#tw implied mental illness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wastemanjohn · 1 year

Note

use a photo on your phone camera roll and write a quick scene/hc for it

well, this turned into a monster.

johndeanna, sam pov; 6k words, mature; cw discussions of character death, incest. unedited.

Sam has to keep himself busy, otherwise he’s gonna lose his mind.

Not that he isn’t already. Not that he’s even pushing any pretence of keeping it together, what with that last fight with Dad playing a constant live loop in his head, that code alarm ringing in his ears like tinnitus, phantom smells from the burning pyre lingering constantly under his nose. And that's to say nothing of Deanna, stone-faced and vacant, unreachable under the hood of the Impala. Yeah - that alone, Deanna's distance, her denial, is enough to make Sam feel certifiable.

So Sam keeps himself occupied, because there's really nothing else he can do right now. And besides - someone has to start the process of going through Dad's stuff.

Dad's truck's been sitting at the far end of the salvage yard for a couple of weeks, untouched and unspoken of since Bobby sent someone out to collect it from Nebraska. Tucked away where no one can see it; but Sam can’t forget that it’s there. Can feel its presence like Dad’s ghost, which is unsettling a thought as anything else.

Someone really, really needs to deal with this, alright.

The trees around the yard rustle in the wind, and Sam can feel the budding Autumn chill on the back of his neck. Bobby will probably scrap the truck once Sam's done with it, which is just fine with him. He and Deanna have no use for it, and the idea of selling it on, of someone else driving it, making it their own, feels kind of unbearable.

So Sam ignores that chill, and gets to work.

There's a lot of crap inside. A lot. Sam picks out all the fast food wrappers, a grimace fixed on his mouth; keeps stumbling across empty pill bottles with stolen names on the labels. He’d noticed them before, among Dad’s things, but he hadn’t wanted to give it too much thought - kinda hard not to now - and there are unwashed clothes balled up in the footwells that seem to have been festering for months.

Yeah, definitely hard, not to think about the way Dad was living. How old and exhausted he'd looked, how startling that was when Sam first laid eyes on him back in Chicago; how bad things seemed to have gotten, in the four years he’d been in California. Pretty rough, having those as his last, most live memories of Dad. Almost as rough as finding him motionless on the floor, listening to a strange, unreal voice calling time of death; nothing compared to how cold Dad’s skin felt when Sam and Deanna had laid down next to him for the last time, kissed him goodbye. Sam just can't stop remembering.

He clears out all the trash. Feels a little robotic about it, a little numb. He keeps going until the inside is dealt with; then, Sam moves to the trunk. He opens it up with a wrench, and a deep, deep breath.

Dad's duffel bag is inside. Sam stares at it for a moment or two; it's worn and stained, and there's a hole fraying around where the zip rests. It’s the same one Dad has had for years and years, all packed up and ready to return to, like Dad was just on another job or something. Like a part of him believed that would be the case; that for all the noises he made about being willing to die in the fight with the demon, Dad never truly meant it.

Sam blinks at the tears forming in his eyes. Takes another deep, deep breath. Holds it in his body as he takes the duffel out of the trunk, sets it down gently on the floor, He can't bear to go through it just yet. That's definitely a job for another day. Or maybe never.

Sam lifts up the floor of the trunk to reveal the hidden compartment underneath, just to check there's nothing else left behind. Nothing personal, at least; because for all the inside of Dad's truck was a mess, his assortment of weapons are clean, maintained and perfectly organized. Military precision, Sam thinks, with a smile that's only half-bitter. He'll need Bobby to help him get all this stuff out; it's stuff they're gonna need, after all. Something tells him it's a bad idea to ask Deanna.

His eyes idly roam glinting silver pistols, jagged blades; they could definitely use all of this. As Sam scans the little shelves tucked under the weapons tray, something else catches his attention. Something he’s never seen before; looks like a flat wooden box.

He frowns; it looks a little out of place. He reaches in to pull it out.

There's a layer of dust over the top. Sam blows on it until most of it has gone, then brushes the rest away with his hand. It feels quite light, almost like it's empty. There's nothing but a padlock holding it shut.

Sloppy, Dad, Sam thinks, with a little more scorn than he can forgive himself for. Really sloppy.

It doesn't take him long to locate a box of paperclips amongst Dad's shit. The only lock picking tool you'll ever need, he used to say, if you know how to use it right - and Sam's learned well. He gets the padlock off in less than a second. He opens the box.

Inside are three different white envelopes. Unsealed. Sam frowns again. He has no idea what these could be.

He closes the trunk, and sits down on top of it so he can take a closer look.

He pulls the first envelope out, prises it open with his thumbs. Inside is a stack of Polaroids, held together with a paperclip. Oh.

Sam holds them up. The picture on top is old, pretty faded. It's of a blonde woman in sunglasses and bright orange flared pants, perched on a low fence with fields rolling out behind her. She's looking off to the side. Between the sunglasses hiding her face and the degraded quality of the image, it takes Sam a moment to realize he's looking at a picture of his mother.

His eyes start to smart again. Alone, here, with this photo, with Dad's memories, he lets them.

Sam notices the text on the strip of white at the bottom; June 1975, in Dad's handwriting - everything labelled and organized, always. Sam smiles, despite everything. His mother was truly beautiful; Dad always said it, said it all the time.

Do you think I look like her, Sammy? Deanna used to ask, when they were younger. She’d ask it while standing in front of full length mirrors on wardrobe doors, lifting up her hair, turning side to side.

Sam, usually rattling with resentment and injustice at that time, rarely felt generous enough to agree; usually he'd just snort and go back to his book. He regrets that now, at the memory. He regrets a lot of things lately, a lot of the shitty ways he behaved.

