo would set him free by thinkin’ he didn’t match. Not like he was part of the squirming mass his brother’s was born as. Nobody remembered Lester. Not for bein’ quiet and shy or for bein’ devilish.

Longer he stays though, he knows it’s not really Bo takin’ real care of Ambrose. His head needs it perfect, destroyin’ progress for somethin’ only he can reach and grasp and toss about like it means anything as a scolding hot weapon. Perfection burns hotter, stings worse than wax, and Trudy Sinclair wanted both from her boys.

Trudy might’ve been sick physically, but it come along long before that. Only a matter of time before Bo’s head gets angry ‘bout the dank environment up there and tries to plug it’s missing bits with the same cancer that took Mama the rest of the way to hell.

She had to’ve been there before she died. Else she wouldn’t have done what she did on her way out. Her last words. “Beauregard. Bo.. Promise me you’ll keep Ambrose tidy. You were Mama’s boy. Kept things in line. Don’t let it got to chaos, to hell.”

It was bullshit. If she weren’t already gasping for life Lester might’ve grabbed her throat then and there. Vince knew it too, cause he stepped in front of Les and went to Bo. Chest to back, the way they was conjoined, he’d tried to force his whispers with his half of a tongue, getting at least his twin’s attention to start gesturing.

“Don’t listen.”

“Mama is a liar.”

“You know how you are. You know how she is. Don’t.”

It was hopeless.

That word again. The Doc said compulsions, well sometimes he also said obsessions. Same disorder, different symptom. Neither one Bo could escape. Even if he’d been listenin’ to his brother, which he wasn’t.

All he heard was Hell and that was enough. Bo was terrified of the spiritual. They all oughta remember the way he’d been in church, even when it was full, bawlin’ his head off, havin’ those fits ‘cause he thought he was goin’ to face demons and hellfire for breakin’ rules. The panic meant he kept breakin’ rules, and he kept gettin’ scared, and so on.

It was a trap to scare kids into bein’ good, nothin’ worth anythin’ in adult life, but those Sunday mornin’s Bo kneels at Trudy’s coffin and prays for real, not just at her but at any God that will listen and spare him and his brothers. If Ambrose can be a haven, when it reaches that state of perfection, they’ll be guaranteed eternal life away from screamin’ babies and burning wrists and “please Mama I was doin’ my best-“

The script Bo operates on never ceases. Pretty girls get their mouths glued shut so they have to follow it. Lester drives the same route to catch the same folks and scrape the same families of deer off the roads. Hell it ain’t official, if it were he couldn’t keep the little trinkets and bones he does. Or the meat. But it covers well and no government gonna complain about free labor from a guy like him.

With the girls, they’re just like the deer. Bo takes their pictures and calls them sweet things, but he’s on repeat. Same task, get the restraints, tune out the noise or find a way to stop it, stay sickly sweet with ‘em all the while. Throw in some affection so they don’t fight so much.

Just. Like. Mama.

Lester don’t much like toyin’ with the art. Feels like goin’ in a museum and draggin’ your fingers all over the paint. Which actually is somethin’ Bo would probably do, if it wasn’t up to his standard, takin’ the whole frame and just tossin’ it right out. But they stay neat and displayed on his cellar walls, in scattered checkerboard rows that Bo thinks are straight across.

Thing that always stumps Lester, and Vincent actually, is when he catches Bo slicing little knicks under his fingertips. His palms. Adding newer scars to the thick band around each of his wrists. Always says the girls died too soon. Broke the script, the rules. Now he’s gotta make up for the pain that would be cast into the realm of Ambrose if it weren’t for the failure of another little miss coulda been the one. As if.

They ain’t for keeps. Nothin’ is. Ambrose changes, and changes, and changes. Still every day is the same.

Wake up at a certain time, make the rounds, play pretend, sit itchin’ by the one landline behind a locked door that works, waitin’ for Lester’s call home. If it don’t come in a few minutes, it’s down to make his rounds countin’ heads. Move a few things this way and that on the store shelves. Hang up a picture or two cut out meticulously (as shaky hands can be) from books and magazines, a mimic of the ranging advertisements on display in the bigger cities.

Not a mimic. A replication. Nothin’ bad, nothin’ wrong- that thing is not my baby!

Bo spirals a lot. When he’s on his own. Part of why he’s got to dig his hands so deep into Ambrose. There’s shame in it he tries to squash down with mixtures of somethin’ too strong for a normal day. Mixin’ rum and brandy in a big bottle of orange juice. Vodka in his morning coffee.

Drunk Bo is more coordinated than sober. That little cocktail comes to work with him, and he makes do. Let it be known he isn’t the twin to come away with an issue. Can’t be. He’s mama’s boy, remember?

Lester is sickened by it. Watchin’ his trances like that, knowin’ it’s all ‘cause of Trudy in her final moments.

Shit they didn’t even need to do the killin’, ‘f Bo coulda got his head screwed on a right way. Too late now ‘course. They’re hundreds of innocent lives deep in this thing. Got themselves a dog outta killin’ her owner. Another responsibility, a life to keep up.

Jonsey herself stresses Bo out to no end. Her wagging tail, her happy jumpin’ when she recognizes her dearest friends. When she barks at creaky staircases settlin’ at night, his jaw sets so tight his teeth creak audibly. If he got a cut, he won’t touch the dog. Says it’ll kill him to get any of her in with his blood. Seems silly to Lester, by Bo’s designation the one that plays in guts and bone splinters all day, gettin’ plenty of that himself.

Sometimes a storm’ll roll through in rain season and bring some nasty wind with it, scarin’ the life outta the poor puppy dog. She starts to shake and drool all over. It makes Bo so nauseous to watch he has to leave the room or hack up that nasty concoction he drinks that shouldn’t be stayin’ down anyhow.

Vince stays, always stays, ‘cause someone’s got to. Bo’s a flight risk and Lester just don’t much like bein’ the trapped one. So it’s a system set in stone, or carved in blood and bone more like. Breathed in like the ashes of Bo’s more or less wasted cigarettes.

Way Lester sees it, just like the papery stubs, the routine gotta but extinguished ‘fore they all choke to death on it.

But he hadn’t meant for things to get so different.

Like even thinkin’ it cursed the place, he sends one scrawny group their way and suddenly Bo’s bleedin’ all over the kitchen tiles. Wouldn’t even know it if Vincent hadn’t dialed his bother’s number and left the phone in Bo’s pocket. Keepin’ tabs on his pain so Lester can hear it all and know somethin’s up.

The arrow in his chest stays right there, until Lester pulls up. Somethin’ about knowing Vince called in backup is sign enough to take it serious. Insists on doing it himself though.

