What's in your pencil case? (Patrick Hockstetter)

Little Violence (Part 11)

"He wanted information about you and when I told him he doesn't deserve you he pushed me down the stairs and punched me...right in the face", Stanley admitted the shortened version of the events that morning. His hand subconsciously felt the bridge of his nose. The horrifying cracking sound reverberating in his ears.

"He broke your nose?", she looked at him in utter shock, reminding herself just in time to keep it quiet enough that his parents downstairs wouldn't hear anything. "It's not broken. Only almost. But trust me that feeling was horrible and all that blood that soaked through my shirt from the fall. I'm glad Bill lent me his jumper. Though after Bowers and Criss that one was also ruined. But you saw that, didn't you?" Abashed, she looked down. "I'm so sorry you had to endure that because of me. I still don't know what Victor and Bowers had to do with all of that?"

Stanley sighed at her honest sympathy. This made it way harder to blame it all on her. "Bowers has heard that it was Patrick who did that.", he vaguely gestured towards his bruised body, "I mean obviously who else would just straight up pull off something like this in school. And he just asked me all about what Patrick wanted." Stanley paused to contemplate if he was really going to tell her the following. Her relationships weren't something for him to discuss, still he felt like she needed someone to knock some sense into her: "I didn't know you had a love triangle going on with those two till today at school, but he was seriously interested in what made Patrick lose his control so easily. It might be nice to have two guys fighting over you, but seriously they are both not worth the trouble. You're a nice person. They both don't deserve you. Look at me! This is what they do!" His exclamtions became more urgent. Stanley Uris really couldn't understand how a sympathic person like her would hit it off with not one but two of the biggest bullies at school.

She still couldn't meet his eyes. Not with all the wounds he carried. All because of her. "It'll cool down I'm sure. Patrick won't actually kill me, when I just got up, we crossed paths again and you should have seen him! He was fuming! Ticking like a bomb! He just straight off steered into the woods. Muttering something about letting off steam and some shit with a fridge and new victims or something. He truly is weird.", Stanley tried to reassure her, after taking in her guilty expression. It didn't work much due to his bruises as a reminder of her faults. And the mention of the ominous fridge only managed to enhance her confusion about Patrick.

This picture of a violent, cruel Patrick didn't fit to her rosy view on him. The boy had clouded her mind with all the moments of joy he had created for both of them. Yet, she had the living proof of it in front of her. "I'm -". The creak of the opening door, made both of them jump. So engrossed in their secret whispers that they had shut down their environment completely. "Stanley really needs his rest now. I still can't believe these racist bullies. It's almost seven anyway, so you better run before your mother gets a heart attack like I did with my Staneyboy.", Stan's mother cooed the last part, making her son's face go three shades redder. She stood up abruptly. "You're right. I'm sorry, my Mom will get crazily worried. Get well soon, Stanley! I hope you'll like the soup. And thanks for letting me visit him, Mrs. Uris!", she ranted down hastily. The curfew at seven was holy after all.

Her words were true. Though her way home wasn't long, she needed to hurry up. The streets of Derry so close to seven pm were deserted. No reason to fear anything. Everything was almost eerily silent. As if to prove her wrong a stentorian ringing burst through the serenity. Seven times the bells were booming out the hour. Seven o'clock. Curfew. She stepped it up a notch. Her mother would be frenetic. She could stay out all day, without any note on her whereabouts. But being out past seven was a no-go.

After the last bell had resounded, the unsettling silence took over again. She couldn't even sense the slightest wind breeze. Already recognizing the cinderblock building of the Derry Town House she couldn't help feeling a bit relieved. Almost home. But something subtle had changed as she approached the building. The air felt stickier. A sudden almost suffocating drought consumed her surroundings. Weird. She shrugged of her jacket. In what felt like temperatures more common in Florida she wouldn't need any more clothing than necessary.

Three more minutes. She thought as she reached the Town House. After all, she had walked this way enough times already. But this time something was different. She was not alone on the street. For a split second she believed she must have indeed been catapulted into a desert, because the sight in front of her must have been a Fata Morgana. It just seemed unreal. Across the road a cloaked painter worked placidly at adorning the building. Seemingly lost in his own world.

She wanted to tell the man that he would be punished. That she had already tried it with her Dad, but the Mayor, his friend, told him that he mustn't do it. -"My Daddy's an artist. One day we'll paint the Derry Town House together!"- The memories burned in her heart. Like her Dad the figure wore a long coat. Didn't he feel the suffocating heat that had crept up? Splattered with red colour. Dad also used red the most. Not focusing on the traffic - It's past seven, nobody is out there anyways. - she carelessly crossed the road to get a closer look at the painting.

She could recognize why the artist was covered in only one colour. Solely a dark, prominent red dispersed on the wall. Forming strange patterns in front of her eyes that stirred up dizziness inside her. The paint appeared to flow on its own. Droplets of red gathering. And - She dropped her jacket. A silent scream on her lips. A wave of red towered up in front of the wall. No. Raging out of the wall. It reached out to her. The wave came crashing down. And suddenly it dawned to her. This wasn't red paint. It was blood. It had always been blood.

Horrified she ran. As fast as her legs could carry her. The floods behind threatening to bury her. She didn't dare to look back into the demonic eyes watching her. Mocking her. This time she heard the maniacal laughter loud and clear. Along with the rustle of the bloodwaves tracking her. It followed her back to her house. Till she finally reached the safety of her frontdoor. Yet, in the quiet moments in her room she would hear it too. She would come to realize that the safety of her home was just a myth. It lurked everywhere.