Sam takes off the paperclip, and starts to look through the rest of the Polaroids. The first few are of Mom by herself. Mom sitting in a field in those flare pants, smiling with a single daisy in her hands; June 1975 again, maybe taken on the same day as the first one. Mom dancing at a bar with a woman Sam doesn’t recognize, September 1976. Mom with her head turned away from the camera, side profile grinning, holding up her middle finger; April 1977.

Sam finds himself a little surprised by that picture. The way Dad talked about Mom, it'd be kind of hard to imagine her ever flipping Dad the bird. Doesn’t really feel like the kind of thing wide-eyed, respectable housewives do. But then again, Sam has wondered on more than one occasion if he knows that much about his mother at all, really. Who she really was.

Mom is pregnant in the next picture. Dad is standing next to her, arm around her. Mom has her hands on her swollen stomach, and she's smiling. Dad - Dad is smiling even wider.

They're next to a crib. Sam recognizes the layout of Deanna's old bedroom from the other photos he's seen. There's a lot of pink. December 1978.

Sam feels that like a slap in the face. Sudden, stinging. A wave of grief for a woman, a life, he never knew. The smiling, carefree father he never really met.

Sam has never seen any of these photos before. He feels like he's looking through something intensely private. Something Dad wanted to keep close, keep just for himself. He draws another deep, deep breath; puts the paperclip back on the Polaroids, places them gently back in the envelope like they're made of glass. He's keen to see what's in the other ones.

The second envelope is unlabelled too. Inside is another set of Polaroids, clipped together; but there’s something else too. A beaded bracelet. Sam frowns, and pulls that out first.

He turns it over in his hand. It takes him a moment to realize he's holding the first gift he made for Dad in arts and crafts, back when he was in kindergarten. He remembers it so clearly because Deanna had laughed when he brought it home - men don't wear bracelets, Sammy - and when Sam had given it to Dad, he'd laughed too. But not with Deanna’s scorn.

Sam’s throat burns. It’s hard to believe, now, that there was a time when Dad still used to laugh, despite the fire, despite everything, but there was - and Dad had put that bracelet on, all gentle about it, like he was scared of breaking it. He'd ruffled Sam's hair and said, thank you, Sammy. I love it.

And Dad kept it. To this day, Dad held onto it. He never threw it out.

Sam has to stop for a second then; press the back of his hand to his mouth, like he's going to puke, because it feels kind of like that, even though nothing comes. In the safety of the quiet salvage yard, he lets out a rough sob. Dad - despite everything that happened between them, Dad still held onto a piece of crap Sam made for him when he was five. Carried it around with him in his truck, like a part of him. Wanted to keep the memory.

Sam doesn't know what to do with that. It feels so big. He rolls the bracelet onto his wrist before he can feel stupid about it, and reaches into the envelope for the Polaroids.

Like the ones of Mom, they're clipped together. January 1991 is written on the strip on the bottom of the first photo. Sam recognizes his own seven-year-old face, his gap-toothed smile, the Goodwill clothes sitting far too big on his little body. He's sitting on a swing. There are chunks of snow like clumps of cotton wool on the concrete below, a woolly hat on his tiny head.

A wet smile grows on Sam's face as he looks through the rest of the pictures. There's one of him in some kind of diner, August 1987, the background dark but for a neon sign, smiling wide with some kind of food all around his mouth. He winces - embarrassing - and moves on. There are a few photos dated around this time. One of him coloring at a motel room desk, tongue stuck out in focus. Another of him holding a book upside down and grinning.

Then - September 1983. His infant face blinks up at him. He’s all fat little limbs and confusion. Deanna’s in this picture too, crouched on the floor next to Sam’s carrier with a big toothy grin on her face. Her hair is in pigtails, and she's wearing a blue cotton dress. This picture would mortify her, Sam thinks, with a soft laugh. He doesn't have a single live memory of his sister wearing a dress.

Deanna's in a few more of the photos, Sam notices, as he rifles through. One in particular catches his eye. They’re at a fairground, by the looks of it; there’s a ferris wheel and a cotton candy stall in the background. May 1994 - and already, Sam’s taller than Deanna in this photo, but she's got an arm around his shoulder anyway, asserting her eldest sibling status. They're both squinting in the sun, smiling wide; and Sam finds himself looking at that photo for a while, because something is out of place. He notes with a frown that Deanna is wearing lipstick. Red lipstick.

Dad never let Deanna wear make up of any kind. He can’t have taken this picture; must have lost his shit when he saw it for the first time, too. He didn’t even like her wearing tinted lip balm. Deanna still doesn’t wear make up to this day.

Sam keeps looking at the photo; he remembers now. It was his eleventh birthday; Bobby had been the one orchestrating the fairground trip. And Sam remembers, also, that Dad didn't call that day. Dad was never home for his birthday by that point; but it was the first year of many that he’d forgotten to even call.

God, Sam had been so angry about that once, the way he'd been angry about most everything that Dad did. His distance, his absence. His presence, too; Sam couldn't tolerate that either, for how suffocating it was.

Sam feels very far removed from that now. All that resentment, that rage. He feels like he could forgive Dad all of it, immediately. Forget it, too; if he could just see Dad one last time.

Sam gets to the final photograph. February 2001. Seventeen; he’s sprawled across a motel bed, all gangly, awkward limbs, hair so long it’s almost brushing his chest. He’s staring down at an open book. Well. Sam doesn't remember that photo being taken at all.

He sure remembers 2001, though. That was when things went from pretty bad to unbearable.

That’s when they started having to quietly flee motels hours before check out to avoid covering the damage for broken appliances, holes and dents punched, kicked into walls. When Dad really started screaming at him, and Sam started screaming right back, Deanna pacing up and down with her hands over her ears until they wore themselves out. And then - Deanna lecturing Sam as she patched up his busted knuckles. Deanna, always, always siding with Dad.