Lester says they oughta snip the arrow where it lies and take him to emergency later on. Bo says he’d rather die now than leave a vulnerable spot stickin’ six inches out his chest. Yanks it ‘til his knees buckle and he damn near smacks his teeth off the linoleum. Then vomits stinking alcohol everywhere.

Vincent can see it ain’t gonna happen that way, and locks eyes with Lester. Tells him mentally to pass on an apology for what he’s about to do. Which is, he grabs the arrow by just under the fletchings and yanks the damn thing out before Bo can lose his shit over splinters and weakness and all that.

Well, he loses his shit anyhow, screamin’ bloody murder that he’s gonna kill Vincent for that. Only for a moment before he blacks the hell out from the pain. Prob’ly won’t even remember callin’ Vince a freak.

The hunt goes on without ‘im, without what would’ve been -though Lester never likes admitting when his big brother is right- a weak point for the shifty ass kids to stick their fingers into. End up gettin’ a pretty good knock on ‘em too.

Just like before the girly made it out almost to the roads, but Lester’s a better shot than Bo. Don’t got those phantom shakes and all. Though Vinny would hafta to pick all that bullet scrap out if they was to use her as a figure.

The next time Bo’s conscious, he’s demanding to see what Vincent gonna do with the statues. And it’s a damn good thing they didn’t set out on digging up the shrapnel, ‘cause Bo’s pissed about the arrows, and the shop windows, and the church goers, and the house. It’s all messed up, that safety cushion gone and deflated in one night.

Can’t make art outta enemies. This particukar chase weren’t fun or even close to it. No bright side to it.

Bo wants them destroyed. All of ‘em at first, but Vincent won’t ‘llow that. Threatens to hop in the yellow truck again and take off just like last time knowing damn well it pissed Bo off and was the reason he took two still bleeding blows.

They gets rid of the twins, the girl and the boy ‘ gave ‘em the most trouble. Let Bo decide what he wants done with ‘em.

Could shred ‘em up, sink ‘em to the bottom of the road kill pit, though Lester’s hesitant to do so knowin’ the same group was already thinkin’ he hid bodies in it ‘stead of jus’ Trudy’s old model mannequins. There’s always the marshland they’d rot away in nicely, unnoticed.

He wants ‘em gone though. Not buried and rotting, not waxed over into someone new, gone.

Burn the bodies. Peel the flesh. Boil the bones. Smash ‘em into dust. Mix it in with Vincent’s pigments. Their crystallized, powdered remains make for some perfect shiny makeup on the blonde’s eyelids, and extra sparkle in her wax-cast jewelry.

Felt fitting, to adorn another member of the group in those two’s particular sins. It was them two that got the rest killed so brutally after all.

Speaking of sin.

Bo slept in the church for a few nights, sprawled painfully over a dusty pew, nothing but a jacket as cushion against the solid wood. Ambrose was different now. The order had been broken and he needed to hide from the wrath that would bring.

Mama’s empty husk of a corpse wouldn’t help him. He just hoped the proximity to the altar would get some divine figure’s eyes on him, even if not her. At least send down a quick recovery so he can fucking fix the mess those kids left behind.

The pain, he can swallow, but some part of his system got fucked over right into overdrive and now he’s got no control of his shakes. His legs are as bowed as they’ve ever been, limpin’ and draggin’ himself all this way to the church was humiliating enough. No way he’s installing fresh window panes and rearranging statues to his heart’s content like this.

The dog comes and gets Bo first in the morning. Sunlight pourin’ in through the stained windows, Bo feels like he’s burnin’ up in hellfire instead of kissed by heavenly rays. Or the sticky tongue of a staffordshire terrier. Pitbull mix. Whatever the fuck the mutt is.

Jonesy is always a sign Vincent is close, ‘nd Bo cannot, will not let either of his brotherd see he’s all but given up. Their ignorant little asses are s’pose to be none the wiser he even left the house last night.

The ramblings of a man happens to be clueless that they both watched his sorry ass limp on down there, fallin’ to his knees once and skid down the hill. Anyone alive in Ambrose could’ve heard him cry out when he jammed his busted up shoulder tryin’ to catch himself and struggled for a few minutes to throw weight into his legs and stand. His gait was fucked but so were his patterns, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the next and never knowin’ it.

Really he’d blacked out in the first empty pew, taking no time to get comfortable. It wasn’t about comfort, it was necessity. A shield around his already wounded heart. His brother’s checked on him every few hours.

Bo’s blood stains the church now, far beyond a dried raisin of a corpse in the center of the holy building. Trudy’s eternal wake seems more and more pointless. Her soul can’t be saved for the life she inflicted on her trio of tragic babes. But her son can. Even the devil on earth can be shown God’s graces if he could just fucking stand up and-

He’s humbled by Jonesy. She was his chance to get his ass up and find whichever one of his asshole brothers sicked the bitch on him. The way she curls up next to his boot, singular, that he managed to get off but not back on is her final brag. ‘You lost. Now my caretakers ‘re yours too.’

As expected, right on cue, Vincent creeps in the church then, forever stomping in too heavy boots, settling into the pew in front of Bo. Silent. Back turn so signs won’t work.

“Fuck you.” Is the first thing out of his mouth. Bo repeats it ‘til he vomits a pathetic tiny cough of spit and stomach acid onto the ruined floors.

Vincent doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to being screamed at. He’s not the one with open wounds. Never fucking has been.

“I’m talking to you, freak!”

That word again. Bo doesn’t know why he keeps saying it. Got him choked up last night, rambling about his promises. Because that should be more important. Vincent’s face don’t mean shit when it comes to Ambrose. Hell, he’d probably be capable if the surgery took his arms too. That talent is unstoppable.

Like the silence.

“Don’t make me say it, Vincent. Fucking.. I ain’t here for your damn power trip, alright? You ain’t savin’ shit.”

Nary a fuckin’ glance. From behind, all inky hair and broad shoulders, it’s hard to pick out Vincent’s feelings. That frustrates Bo. Just like with victims, his brothers got a script too. He’s supposed to be in the know, in charge. Vincent can’t keep secrets from him. Secrets get brothers shot inches away from vital organs and arteries.

“Vincent. Vinny. Help your brother out..”

It reminds him of being younger. The highchair. Pleading with Vincent to cut the tape and let him go because Mama and the Doc never listened. His one little eye would shed enough tears Bo could see ‘em across the room. Stuck in place, while Vincent could come and go as he pleased, but still chose distance. And he never did free Bo from the restraints.

“C’mon, now. Gotta get this fuckin’ shit show on the road. Need a hand, Vinny..”