It was Dad she’d go after whenever he stormed out; Dad whose point of view she always supported. Always. No matter what.

February 2001; Sam stares at that picture for a while, lost in it. He can smell greasy rental kitchens, Dad’s dirty ashtrays, the vanilla body spray Deanna wore constantly at the time. The memories hit him all at once, bringing their residual anger with them. Because for all he and Dad fought, he and Deanna fought too, by then. They fought about Dad. About how Deanna never had Sam's back.

You could be going to school, Sam remembers saying to her. Well, yelling, really. You could be making something of yourself. But instead you're here. Following his orders. Cleaning up his messes. When are you gonna wake up, Dee?

Deanna's arms were folded, in a display of that Disappointed Mother Mode she'd adopted recently, but Sam could see that he was getting to her from the quiver in her shoulders. Dad needs me, she said, short, curt. And I am something. I'm a hunter.

Sam had laughed. It was cruel - god, he was so cruel back then - And you know what? You could be literally anything else you wanted to be. But you won't do a damn thing unless he tells you to do it.

That quiver flashed through Deanna’s eyes. She took a step towards him, folded hands in fists. You're talking about shit you don't understand, she'd said, tightly, the way she often did. Dad wants justice for Mom. So do I. And the quicker you get off that sky high horse of yours and start doing as he says, maybe we'll actually get somewhere.

You're brainwashed, Sam had told her. It's pathetic.

His fit of frustration blinded him to the not-small flash of hurt in her eyes; but still, Sam walked out after that, because even he knew he wasn't allowed to press the Mom issue. Mom was an automatic out, an automatic shutdown of any meaningful conversation that Sam would try to have. Because that was always shit he didn't understand; not worth getting into, unless he wanted Deanna to end up punching him, anyway. He knew from experience that Deanna had a better set of fists on her than most hunters twice her age and size. He was smarter than to fuck with that.

And, Mom; something that connected Dad and Deanna in a way that Sam could never touch. He doesn't remember what Mom's cookies smelled like, how her laugh sounded, how her hugs felt. Wasn't sentient enough yet on the night of the fire to be particularly bothered about witnessing a house, a life, burn to the ground. Sam remembers always feeling like an outsider in something he was apparently a huge part of. It just made him angrier.

February 2001; yeah. Not a whole stretch of time back from August 2001. No photos from around that time - and, around that time, the night Sam left forever. Not that Sam needs photos; he'll be able to hear Dad's roar of you walk out that door, you never fucking come back, clear as a bell, for the rest of his life. He's never wished he could erase it more.

He doesn't realize he's still crying until a tear lands on the Polaroid in his hand.

Dad had cried that night as well, that night Sam walked out. Then again, Dad cried a lot as time went on, all the time, really; rarely in front of Sam, but Sam would hear him anyway. It would usually happen when Sam was meant to be sleeping - not that he really could, over the sound of those breathless, drunken sobs. Over Deanna's soothing murmurs of it's gonna be okay, Daddy, because whenever Dad got home at stupid o'clock in the morning, stinking like sweat and whisky, she’d always rush out of bed. Straight to his side like a nursemaid never off the clock. Pathetic, Sam would think, every time, even if he did only say it the once. Just felt, all too often, like Deanna couldn’t stop proving his point.

Those old memories usher in another; something Sam hasn't thought about in a very, very long time, as he gently clips the Polaroids back together like he hadn't disturbed them, slots them back into the envelope. Probably 2001 as well; some nondescript night where Sam had woken up to the sound of a decaying front door rattling on its hinges; followed up by a loud, hissed curse. Deanna, as always, sitting up dutifully in their shared bed, without so much as a sigh of complaint.

Sam listened to Deanna in the dark, going down rickety stairs, her footsteps sounding dainty in this out of place way. Heard her going to the kitchen, the hiss of the faucet as she got Dad a glass of water and three ibuprofen. The sound of her bare feet on the wood floors as she went back to him, got Dad cozy on the couch. Started the process of calming him down.

Sam wasn't sure what compelled him to get up that night too. To take himself to the top of the stairs like a kid eavesdropping on fighting parents. But from his vantage point, if he craned his neck just right, he could see into the mildewy living room. He could see Deanna kneeling before Dad on the couch, undoing his shoelaces with one hand. The other was holding Dad's. Fingers interlaced. Dad’s grip looked tight, his fingers tiny in hers; but she didn't seem bothered.

Dad was looking at Deanna. Staring at her, really, with his mouth quivering, tears spilling indulgently down his cheeks. There was blood on his shirt, Sam noticed; there often was. Dad had been getting into a lot of fights.

Sam watched Dad cup Deanna’s face, Her hand stilled on his laces; she let Dad tilt up her head. My beautiful little girl, Sam had heard him murmur. What would I do without you, huh?

Those quivery lips moved into something that resembled a smile, and Sam didn't need to see Deanna's face to know that hers were doing the same. For a moment, nothing happened; Dad didn't seem to blink. And maybe Sam left before he could see Dad kiss Deanna on the mouth, or maybe he completely imagined it; it's still not entirely clear in his mind. Still doesn't quite make sense, that that's what he saw; or what he thought he saw, anyway. Or even why his mind would even concoct something like that. He was half-asleep, he guesses.

And besides, he told himself afterwards, Dad was pretty damn wasted. It's not beyond the realm of possibility to think that he'd been in enough of a state to mistake Deanna for Mom. Deanna would have known that, Sam is sure; and Sam is sure, certain, that Deanna would have taken it in stride. She would have reassured Dad quietly, and gently pushed him away. Confident that he wouldn’t even remember in the morning.

Do I look like Mom, Sammy?