Begging for help out of the pew, it takes ‘em both back there. Bo hopes Trudy is the one stuck now, held down by ugly demons in that coffin of hers, watching her boys get along enough.

Well, Vincent listens anyhow when he’s talked to softly like that. Gets right up and takes Bo by his palms, never his wrists, and heaves him up. Even doesn’t make a comment when Bo’s ankle twists under itself for some godforsaken cranial reason and he stumbles straight into his brother’s shoulder.

Face first in a grimy sweater, he sort of understands what it’s like to be in Vinny’s place. At least in the conjoinment. Bo hates the pictures, of their little bodies all twisted up and stuck. The weight of Vincent is suffocating like that, not comforting like the feeling of warm cashmere. Makes him want to crawl right out of his skin.

Bo scratches at the bands of scar tissue on his arms, never a day in his life since they formed without drawing blood from a raised line of the itchiest goddamn feeling. Only way to describe it is like mosquitos stakin’ their claim on every last blood cell in the area. Poison in his blood, from his highchair days on.

Gotta push away from bein’ stuck in Vincent’s careful proximity. Can’t get comfortable, vulnerable, like a silent, squirming little bastard child.

Bo can’t do this. This switching places thing. If he’s gonna be the weaker twin, Vincent better fuckin’ do his part. One way or another. Provoking him is the easy part.

“Heard you kept the pretty blonde. Took some video to remember her, huh. You got the hots for some wax bitch, Vin?”

Nothing. He physically pushes Vincent, uncoordinated enough to miss his chest and thump into his shoulder instead.

“Look I don’t got much interest in your creepy fuckin’ Quasimodo dungeon, but I gotta know. D’you fuck her? Get up reeeeal close in that wax pussy?”

Bo swallows down more acrid bile. Forces a tight, painful laugh.

“Of course she’s special. Tiny. Blonde. Just your type yeah? Just like your whore mommy-“

There we go. Vincent shoves him back, both of them knowing damn well that’s enough to take Bo down right now. And it does alright. Knocks some ribs pretty good against the back of the pew on his way down, forcing out a painful puff of air.

While he’s down, Vincent takes a second swing with his boot this time, pinning Bo on down to the floor. Pretty sure he cracked his head when he got forced down. Or maybe just put too much strain on the arrow wounds, ‘cause damn is he seein’ little stars and Angels dancin’ in his narrow vision.

If he wanted to win, Vince would press down with that boot and put his twin out of both of their misery, crackin’ ribs into bits and stabbin’ his heart. That’s not his goal though, never had been. It’s to knock some damn sense into Bo that he’s injured and needs to forget about his spastic bullshit.

Pisses him off. Bo fights back by jabbing his fingers in the back of Vincent’s knee, bringing him down to kneeling on pure instinct. Now Bo can reach the straps of his apron, pull himself back up to Vincent’s level in this fight for his spot.

“You think you get to boss me ‘round jus’ ‘cause I’m fucked up.. Well you’re fuckin’ mistaken, boy! I am in charge ‘round here. Not you. Not Lester.”

Vincent just stares. Tears apart Bo’s attitude with just that familiar glare. Fuck him.

“Look at you, fightin’ your sick brother. Think ‘at makes you better’n me?” Bo feels like he’s suffocating, even without the pressure holding him down. He licks across his lips and ignores the taste, “Guess you oughta put a fuckin’ cap in me. ‘Member? I killed the bitch when she got too fucked up. Two for her and one for the Doc.”

Vincent’s eye contact wavers, drifting over towards the plush coffin, like he’s considering it. So Bo doesn’t shut up, doesn’t even know if he can, “Leaves three more in the chamber. Could take us all out. One for baby Les. One for you. One for me. I’d do it if you left me for last. Don’t got nothin’ without-“

His intense staring finally processes in his brain, noticing the off details about Vincent’s face. The mask, the good one, was ruined in the hunt. There was a smaller one that would make do but wasn’t comfortable. Bo examines it, eyes flitting around, confusion in his bunched brows.

“The fuck happened to your face?”

‘You did.’ Vincent thinks, but he doesn’t tell him that. Instead he shrugs, hopes he won’t press the issue. Redirecting ain’t as easy when Bo’s still askin’ more questions.

And Bo is furious now, “We could fuckin’ quit it, you know. Got no right touchin’ your fuckin’ face. Fuck ‘em, Vinny. Can’t believe they’d fuckin’ lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them all!”

He must know they’re already dead in truth, because he goes silent for a while. When he comes back, he’s talking about their other conversation. The one with the pistol that killed Mama and the Doc in their beds, years and years apart.

Dangerously close to being honest, Bo hisses and acts like he’s adjusting his aching shoulder, but really, the pain is nothing compared to what’s going on in his head.

“Can’t do it on my own. One of us dies, we all die. You fuckin’ promise me that?”

Bo seems to think he’s ill. His eyes blur over and it’s not tears, just a pounding in his head. He’s dehydrated from vomiting so much, delirious from the blood loss, but he thinks he knows better. The tumor. Come for him this time. That’s what he convinces himself.

“You’d do it, Vinny, wouldn’t ya, if I couldn’t?” His nose is running from the humidity, the pain, his body forcing a fever to fight for himself. In his mind’s eye, it’s blood pouring from his nose. Just like Daddy after his skull popped.

Fuck. He’s already dead.

“Vincent. Vincent you can’t let go of me!” He clutches that sweater like his life fucking depends on it, glancing at the ground and back up at his brother, over and over, like it might fall away any second.

His brother tilts his head in confusion, but Vincent obliges his ramblings, holding onto Bo around one arm, the other hand balled in his trashed uniform shirt.

“You let go of me ‘n I’m a goner, y’hear? Don’t you fuckin’ let me go. Hell ain’t ready for me. I’m not- My soul got business here and you ain’t fucking gonna turn me into wax, goddamn it. I ain’t the monstrosity here. Fuckin’.. You aren’t either Vincent. That bitch- That fuckin’ demon in Mama’s coffin, don’t let it take me-“

His rambling goes on like that ‘til he passes out again. Under Vincent’s ill-fitting mask, his best one ruined in the hunt, tears are running down the left side of his face. Finding meaning in this fit, knowing full well Bo won’t remember it tomorrow, is idiotic. But he does it anyhow. Lets himself take it to heart that he’s necessary, and loved, and nothing at all like Miss mama Trudy.

He’s right though, Bo doesn’t remember a thing. Vincent carried him home and Bo woke up on the couch, had a plate of eggs like nothin’ happened. Across from him, he nodded to Lester, “You spot a single soul out there, you let us know ‘n we’ll be by. Not too much work today.”

Lester scowls and nods his head, dumbstruck by how much he forgot this time, “Yeh, alright. Got nothin’ better t’ do myself.”

There ain’t gonna be a hunt for a long while, and just as likely he ain’t gonna leave Ambrose. Too many repairs to leave to Bo in this state, all fucked in the head by his disorder. It’s like that sometimes in cycles, but they ain’t seen it get this bad before.

Routine is routine. Bo’s disorder robs him of his sense, his brain defects makin’ him weak. His brother’s fix everythin’ up ‘til his brain gets all better, and he gets bored of doin’ the small stuff. Thinks Ambrose is always the same, nothin’ ever happenin’ to disrupt his perfect plan.

Make Mama proud. Make Bo calm. Same goddamn difference.

Lester looks at Vincent across the table, and he nods, the signal to keep lying to Bo. “Saw a group campin’ in the woods. Two girls, ‘bout four boys. Teenagers, I could get ‘em back and Vinny can take ‘em.”

They’re already dead. The keepers of the group already a part of Ambrose. Dead men walking.

“You sit tight, rest that arm up. Show you the new figures in the mornin’.”

It’s gettin’ too easy to lie through his teeth, but harder to keep Bo inside.

Neither knows what the stiff nod from Bo means, ‘til he says, “Have your fun. Jus’ be fuckin’ careful. You fuck up my town, I’ll fuck up somethin’ of yours.”

‘Uh-huh, we know, asshole.’ Lester thinks, tension in his jaw pushing it forward. There’s all kinds of words just dancin’ on his tongue, but he swallows them back, if only ‘cause Vince puts his hand on his shoulder.

Instead, he manages to choke out a simple, “Yessir.”

#house of wax 2005 #how fanfic #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #vincent sinclair #trudy sinclair #my writing #check warnings and stay safe y’all #fic inspired by my experiences with ocd and seeing that in Bo

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bunniekittiee · 2 years ago

Text

To the Grave They Go

A/N: This is my first time writing for the Sinclair brothers, so I'm sorry if they seem a bit out of character. I added my own small headcanons and took in other ones I've seen before and added my own twist. My writing is a bit rusty as well. I would say trigger warning due to the abuse (mental and physical), depression, and the tragic story behind the brothers. Also, the song that is linked is the one Bo sings later on in the fic, it was written a bit based around the song. FYI i didn't really proof read it so there might be some mistakes and a few "huh" moments so just ignore that

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*

Everyday was just about the same, minus a few mishaps along the way that could easily skewer Bo’s life into a living hell until it was situated. Things could get out of hand quite easily considering it was just him and Vincent. Once completely inseparable, but now apart. It always seemed that way. Lester would drop by sometimes and bring some sort of dinner muck that Bo thought about trashing a few times, but for some reason he had the urge to protect his brother’s feelings. So despite his internal struggle to keep it down, he ate anyway. That’s the best they would get. None of the men really knew how to cook and Trudy took that skill to whatever Hell she was born from. That despicable woman absolutely ravaged Bo’s mind. He knew he would never get his childhood, his time, his love, his dignity back. Like I said, Trudy took that to whatever Hell she was born from and retreated back to. Bo knew he never had the capability to love someone else, another woman, properly. The way he liked them was tied up, mouth gagged and bent over the mattress in his basement that helped him escape the world that chewed him up and spit him back out.

Slowly, slowly but surely, as time continued along, Bo stopped caring about the messes in the house. At first, maybe a few beer bottles littered the floor and some dishes laid motionless in the sink. That turned into shoes strewn about, blood stains that were never cleaned up, clothes spread across the room, trash piled up. Eventually, they couldn’t step into the house without stepping on trash, clothes, dishes, and just about everything the Sinclairs owned. Vincent tried to clean up, but he couldn’t keep up with it. The house turned into a depression hole that sucked the life out of the twins both, moreso Bo than Vincent. Vincent was used to working in the basement on the wax figures and projects he conjured up in that mind that didn’t deal with the long-lasting effects Trudy had imposed onto Bo. The angry, bitter twin was so deep in the bog that clutched his psyche deep in its grip, he felt as if he was drowning. His lungs would stop working and fill with the thick moss that wrapped tightly around him and squeezed the ever-living life out of him. After some time of attempting to keep her away, Trudy crawled out of her Hell and right into Bo’s, making herself as cozy as possible. Might as well, she was going to stay a long while.

The scars on his wrists throbbed, no, they were on fire. Bo felt as if his scars were engulfed in flames. Clutching his scarred joints in the dead of the night, he saw her. Standing in front of the window, her ghost-like figure casting a blue hue. Not taking his eyes off of her, Bo sat in bewilderment. She was beautiful, young and beautiful like he remembered her from his childhood. But her eyes held so much resentment and disappointment. Towards him.

“You lazy, no good-for-nothing piece of shit.” she rasped, her voice strained as if she was holding back anger.

Bo scoffed, his eyes crinkling slightly as his face twisted with disgust. “That’s how we are gonna’ start it off Ma? No ‘hey son, how are you’? After all I’ve done for you.”

Her face morphed into such darkness that Bo could never forget. He felt like his five year old self again, being strapped into the high chair as the metal cut into his wrists when he writhed and screamed. Lester wasn’t born yet. Vincent sat there at the table, looking down at his cereal as his uncontrollable twin fought long and hard against their parents. He didn’t flinch when Trudy slapped Bo. He didn’t look up from his cereal as Bo yowled like an angry cat in heat. It was like he was in his own world as he ignored the cries of his twin. The fire on his wrists did not stop, now it seemed as if Bo was in fact scraping the flesh open once again. He thought for a second he saw blood pooling on the floor. Oh god, the smell, the smell of his own blood brought him back to many bad memories.

“You were always an ungrateful brat!” Trudy spat as she stalked her way to Bo who still sat on the edge of his bed. “Always so ungrateful!” Her hand went up to slap Bo, but the hand did not collide with his face like he was expecting. For a second, he forgot that he was human and his mother was a ghost, or rather a figment of his imagination.

“That’s not anythin’ new Ma!” Bo laughed sharply. “What else are you gonna’ tell me? That Vincent was always the better son out of us? The prodigal son that you passed your skills onto, but he wasn’t the one wipin’ your ass whenever you were old and on your deathbed huh?” He stared at her with so much built-up rage. After all the years of absolute Hell she put him through, Bo still had to suffer even after her death.

Trudy’s lips were pulled to a tight line. She stared down at her son. “Vincent should have been able to live without disfigurement. You don’t deserve to even be alive, Bo.”