Sam breathes in the burnt Autumn air; it's getting a little dark. Bobby will be calling him for dinner soon. Dinner is usually prepackaged chilli, canned Ravioli, shit like that; Sam's stomach is beginning to churn for even the thought of it. He’s not seen a vegetable in weeks.

Anyway - Sam shoves that old memory (dream? imagination?) back into some dark eave of of his mind where it belongs. He touches the bracelet on his wrist - thanks, Sammy, I love it - and thinks about the way Dad had ruffled for his hair, the way he smiled in that photo in Deanna's nursery, the Dad he could have been, kind of sort of was for a while, when Sam was very small, until years and years of the life slowly took him apart. The Dad Sam always knew was still in there; the Dad that was good.

Yeah - Sam takes that version of Dad with him, as he moves onto the final envelope. Wonders if, maybe, he'll find that version of Dad inside. More pictures of him looking young. Happy. Not the broken, exhausted old man Sam can’t help but keep on seeing every time he closes his eyes.

This envelope is a little heavier than the others. Sam presses it open with his thumbs. Makes sense, if it's the heaviest; this must be Deanna's envelope. Dad was closer with Deanna than he was with anybody, and he knew her a hell of a lot longer than he knew Mom.

Sam pushes around inside. He was correct; there are more Polaroids here than in the other envelopes. Lots more. But unlike the others, they're not clipped together. They’re just laying haphazardly inside. There's also another envelope stuffed in this one. Folded up small to fit.

Sam sees the glint of a silver chain peeking out from the bottom. The necklace is a little tangled up when he pulls it out; it has a little pendant shaped like a rose, with some kind of fake red gem in the middle.

Sam remembers this necklace, he realizes, as he studies it. Deanna had picked it up at some dollar store or other; thought it looked cool. And she'd been pissed as hell when she lost it. She'd looked for it everywhere. Made Sam look everywhere too. That had sure been a long night.

Sam gets this feeling he can't describe, as it crosses his mind that the necklace may have been in Dad's possession this whole time. But why - why would he do that? Had he picked it up by accident? Decided to hold onto it, forgot to mention it? Was he entirely unaware that it was even lost in the first place?

Or - well. Sam has no fitting explanation for the or.

He pockets the necklace, not really thinking too much for now about whether it'll be a good idea to return it to Deanna or not. That weird feeling spreads through his gut.

It gets worse still when Sam's reaches into the envelope again; when his fingers brush something else. The small lock of hair is held together by a rubber band. Hair. Blonde hair.

It could, Sam thinks, as that feeling climbs his spine, be Mom's - some couples keep each other’s hair, right? That's a thing, right? - but Sam somehow knows that it isn’t. That this lock of hair belongs - or belonged - to Deanna.

He drops it straight back into the envelope.

There's a part of Sam that wants to put the damn thing away now. Put everything he’s seen so far up to more shit you don't understand, to another thing he couldn't possibly have really seen. Because this - none of this - there’s no explanation Sam can live with that makes sense. And with that in mind - he should stop digging around in Dad’s shit right now.

But there's a bigger part of Sam that feels differently. And that part takes over before he can think too much about what he's doing.

Sam's fingers are shaking a little as he takes out the Polaroids. He pushes them together like a deck of cards, and starts to look through.

He half-expects to see pictures of Deanna as a kid, like with his envelope; pictures of her on swings, at diners, with her arms around Sam. But there aren't any; most of them seem to be of her as an adult, or at least as an older teenager. Sam can't pinpoint it exactly, because the photos aren't dated like the others - and unlike the others, in most of them, Deanna isn't smiling or posing. There's one of her working on the Impala at the side of a dirt road, bent over the hood in those tiny denim shorts she only dons in 100 degree weather, the look of focus on her face suggesting she didn't know the photo was being taken. There's one of her at night in a parking lot of some kind, a hand in her shirt pocket, her irises red in the flash, a confused look on her face. Another of her from the back; standing up a bar, her hair glowing under the low lights, flanked by two men on stools. They’re both looking at her, Sam notices. Then again, Deanna can't go anywhere without men looking at her.

It brings another memory back to Sam, as he stares dumbly at that photo. They'd just finished up a job, a black dog maybe, somewhere in Arizona; and Dad had taken them out to a bar kinda like the one in the picture, dank and yeasty, the kind of bars they only ever went to, really. Sam was bored and miserable, twirling the straw around in the diet coke he’d been nursing since they got there, while Dad and Deanna proceeded to get wicked, wicked drunk.

They told Sam - but mostly each other - the story of how they wasted the thing, because Sam, as usual, wasn’t allowed to join for the actual hunt part. The details kept getting more and more elaborate, Deanna’s voice rising with excitement; that manic hint to her laugh growing, the more wasted she got. And Dad's smile was warming up and up, his eyes lingering on her for longer and longer periods, shining with the pride he rarely offered verbally. A part of Sam hoped Deanna saw that, at least.

When Deanna went up to the bar to get in the fifth or sixth round - Sam would lose count as quickly as they would - Dad's eyes followed her. His apparent good mood saw an interruption, as he shook his head.

See that bartender? he’d said, without looking at Sam. Gives me the creeps, the way these horndogs look at your sister. Who the fuck does that guy think he is.

Dad often complained about the way men acted around Deanna. Sam just shrugged. I’m sure she can handle herself, Dad.

Not the point, Dad muttered. Locking eyes with him, finally. Hey Sammy, listen. When I'm not around, you need to start lookin' out for your sister. If you see what I mean.

Sam didn't see what he meant. Dad had this way of speaking in riddles, or at least they were riddles to Sam. He shrugged again, didn't say anything. Giving Dad a cue to fucking elaborate.

Dad huffed. Problem is, Dee's a looker. A real looker, just like her mother.

Sam stayed quiet. Wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to that.

Dad narrowed his eyes. You ever see anyone gettin' too close to her, you come and tell me right away, alright?