Bo had enough. “Fuck you, fuck you for everything you put me through. Vincent may have lost part of his face, but he does not have to deal with you. He never had to.” Bo got up, towering over the ghostly figure now. “So fuck you. I always respected that you were my mama’. I paraded around, proud to be your son while you fuckin’ sat there and regretted my existence. I took care of you whenever you got too old to take care of your own damn self. Not Lester or Vincent stepped up to do it. I did it you fuckin’ bitch!”

The rage coursed through his blood. Her face angered him so much. She just looked at Bo, not saying a word.

“I fuckin’ fed you, bathed you, and treated you like a human being. Somethin’ you never ever did for me. I should have taken a damn pillow and suffocated you. I should have gotten my payback while your miserable ass laid there with no fight left in you. But I didn’t, because I loved you, Ma.” Bo felt weak at this moment as he expressed his pain and sorrows to the one person who didn’t care if he was alive. “I loved you because you raised me and you were my mama. I thought all men were supposed to love their mamas. But by God, I can’t find any love left for you in my heart. You may be my mama, but I sure as hell don’t think of you as mine. Vincent and Lester might, but I don’t. You are dead to me. Ya’ hear me? Dead!”

Bo didn’t know if she was listening to him, but he didn’t have a care left in the world. He didn’t care if she was listening or not. He didn't care if Vincent heard every word he said. He meant everything he said. Bo had a lot of time in his head, that’s all he ever had left to do whenever he wasn’t murdering, defiling, and working in the workshop. If his life wasn’t so fucked up, maybe he could have lived normally for once. No conjoined twin, just him and Vincent as separate beings. Trudy and Victor would have been somewhat normal parents. Bo could have moved out of Ambrose after highschool and worked hard in mechanic shops until he could hold his own. He could have eventually found a good, sweet girl who looked at him with eyes so full of love. He could have brought her back home to meet his family as they looked at her delightfully. Maybe even Vincent would have a girlfriend, as well as Lester. A quirky girlfriend for him. Bo could have bought a home for him and his sweet girl, repainting it and making repairs to make it their home. He could have had a baby on the way soon after, watching her belly swell as the months went along. He could have lived normally, no angry outbursts, no drinking addiction, no murder, no blood, no family business to attend to.

But life was unfair to the Sinclairs, mainly Bo. Everything he could have wished for and wanted, everything he could have had, were out of his reach and would never be able to be accomplished. Bo and Vincent would die here in Ambrose, their existence erased as the museum would tarnish along with them. Lester would have the most luck out of them in passing the Sinclair seed, but that was wishful thinking. If God had treated the Sinclairs differently, if Fate had played their cards differently, his whole life would be different. He wouldn’t be standing here talking to the ghost of his mother.

“Fuck you, I hope you rot in the Hell you came from. Worthless excuse for a fuckin’ mother.” he spat. “God I wish you would disappear forever so I would never have to replay the memories in my head of what you’ve done to me.” Bo glared at her and turned to leave the room. It was deathly still, there were no sounds of crickets in the Louisiana wilderness. He didn’t know what time it was, but when he passed the microwave as he put on the mechanic wear that he hadn’t put on for quite a while, he saw it was 3:53 a.m. The mess in his head stopped him from functioning and working, so he laid in bed with loads of guilt and indignation. He hadn’t showered in 2 weeks, his hair was slick down with grease practically, he was sure he smelled like Lester after a sweltering day working with roadkill.

Flipping on the light, his nose curled at the state of the house. Since Bo stopped doing the dirty work of cleaning, it went to shambles. Vincent was definitely not worth a fuck at this point besides creating wax figures. Bo scanned the room for something he knew he had… Bingo! Stepping through the garbage, he approached the six stringed acoustic instrument and grabbed it by its wooden neck. There was a guitar pick settled between the fretboard and the strings. He grabbed it carefully and slipped it into his pocket as he trudged his way out of the mess and onto the porch of the house. He knew Vincent wouldn’t stir and Jonesy wouldn’t make her way up the basement steps to see Bo. As he sat on the porch chair, he sighed as he began to tune the guitar. It had been a while since he played. After fiddling with it for some time, Bo let out a small sigh as the man eyed Ambrose at the late (or rather, early) hours. It was almost melancholic for him. He strummed the strings with the pick, humming along as he warmed up his fingers. Playing guitar helped settle the nerves that Trudy poked at. When he was a teenager, playing guitar frustrated him as he had struggled picking up a few songs, but eventually the patience to learn came to him. This was the only thing he had patience for.

Bo found a good sound he was looking for, head down looking at the fretboard. Now, Bo Sinclair was never much of a singer, he knew he didn’t have the voice to be good, but right now, he felt the urge to.

“Get out, I never want to leave.” he sang, dragging out a few words as he strummed the pick along the old strings. “Alone again,” he was completely enveloped in the song and didn’t notice the small audience that peered out of the screen door of their home. “Is time well spent.” Bo could never put things into beautiful words, but something had possessed him and given him the ability to do so right now. “Falling deep into the void. Crashing down a darker path.” he nodded his head along. “Letting go of this world I know. Dying slow all alone in peace.” His voice began to quiet a bit towards the end.

He continued his song, never noticing Vincent silently step out of the house to watch and listen to his brother play and sing beautifully. Bo had his talents, that was something Vincent knew. “Alone again, I feel your doubt. Just watch me sleep now.” Trudy’s face flashed in Bo’s mind, a pang going through his heart as he did so. He didn’t miss his mother, nor did he really love her. He wasn’t sure what he felt for her. She did a lot to him, put him through things a child should have never had to deal with, yet Bo was put through it. “Falling deep into the void. Crashing down a darker path. Letting go of this world I know. Dying slow all alone in peace.” How he felt about Trudy was confusing and too much for him to handle tonight. “All alone in peace.”

Bo’s head snapped as he heard a creak and he practically jumped out of his skin as Vincent stood there. He stopped playing, his heart racing as he leaned over, almost laughing in disbelief. “Goddammnit Vincent, if you’re going to watch the show, you should make it known that you’re watchin’.” Vincent didn’t say anything but Bo could see the crinkle of his eye. He found it humorous. Vincent sat on the creaky chair next to Bo.

“You heard me in the room, talkin’ to myself, did you?” Bo asked quietly. He hoped Vincent looked at him like he was crazy, like Bo had told him that chickens gave birth to cattle, but Bo’s heart faltered when Vincent begrudgingly nodded. He sighed and looked away. “She came back to haunt me. Guess’ ghosts never die.” Bo laughed bitterly. “I told her to go back to where she came from. To leave me the hell alone. That’s the least I deserve, right Vincent?”

Vincent nodded, his head cocked to the side as Bo pondered about his life, their life. These moments were never often and Vincent knew that. So he cherished them as much as he could. “I wonder why Dad had three kids with her. We were a package deal, nothin’ you can do about that, but why did they have Lester too? Why did they have to drag us into their bullshit?” Bo felt his anger begin to spark as he spoke. Vincent listened diligently. “I was a horrible son, according to her. I was the Anti-Christ in her eyes.” Vincent saw that in the porch light Bo looked like a broken man, a man that had lost the meaning to his life. The other twin of Bo’s knew that there was a drastic difference in how their parents treated him and Lester and Bo.

“What did I do to deserve it all, Vincent?” Bo croaked. His chest, oh his chest, it felt like a hot knife went into his heart and twisted. The mechanic could not cry, he physically could not let himself cry. As much as his chest hurt and he felt it, he couldn’t do it. “I was just a kid. I didn’t know how to control myself. I wish I was normal. I wish I didn’t have horrible migraines, I wish my vision didn’t black out, I wish I didn’t have to carry the burden of the family business, fuck, I wish we were normal.”

Vincent’s chest began to hurt just like his twin’s. He had wondered about these things too, but hearing it come from Bo hurt him to the core. Bo was the strong one, the one who had more anger in him than a bull, the one who kept the family together and made sure he and Lester stayed in line and did their duties without slacking. But here he was, sitting next to Vincent on the porch with a guitar in his hand as he looked like a devastating portrait of a saddened angel. He was dirty, his hair unwashed, his clothes smelled, his face was oily from the night terrors that woke him up and started his shitty night.

“God Vincent, I just wish we had normal lives and not some fucked up, redneck life of us murdering and coatin’ people in wax because she wanted us to continue her legacy.” Bo said as he leaned the guitar against the house. “Do you know how different our lives would be if we weren’t conjoined twins? You would have the face you’ve always wanted, not having to hide it away or hide yourself because of shame. I would not have my mind fucked. Lester would have his quirks but he wouldn’t be balls deep in roadkill everyday like he is now. We would have been normal.”

Bo stared off into the distance where their empty small town loomed over them. The House of Wax Museum wasn’t too far from their home, it leered at the twins as they glanced over at it. It was like Trudy’s spirit still lingered over them. Why couldn’t the dead just stay dead?

“I know Pa didn’t treat us well either. She at least treated you and Lester well, but Pa had it out for all of us.” Bo said quietly, as if his father’s spirit would cross into his vision and start to berate him like Trudy did. “If we weren’t fucked up, we would have been out of Ambrose.” Now, he and his brothers were chained to this land. They could not escape the burdens, they had to carry them on their backs like Atlas did the world. As a teen, Bo wondered what he would do in his life and he hoped that he would accomplish more than he thought he could do, but here he was now, still in Ambose, still being haunted by Trudy, still carrying on the family legacy, and it was just him and his brothers. Bo wished it was all different. He wished so dearly, but nothing could change that now.

The fire that engulfed his wrists was seemingly put out steadily as Bo could not feel the searing pain but he still rubbed his scars. Vincent noticed but he didn’t stare for too long. Some things weren’t meant to be seen and this was one of them. They sat in a long silence and Vincent could see the hints of yellow and orange in the blue night that was retreating back to its lair. It would have made a very pretty painting, however there were more important things to attend to.

“I have to stop feelin’ sorry for myself.” said Bo quietly as he opened his eyes drowsily. “That’s all I’ve been doing these past couple of weeks. Feelin’ sorry and let myself go.” He swallowed thickly. “I feel like I let us down.”

“You didn’t,” Vincent said hoarsely, trying to work his vocal cords. “You’ve never let us down.” It was hard for him to talk but he knew Bo needed to hear his voice.

Bo smiled. Vincent’s heart almost fragmented into pieces as he felt a swarming feeling of gloom. Bo’s smile wasn’t a happy one, it was a dejected smile that told Vincent everything he needed to know. How could he have let it get this bad and never checked on Bo? The guilt nestled between his entrails like snakes burrowing inside of Vincent. Bo didn’t let them down, Vincent let him down.

“There’s no sense in feelin’ sorry, Vince. There’s nothin’ you could have done for me. Nothin’ can fix this head of mine.” Bo said as he turned his head to face his twin. “She did a lot of damage and there’s no way of reversing it. I’m a lost cause.”

They sat in silence again as the birds began to chirp. The sun peeked through the trees to say hello and start the day as the twins reminisced about the past. Bo had a lot of bad memories, some were good, but they always turned rotten.

“Bo! Look at this one!” Lester called out as he had a toothy grin. He was pointing at the ground at a huge beetle. They were in the backyard of their home, well, it wasn't much of a backyard whenever they had the whole wilderness to themselves. It was a safe haven.

Getting up from the kneeling position he was in, Bo walked behind Lester as he looked at the beetle that scurried away slowly. Bo smiled playfully. “Well, catch it! You got a jar for a reason, Les.”

Lester unscrewed the top of the jar and carefully stood near the beetle, attempting to catch it. His sandy brown hair was untamed and he had a few scrapes on his knees and dirt splashes. Peeking his tongue out of his mouth in concentration, Lester finally caught the bug.

“Bo! I got ‘im!” Lester announced happily as he grinned wide at his brothers. “My very own beetle.”

Vincent looked up from his small painting he was doing. “He’s neat.” the other twin rasped as he glanced at the bug trapped in the jar.

“Nice Les! Let’s take it back and show Ma and Pa.” Bo said as he grabbed Lester gently in the back to lead him back to their home. Vincent stayed where he was at, not wanting to be disturbed.

“Are you comin’, Wax Head?” Bo asked Vincent before he and Lester made their way back. Not looking up, Vincent shook his head. “Alright, suit yourself.”

The two brothers trekked back home, giggling and enjoying their time together. Bo and Vincent were twelve and Lester was seven. They made it to their home and Bo opened the back door, letting Lester go in first.

“Mama, mama!” Lester said excitedly as he ran with the jar in his hands. “Look what I caught!”

Trudy, who was talking to Victor and smoking a cigarette looked at Lester and smiled. “Show me sweetheart.” Showing off his prize, Lester still had that Cheshire grin on his face. Trudy nodded her head and she looked over the jar with the beetle scurrying inside. “How wonderful sweet pea. You found a pretty one.”

“Bo helped me find the bugs,” Lester proudly said as he took the jar back from his mother and cradled it close.

“Did he?” Victor asked, almost surprised that Bo could do anything other than throw tantrum fits.

Bo stood still as he leaned against the wall. “Yeah, I just pointed a few out and told him some tricks. Nothin’ really crazy.”