Sam nodded. Felt easier. Wasn’t too sure what else to do.

And Dad had pressed his beer to his lips and kept on watching Deanna up at the bar. Didn't seem to blink as he gulped his drink down, placed the bottle back on the table. And Sam watched Dad watching Deanna, saw the line of his gaze moving up and down her body, from her big boots all the way up to the neckline of her crop top; and Sam thought to himself, at that, that the way Dad looked at Deanna wasn’t all that different than any other guy did. The horndogs. It wasn't a welcome thought; but it sure as hell crossed Sam's mind anyway.

And Sam dismissed it just as quickly as it had come. It wasn't a thought he could keep around, not beyond that mere split second. Not when he had to be wrong.

Sam stares into the envelope. He decides, with his pulse in his ears, that he doesn't want to see any more of these weird Polaroids. Any more erratic angles; any more of Deanna apparently not even knowing she’s having her picture taken.

He puts them back in the envelope. And now, it’s really about time that Sam left it there; about time he accepted, willingly, that whatever Dad and Deanna had going on, he is, was and always will be, outside of it. That it's not at all - nowhere in the ball park of - what it looks like.

What it sometimes kind of felt like. What it kind of feels like now.

Sure, Dad was never winning any parenting awards; on a good day, or maybe a bad one depending on how you looked at it, he'd admit it himself. But - this...

Yeah, Sam could really leave it there. Put the envelope back in the box, salvage the nice photos, and burn everything else. But there’s still that other envelope. The smaller one.

His fingers close around it. He watches his hand take it out. Watches, watches himself.

Sam can see why it’s folded now. It’s perfectly Polaroid shaped.

On the front, Dad’s handwriting: Summer 2002. The year after Sam left, he registers, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He starts unfolding. Watching, watching himself.

The first Polaroid is on another dirt road. Deanna’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, sunglasses balanced on her head. The wind is blowing her hair around. She’s holding a bottle of Jack in one hand, and there’s a cigarette dangling between her fingers on the other. Sam has never seen Deanna smoke.

The next photo, she’s still on the hood. She’s got a leg cocked up beneath her, a hand tangled up in her hair. Bottle of Jack posed between her legs. She’s pouting. She looks kind of ridiculous; and something in her expression belies that she knows it.

In the next photo, Deanna’s sitting upright on the hood again, laughing hysterically. It’s funny, how Sam can hear Dad laughing too, laughing from behind that damn camera. Laughing like he never did, not since all those years ago. Laughing at his daughter - sitting, posing like that.

Sam keeps going. Keeps looking.

Deanna and Dad are both in the next photo. Sam can see the length of Deanna’s arm; she’s angling the camera down at their faces. Dad’s got his eyes closed tight, his lips pressed against her cheek. There’s the biggest grin on Deanna’s flushed face.

Sam’s gut feels weightier, weightier.

In the next picture, Dad’s mouth is on Deanna’s neck.

Deanna’s grin is gone; her mouth’s drooping open a little. Sam can see the whites of her closed eyes.

Weightier. Weightier.

He keeps looking.

The next Polaroid seems to have been taken in a motel room. Kinda nicer than their usual fare; Sam can tell that by the velvet headboard topping the bed, the matching gray curtains behind Deanna where she stands. She’s holding a rifle, a big one; it’s covering half of her face.

It’s not covering it enough for Sam to miss the way her eyes smoulder at the camera this time, in this way that looks practised, intentional. She’s not joking this time. Not laughing at herself anymore.

She’s wearing a t-shirt that just skims the midst of her hips. Sam can see the strip of pale pink panties underneath. Did Dad - like her that way? Did he enjoy seeing Deanna handling weapons - and not just because he was impressed with her prowess?

God. God.

The next Polaroid is even worse.

Deanna’s kneeling on the bed, in front of that headboard, her thighs parted. And oh, Sam can see her panties again alright; he can see her stomach too, her bare waist. The outline of her tits, suggestive; covered by Deanna's hands. Deanna's hands, on Dad's leather jacket, the only other piece of clothing she has on.

No, not the only other piece; Sam can just about see the black lace around the tops of her thighs. Stockings.

Her hair is in a cascade down her shoulders. She’s half-smiling, half biting her lip.

No.

Next photograph; and Dad’s jacket hangs loosely on Deanna’s body now. Her tits are bare.

She’s in the same pose; only now, with her head tilted a little back. Her eyes closed again, like in the last picture. Mouth slack; and there’s a hand on her face. A hand with scar tissue, house fire burns; a wedding band glinting on the ring finger. A hand Sam would know anywhere.

The photograph blurs before his eyes. His tears are different now; born of an emotion he can’t identify. Nothing like his earlier grief.

Sam shoves the photos back into the envelope. The envelope back into the box; slams it closed. His hands curl into fists. He can’t catch his breath.

He shuts his eyes. Acid lurches up from his stomach, hits out at the back of his throat. His limbs feel weak. It takes every last ounce of control inside him not to slump off the hood, fall to his knees, and violently puke.

Sam doesn’t know how long he sits there, on that hood. All he knows is that despite the falling dusk, the cold winding through the fibres of his clothes, the teeth he can vaguely feel starting to chatter, he can’t move.

Because the thing is - he didn’t want to know. Sam never, ever, wanted to know.

You can explain things away; but you can never, ever forget them.

He should’ve expected that Bobby would come out looking for him eventually.

Bobby approaches John’s truck slowly, the way he always seems to kind of tiptoe around Sam these days. “You been out here for hours, kid."

Sam eyes the floor. All he can think to say is, “Where’s Deanna?”

Bobby leaves a pause. Then, “She’s sleepin’. Figured we should let her get her rest. She ain’t been doin’ much of that.”