Lester giggled as he ran off to his bedroom to put his prized possession away. Bo was left with his mother and father and he could feel the tension in the air. What did he do now?

“Where’s Vincent?” Trudy asked, almost annoyed by Bo's presence.

‘Outside still. He didn’t want to come back with us.” he replied.

“It’s going to rain soon, you should go and get him.” Victor ordered. “Otherwise it’s your ass that is responsible, Bo.”

Gritting his teeth, Bo turned away and went out the back door, hurrying to find his brother before it started to downpour. He didn’t need to be punished for something that wasn’t his fault. He entered the woods as the sky darkened and made it known to Bo that time was ticking to find Vincent. Otherwise his parents would impale his head on a stick. The ground became muddier and Bo’s shoes were now covered in muck. Bo followed the pathway and reached the spot where he and Lester had left Vincent, but Bo’s eyes did not play tricks on him. The twin was not there.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bo muttered, panicking as he whipped his head around to see where Vincent could have went off to. He stormed off in one direction and called out his brother’s name, but there was no response given. Of course not, Vincent had a hard time talking to even begin with, so this was going to be a hell of a time trying to find him. Like a crack of a whip, lightning and thunder both working together made Bo’s heart sink. There was going to be no way he would find Vincent, not in this weather.

“Bo!” he heard a cry. Bo turned around quickly to find Lester running at him. “Bo, I’m scared!” He latched onto Bo and hid his face in his jacket.

“Goddammit Les! You’re gonna’ get me in deep shit!” Bo said over the sounds of thunder. “Ma and Pa are gonna’ fuckin’ kill me.” He was angry, that was definitely true, but he knew he couldn’t sit around and sulk. Besides, he had taken a lot of beatings from Trudy and Victor, his wrists were proof of that. “Whatever, just come along and STAY next to me. I don’t need to lose you too, then I’ll really be dead meat.”

Lester nodded his head and obeyed Bo, never leaving his side. He shivered from the cold rain that drenched him and his brother. He didn’t want Bo to be out here by himself to find Vincent, so he snuck out whenever Trudy and Victor weren’t paying attention. Which was a lot easier than Lester expected. The trees shook violently as the rain poured down continuously, thunder rumbling and lightning crackling along the sky. Lester felt like he was in one of those old horror movies his mother would watch where a vampire might appear and grab him and Bo. Lester whimpered quietly at the thought.

The other half of the twins called out Vincent’s name, trying to listen for any response back or even a grunt. But there was nothing. Bo felt hopeless, he had been searching for who knows how long and he still couldn’t find Vincent. The sky was full of gray hues, almost black. It was going to storm for a while and Bo wondered if he would even find Vincent in this weather. It was so dark, it was hard to see much besides when the lightning made light for them to see.

“Help!” Bo heard a strangled cry as he snapped his head in the direction. He could see something in the tree. He knew it was Vincent. Grabbing Lester, Bo sprinted towards the tree.

“Vincent! I’m here!” he yelled out. “We gotta’ get you out of that tree! Jump down and I’ll catch you.”

Vincent shook his head. Bo sighed impatiently. “Come on Vincent! Ma and Pa are any second away from kicking my ass. Just get down!”

Reluctantly, Vincent began to clamber down from the tree. Bo was glad he found his brother, but also afraid of the beating he would face later from his parents as Lester was dragged into this. Missing his footing, Vincent fell down the tree and scraped the flesh of his leg on a few very sharp points. He whined, holding his leg as the blood dripped. It was a nasty wound, and Bo knew that he would most definitely have to pay the price since Trudy’s prodigal son now had to get stitches in his leg.

“Come on Vincent!” Bo said as he grabbed Vincent and pulled him to his feet roughly. Vincent cried, sobs racking his body as he wobbled taking a step forward. Lester felt his bottom lip tremble as he felt scared for Vincent. He was bleeding a lot and Bo wasn’t taking him seriously. “Tough it out Vincent, just for a little bit until we find our way back. We’ll be home soon, just try to calm down.” Bo wrapped an arm around Vincent to stabilize him as he walked. Vincent’s crying persisted which in turn made Lester begin to cry. Now Bo was stressing out.

“Be quiet both of you! For God's sake, I’m trying to find our way back!” Bo said angrily as the wind whistled loudly in their ears. It was hard to concentrate when Bo had both of his brothers crying in his ears. The rain washed Vincent’s blood away, but more blood ran down his leg no matter how much the rain cleaned away. At least their dad was a doctor, but he was going to murder Bo. Him and Trudy both. Bo shook his head. He didn’t need to worry about that yet, he needed to find their way back home and get his brothers to calm down. Every direction they went into made them more and more lost. The trees made the atmosphere dark and very little light had shown through the trees. Bo wasn’t worried about crossing a wild animal, he was worried about being lost and never finding their way back home. Especially since he had his brother’s in tow. It would have been different if he was by himself, but since he had his twin and his younger brother, he had to get them home.

“Just stay calm, both of you. I’m gonna get us back home, okay? Don’t doubt me here.” Bo told them both. He didn’t even know if he could get them back home, but he needed to get them to stop crying so loudly. Lester latched onto Bo completely and did not let go, and Vincent’s fist balled up the back of Bo’s sweater in pain and fear. Bo made a mental note to put up signs so they didn’t lose their way again.

Almost as if God had answered his prayers, Bo saw the faint pathway that led back up to their home and he let out a breath of relief. He hurried along, ignoring Vincent’s grunts and whimpers of pain as he did so. Lester had a hard time keeping up due to Bo having much more height on him. When the brothers saw the light of the back porch, they quickened the pace. Helping Vincent up the stairs, Bo slammed them inside the house and quickly closed the door. “Ma! Pa! Vincent needs help!” Bo said as he helped his twin onto the couch.

Trudy and Victor hurried, which annoyed Bo immensely, and began to fester over Vincent.

“Oh Vincent!” Trudy cried out as she held a crying Vincent close to her. “My poor sweet pea! Your leg!”

His leg was still bleeding a lot and that worried Bo. As pissed as he was at Vincent for causing this headache, he still worried for him. Lester shivered and Bo remembered he needed to take care of him.