It’s true. She hasn’t. Nor has Sam. None of them have.

“Gettin’ a little worried about her,” Bobby admits, after another of those pauses. “She’s takin’ this hard. She was crazy about her Daddy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Bobby must notice; he must, because the silence just feels awkward now. And Sam doesn’t mean to be cold; he really doesn’t. He’s just numb.

“You got everything you need from John’s truck?” Bobby asks, eventually.

Sam nods. He can’t speak.

“All good for me to junk it?"

Another nod. Yes. Crush it to pieces with every last little fucking piece of him inside.

Sam already put John’s duffel back in the trunk. His box, its photos, its necklace, its hair, along with it.

Bobby nods too. “Alright. Now get your ass inside before you freeze to death.”

Sam could. It’s very, very cold out here.

He lets Bobby walk up the path in front of him. Lagging behind, Sam slides a finger under the elastic of the bracelet on his wrist. He tugs on it until it snaps; hearing the beads scatter their pieces across the floor isn’t much, but it’s something.

#asks #anon #johndeanna #my writing #prompt #i got carried away and this ended up not being quick lmao #tw implied addiction #tw incest #tw implied mental illness #always female dean

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lostandfoundfm · 1 year

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𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⸻ 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

if you’re hearing COME ON EILEEN by DEXYS MIDNIGHT RUNNERS playing, you have to know LUCILLE “LUCY” ARCHER (SHE/HER/HERS; CIS WOMAN) is near by! the THIRTY-THREE year old AUTHOR has been in denver for, like, THIRTY-THREE YEARS. they’re known to be quite IDEALISTIC, but being SPIRITED seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble EMILIA CLARKE. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those SEEKING BUT NEVER FINDING, BRIGHT YELLOW JUMPSUITS, POORLY PAINTED MURALS IN EACH ROOM OF HER HOUSE, and THE LITTLE THINGS IN LIFE vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around the CHERRY CREEK DISTRICT long enough!

hello, i'm lauryn! i'm twenty-two years old and currently reside in the cst timezone. my preferred pronouns are she/her/hers. i'm looking forward to writing with everyone! below is some information about lucy.

✗ ⸻ BACKGROUND

[ ! ] TRIGGER WARNING : adoption, mention of bullying, unhealthy relationships (codependency), running away from home, implied mental illness, breakup

0 0 1 ⸻ lucille archer is a denver native born in colorado’s capital to a single mother named eleanor. her adoption had been arranged since a month after eleanor found out she was pregnant. lucy’s father skipped out at the first sign of serious commitment, and eleanor didn’t feel mentally or physically equipped to raise a child, so lucy was placed with janie and craig archer. they had always had it in their mind that they would rather adopt than conceive a biological child, and thus little baby lucy was placed with them directly after her birth.

0 0 2 ⸻ janie and craig were relatively eccentric parents who had a fairly atypical parenting style. they treated lucy as more of an equal than their subordinate, taking into consideration what she thought and felt about decisions in the family. janie was an acclaimed artist whose work was featured in galleries around the country, while craig was an author who wrote mystery novels. the two were nomadic before lucy’s birth, but the arrival of their child kept them in place in denver. they didn’t want to uproot her, and lucy expressed discomfort with that from a young age, as well.

0 0 3 ⸻ while there were certain obvious things that lucy couldn’t do, her parents let her make her own decisions for the most part. if she wanted to attend church with a friend or start playing soccer, they didn’t question it. their idea was that lucy would learn something about herself in the process, or learn something about life that could be applied in some area. outsiders to the family thought that they were rather pretentious, but lucy grew up appreciating the way she was raised and the things she was surrounded by.

0 0 4 ⸻ janie and craig’s relationship was one that inspired lucy in many ways. she wanted to have something similar, something real. her head was full of beautiful ideas and wonderful notions, but she had trouble physically manifesting them. she would write them down as they came to her, but holding them in her hands didn’t ever bring her much joy. as a result, lucy grew up to be a hopeless romantic in many ways. she not only romanticized her relationships with others, but also life itself. it led to some joyous moments, but some harsh letdowns, as well.

0 0 5 ⸻ lucy had an average outlook on school; she didn’t really struggle with it, but much of it was monotonous. at her house, they were painting the walls every other tuesday and shamelessly failing at singing opera; school seemed dull in comparison. lucy was allowed to dress herself from a young age, and this wasn’t always met with positive reactions from her peers. if there was one thing that was well drilled into her, however, it was to be confident in who she was and what she wanted, rather than take into account what others thought she should be.

0 0 6 ⸻ having such relaxed parents may have not gone well for others, but janie and craig got lucky with lucy. she was receptive to her parents’ thoughts and statements while also taking into account her own. whether or not it was their intention, janie and craig raised an artistic, confident young girl who could surely take on high school with her head held high… right?

0 0 7 ⸻ wrong. high school tore apart many of lucy’s preconceived notions about the world, as it does for many others. lucy felt neglected by her peers, like she was an outcast. she really only had one friend, her closest friend since childhood, and she wanted that to be enough, but it wasn’t. this beautiful world she had created in her mind wasn’t quite rooted in reality. in reality, her crushes never really liked her back and she wasn’t often recognized for her strengths and talents. after a while, all of the positive affirmations from her parents just became white noise. she would think, well, they were her parents, they had to like her.

0 0 8 ⸻ lucy had always known she was adopted, and she was fine with that, but being rejected by the world as a teenager rocked that stability and security that she had with the idea. it wasn’t until age fifteen where she met someone who was enamored with her. they appeared to relate to her struggles and understand her way of thinking. it was a hell of a high for lucy who was finally getting her wish of having such a passionate relationship.

0 0 9 ⸻ it felt like it was them against the world, and lucy’s outlook on life had been taken to new heights. it wasn’t healthy, she would recall in retrospect. of course, they didn’t really know any better. they were caught up in it all, the whole first love experience. maybe a little too caught up in it seeing as how they devised a plan to run off together.

0 1 0 ⸻ it wasn’t a well thought out plan whatsoever. he could drive and she was able to scrounge up some money, so they took off toward texas. it was a whirlwind romance, she thought. what could be more romantic? only, the dream didn’t last. barely a week in, they were virtually out of money and growing weary. the idea seemed so grandiose and big and incredible, and now they knew that it was a stupid, impulsive thing to do. they were coming down from the ideas of running off and becoming their own people and taking on the world together and building a life, and they were left with reality.

0 1 1 ⸻ lucy was reluctant to let go of the dream that they had built and woven, but her partner had made his peace with it. they ended up back in denver only two weeks after running off. once the novelty had worn off, it seemed he didn’t want lucy anymore. he had told her that what they had was not enough, and she seemed to understand. it was a rush that they kept chasing, and when things stood still in denver, it was hard to keep the passion going.

0 1 2 ⸻ their adventure was one that impacted lucy in both positive and negative ways. she was able to let go of some of her fantasies, but sometimes she wondered what would’ve happened if they had stayed down in texas, put more effort into it. she’d imagine herself waiting tables at a quaint little diner where everyone knew her name, and… wait a second? what if she wrote about her fantasies?

0 1 3 ⸻ her parents’ suggestion was out of love and a little bit of concern. lucy had always kept a journal and a notebook full of her ideas, but she never really did anything with them. this new hobby of hers began to occupy most of her time, acting as a healthy outlet for her not so healthy thoughts. oddly enough, though lucy was a phenomenal romance writer, what she really loved to write was horror. stories of romance and drama came easily to her, so horror stories were something new and shiny in her sights.

0 1 4 ⸻ lucy found that when she channeled her creative energy into writing, she felt more comfortable in her own skin. the things that she had always beaten herself up for were now things that she felt as though she could entertain others with, maybe even make a profit off of. so, following graduation, lucy took a couple of creative writing courses and hunkered down in her bedroom at her parents’ house, writing away.

0 1 5 ⸻ outside of writing, lucy didn’t attend college, though she did maintain a fairly normal social life. there was still a sort of hierarchy in the “real world”, she found, but people outside of high school didn’t seem to care as much about your status or appearance. lucy had found some solid friends and enjoyed the denver scene, finding art and beauty in places where others couldn’t. as an adult, she still romanticized people and ideas, but she also had the capability to remind herself that they weren’t always realistic (most of the time, at least). still, it made life a little less dull.

0 1 6 ⸻ by the age of twenty, she had a book deal! elysian fields ended up being a breakout success, and lucy was shocked. everything happened so quickly. suddenly, they wanted a sequel, and what about a book tour? then, there was the movie deal. lucy had never expected it, and she had mixed emotions. in truth, it wasn’t a project she was super passionate about. it was a cliche young adult romance novel about the leading roles in a movie who read too much into their chemistry and fall in love. the idea came to lucy after she was met with a confused face yet again from her friends, who she would pitch her ideas to, and they gently recommended that she should write something that would sell. and sell, it did.

0 1 7 ⸻ it was quite a change, going from living in your parents house to being whisked all over the country. foolishly, lucy had allowed herself to be roped into a contract promising at least two more books. it wasn’t that writing the sequels was especially challenging, just that there were other things that she wanted to devote time to. but when she would pitch her other ideas to her publishing company, they would ask why she was trying to fix something that wasn’t broken. on top of that, her friends would remind her that, if she completed the series, she would have enough money to fund whatever else she may want to pursue.

0 1 8 ⸻ so, she rode it out. by the age of twenty-four, two more books in the series had been published. there was a one-off in there, too, but it mostly flew under the radar. when her deal ended, lucy felt relieved. she had made a substantial amount of money and acquired some level of fame and status, but the entire ordeal had worn her out. so, she bought a mediterranean style mansion in the cherry creek district that resembled one of her doll houses growing up, and spent the next three years of her life holed up in it.

0 1 9 ⸻ the first year was dedicated to fixing it up the way she wanted it. she hired a two-person staff and they helped keep things in shape while lucy decorated and altered things to her liking. by the end of it, the house was transformed. it would have to be redone if she sold it because it was far from the standard marketable house at that point, but it was hers and it was everything she could’ve asked for.

0 2 0 ⸻ when she looked around her home and saw nothing she wanted to alter, lucy was stumped. there wasn’t anything left to do, and she was then forced to process the last few years of her life. everything had gone by so quickly that she barely had time to adjust and catch up with herself. this year was rough and involved a few vacations, but very little socializing with her loved ones. people grew concerned for lucy, but she would insist that she was fine. she was just enjoying her wealth, she would tell them. it looked a little funny, though, that lucy seemed to be avoiding the house that she just spent a year fixing up. too quiet, too little to do, she would think.

0 2 1 ⸻ it was almost as though her growth was stunted and she was still that twenty year old sitting in her childhood room, writing and dreaming of recognition. that recognition and adoration that she had craved was not all it was cracked up to be, especially since it was recognition for something she didn’t quite think was worthy of it. lucy was at least thankful for the fact that people usually didn’t recognize book authors by their appearance, so she was often able to navigate through public spaces without having to face much acknowledgement.

0 2 2 ⸻ in the third year, she wrote. and wrote. and wrote. she had found an agent who believed in her, who was willing to work with her if it was horror that she wanted to write. this agent was her comfort, and the first person to really ground her. they told lucy that, even if that series wasn’t all that special to her, it was to others. lucy began to make her peace with it; she had evoked emotion in others, taken them to a different world through her words, spurred their imagination. it was really quite beautiful when she meditated on it. this year was about healing and growing. lucy learned to take it easy the year that she spent writing; too much chaos was evidently not good for her. part of her considered seeking out her birth mom in this year, but decided it would be best not to. she didn’t have really any unresolved feelings toward that situation, and she imagined, by the lack of communication, her birth mother felt the same. there was perhaps a small part of her that was curious, but she knew that her curiosity could be damaging, so she banished it.