“Les, follow me.” Bo said as he led Lester into the hallway. He grabbed a towel from the closet and a blanket. “Dry yourself off in your room and change your clothes. Wrap yourself up in the blanket, I’ll make you something to warm you up. Just lay down in your bed and get yourself warm. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Lester nodded his head and wandered off to his room. Bo grabbed another towel and blanket for Vincent. As he was walking off, he heard more cries of Vincent as his father began to clean and stitch up his leg. Bo stood there with the towel and blanket in hand, not sure how to approach the situation at hand. Trudy saw Bo standing there narrowed her eyes. “Put them on the couch you idiot. And go to your room.” She was mad, that was something Bo could tell. He set the items down onto the couch and went to the kitchen, grabbing a mug and tea. His parents might beat him more for disobeying orders, but he needed to take care of Lester first. And he knew that nothing would get him out of the beating that would come after they put Vincent to bed. He waited for the water to heat up and once it did, he poured it into the mug and put the tea bag in there. Dipping it around for a minute or so, Bo knew it was ready. He sneaked off to the hallway and entered Lester’s room, quietly stepping across the floor.

“Here Lester,” he said as he handed the small boy the drink. Lester took it and began to take baby sips. “It’s your favorite.”

This seemed to brighten him up a bit, but his face seemed to falter. “Bo, will you be okay?”

Bo felt the world stop for a second. Then, he gave Lester his signature smile. “I’ve been through it all, Les. Now don’t you worry. Ma and Pa can do whatever they want, but they won’t break me completely. Get some rest, okay? If you hear anything, just tune it out.” He patted his brother’s head and snuck out into the hallway, going into his room and silently closing the door. Anxiety bubbled in his stomach but Bo tried to ignore it. Whatever happened, happened. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He grabbed a towel on the floor and cleaned himself up, changing out of his wet clothes and sitting on his bed after. With his stomach twisting and turning, Bo knew he couldn’t sleep. He just had to wait until they were done with Vincent.

After what felt like forever, Bo heard his door opening. There stood his parents, their stares boring into him. As much as the anxiety gnawed at his stomach, he wasn’t afraid of their punishments. “How’s Vincent?”

“Fine.’ Trudy replied. “What were you thinking, Beauregard? Taking Lester out there with you? Leaving Vincent by himself?”

“Lester followed me. I didn’t know until I was way out there. And I didn’t expect it to rain. Vincent didn’t want to come back with us.”

Trudy scoffed. “Like I’m going to believe that. What the hell were you thinking?”

Bo stared into his mother’s eyes, anger flashing in the blue irises. Of course she didn’t believe him. “It’s the truth, Ma. Why would I lie about something this stupid?”

“Don’t have an attitude with your mother.” Victor butted in.

“I’m so scared.” Bo said challengingly. “You never believe anything I say! And that’s why I get blamed for everything.”

Victor cracked the belt in his hand that made Bo’s head snap up. “Keep your mouth runnin’ and you’re going to regret it.”

So much anger filled his body. His anger always got him in trouble. “Fuck you.”

Everything was a blur, Bo could barely feel the searing pain as the belt collided with his body multiple times. Victor gripped him by his scalp, putting all the effort he could into whipping Bo with the belt. He struggled against his father, attempting to get away and fight back. Bo didn’t hear Lester’s cries as he entered the room and saw Victor beating Bo. Victor didn’t hear Trudy say to watch out for Lester who started to walk in between their father and his brother. Bo’s blood ran cold when he heard Lester’s bloodcurdling scream as the belt collided with his soft flesh. Pushing his father off, he looked at Lester who had been whipped in the chest area by the way he was holding it. He cried so much, and Bo was irate.

“Nice fuckin’ going! You got Lester instead of me you big fuckin’ idiot!” Bo screamed as he gently grabbed Lester who was sobbing. Tears and snot ran down his face as he was still dealing with the pain of being whipped by a belt in the chest by a grown man. Trudy grabbed Lester from Bo as Victor tackled his son to the ground. Bo and Victor threw punches at each other, scaring Lester more who hid his face into his mother. Bo couldn’t handle his own against an adult, considering he was just a child, but he did okay. Bo remembered his nose bleeding a lot, his eye swelling up quickly and bruising as the fight persisted on and on.

“Bo!” he heard Lester cry. “Bo! Bo!”

“Bo,” said a familiar voice. “Bo? You alright?”

Bo snapped out of his deep memory and met the eyes of the kid who seemed to worry about his well-being from the start. “Oh, Les.” he said. “I’m good, sorry if I scared ya’.”

Lester gave him a cheeky smile. “Just got a bit worried there for a second. I thought ya’ went brain dead for a while.”

Bo stayed quiet and that threw up a red flag to Lester, but not wanting to question his brother and drive him into a corner, Lester didn’t ask him anything else. He went inside the home, Jonesy greeting him at the door as he did so. Bo heard his footsteps and Jonesy’s tags jingle farther and farther into the home, and he let out a sigh. “I can’t sit here and feel sorry for myself anymore. Gotta’ get back to it.” The sky was now a perfect shade of light blue and the birds sang as they were now fully alert of the day. Although Bo was tired, there was plenty of work that needed to be done and it had piled up since he let himself go. Unclean, unshaven, and with a couple weeks worth of grossness, Bo grabbed the forgotten acoustic guitar and went inside his home. It was time to clean up the mess that had accumulated over time.

Bo worked hard on the house, using up quite a bit of trash bags and a lot of elbow grease to get the house back to the way it was before. And he figured since he was doing it, he might as well organize the other crap they had, like the guitars and amps that sat in the corner of the house. Bo told himself he would get back into playing again. Lester heard him cleaning and decided to help him, engaging in conversation here and there as they worked together. Eventually, Vincent emerged from the basement and helped his brothers get the house back to the way it was supposed to be. Despite a few stains, the house was spic-and-span.

Bo grinned tiredly. “I can finally walk through here without stepping in rotten food.”

Lester giggled. "It finally don't smell like my truck!"

Vincent sighed softly, a content and peaceful sigh.

Bo looked at his siblings. "I'm gonna' shower. Been needing to do that for a while." With heavy footsteps up the stairs, Bo entered the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. He needed to shave too, he looked too overgrown and homeless. Carefully shaving his face, he played music in the background to calm his nerves and prevent himself from thinking about his past and his parents. He didn't need to deal with that anymore, it was bad enough he dealt with it for so long. Although it felt as if he was watching himself in third person, like a ghost floating and not connected with his body, he was able to finish shaving and shower. The warm water felt comforting and Bo stood in the shower for some time before twisting the knob and leaving.

Leaving the bathroom and getting dressed, Bo realized that as hard as it was, he had to let everything go. He knew he would struggle for some time, and maybe it would take him years, perhaps until he was dead, to let everything go. Let the abuse, Trudy and Victor, the mind games, the mental distress and issues leave and be buried in their grave. To the grave they go. To the grave they go.

#house of wax #house of wax 2005 #slashers #slasher fandom #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #horror movies #slasher community #sinclair twins #slasher fics #Spotify

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