0 2 3 ⸻ on her twenty-seventh birthday, lucy’s best friend had insisted on taking her out to a club, but lucy bargained for a board game night instead. so, they went out to find a new board game and lucy met someone that would alter the course of her life. they were intelligent, thoughtful, attractive. more than that, they had clicked right away. lucy had always given thought to the concept of soulmates, but hadn’t really entertained it until she met them. it was the true definition of love at first sight. the kicker was that lucy hadn’t gotten their contact information.

0 2 4 ⸻ cue a dramatic artist going to that same bookstore every other day for three months in the hopes of seeing them again. everyone around her thought she was bonkers, and lucy agreed, but she still made the trip. lucy would grab a coffee there each day and browse for half an hour; finally, a little over three months in to this seemingly hopeless endeavor, they appeared. of course, she was not at all transparent about the circumstances of them meeting again, playing it off as a coincidence. lucy finally got their contact information, and the two hit it off.

0 2 5 ⸻ there was a genuine compatibility and attraction between the two, and lucy thought: this is it. he didn’t seem to care much for her status, she thought, though it didn’t seem to hinder anything. perhaps she had romanticized things a little too much, but her partner reflected back that same infatuation. they would write each other love letters, be vulnerable together; lucy eventually even admitted that she would wait for them in that same bookstore that they had met at months prior. it was a fairy tale in her mind, until it wasn’t. they were in a relationship for a whole six months before it ended. the last month of it, things had begun to deteriorate. it seemed to boil down to a lack of communication, but they ended it with lucy. this crushed her.

0 2 6 ⸻ lucy felt entirely connected to this person, and thought it was shared. she was willing to work on things, but they did not wish to do so, or to even see lucy anymore. the mourning process was brutal for her. not only was lucy forced to grieve the loss of this person in her life, she also grieved their future, her future, that she had grown to see as an inevitability. it was peculiar to others, only six months together, and she was in shambles. it was just the kind of person that lucy was; she loved intensely. the year after the breakup was a bit of a blur. her goal was to get through each day, and she did with the help of her agent and her loved ones, but it was hard.

0 2 7 ⸻ approaching her thirties, lucy made further strides in her career. with her agent’s help, she was able to get some of her novels that she was more passionate about published. her foray into horror was relatively successful, though it was unlikely anything would ever match the success of her first series. she was perfectly fine with that.

0 2 8 ⸻ the past few years of lucy’s life have been somewhat of a drag. she has had a couple flings, adopted a couple cats, and gotten involved in some charity work. though she has mostly healed from her breakup five years ago, there is still a lingering pain from it. lucy has developed healthier coping mechanisms, she has many friends and family to rely on, and she feels established in this world. if she wanted to, she could’ve retired a decade ago, but work keeps her busy, keeps her distracted. that little spark in her has dwindled, but she is trying to rekindle it to the best of her ability.

0 2 9 ⸻ nowadays, you can find her in the cherry creek district, though she often ventures into rino when she’s feeling social. she doesn’t really fit in with the standard cherry creek residents. lucy can come off as eccentric and dresses in colorful, often somewhat childlike clothing. that romantic life that she so desperately desires? she’s still searching for it. but, for now, she is taking in the stability and enjoying the small pleasures as they come. getting her hopes up would be a bit too risky for her at this point in time, but you can usually still find her with a smile on her face. some would even describe her as a ray of sunshine at times.

tldr ; a denver native who is a hopeless romantic and accidentally became a best selling romance author when she really wanted to write horror. had her heart broken a couple times, but she’s trying to stay positive (secretly she is still searching for a beautiful romantic life full of wonder) kind of a strange lady but super sweet and nice to be around

✗ ⸻ PERSONALITY

0 0 1 ⸻ lucy’s personality has evolved as she has aged. that vibrant hopeless romantic that once existed is still very much there, but is a bit duller now. she tries to stay optimistic, appreciate the small things, and enjoy whatever stability she can find, but there will always be a part of lucy that wants more. the world is still a wondrous place to her, but reality has poisoned it in many ways, and she finds it harder nowadays to romanticize things.

0 0 2 ⸻ regardless, you will often find her with a smile on her face. despite her eccentric nature, people tend to gravitate toward lucy initially. she radiates an energy that brings people in, but can also push them out just as easily; some people find it hard to be around lucy’s intense emotions. she is incredibly passionate when it comes to her interests. if you were to view her simply from her activities (backyard tanning, sunday mimosas, attending plays), you might mistake her for entirely average.

0 0 3 ⸻ deep down, lucy is relatively unstable, which isn’t always hard to pick up on with her. she is a bit childlike in nature, but has a moderate maturity level for her age. as lucy derives a lot of pleasure from her relationships with others, she can be a bit impressionable at times, even gullible. if she’s frustrated, she often seems a bit more stubborn. this especially manifests in her persistence to avoid things she isn’t ready to face, even if that means she has to spend a year of her life fixing a house. at this point in time, lucy is kind of detached because she is tired of being disappointed and is trying to avoid hope.

about. statistics. headcanons. playlist. wanted connections.

#. . . LUCY ✗ ⸻ ◞ 𝐢 𝐧 𝐭 𝐫 𝐨 𝐝 𝐮 𝐜 𝐭 𝐢 𝐨 𝐧 .#chq;intro #tw adoption #tw bullying #tw codependency #tw implied mental illness #tw running away #tw breakup

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