A/N: I'm going through a Freddy-faze. I've been watching some ANOES movies, but I've only watched the new 2010 one, and Freddy's Revenge so far. (Don't worry, I do intend to watch the original first movie, once I find it). I don't write too many FF's but while writing this one, all the words just sort of showed up. I didn't have to think about it too much, so I'm very proud of myself. It certainly feels like a story I want to write and finish, not one that I feel I need to finish. So please R&R, and I'm going to try to not make Freddy OOC (or any other charecters you might recognize), but this is MY FF, so please don't yell at me if I make Freddy a little OOC. I'm just writing my dream Freddy :) (haha, *laughs at the pun I made on the dream master*)
Warnings: So, I ain't all into the whole child molester thing, but that IS sort of what Freddy is. No worries, this is a T fic, so I'm not about to have Freddy rape a little 12-year-old or something, but there probably will be quite a few scenes that will imply some Adult/Child stuff that some people might not find appropriate, but what can I say? That's Freddy for you. So if you don't like it, please don't review saying I'm a sicko for writing that crap and I should go to jail or something (cuz I'm not a sicko, I hate that crap, but I'm keeping Freddy who he is). Also, please excuse any words that aren't spelt right. I don't have a word-checker or an auto-correcter on my computer :( Also, I don't have an ending planned yet, so I'm willing to take any suggestions, or if you want something done in the story, or have some reccomendations, send a review asking me and I might just use it!
So have fun, little Piggies! Please R&R!
Freddy Krueger's: A Kid To Haunt
Contour
We were moving again. That's what Mom said.
I didn't want to move again. But did that matter? No. I was just the kid of the family. Did my opinion matter? No. Did it matter that, for once in my life, I made friends? No. All that mattered was that Dad got a promotion, and big hot-shot job he could gloat about like a little, childish kid to all of his drinking buddies at the bar he went to every single night, instead of staying home and having dinner with his family.
Mom could gloat about the new big, beautiful, fancy house we were going to move into. 1428 Elm Street, Springfield. She would meet all the other wives of the block, secretely declare herself 'best-wife-of-the-block' and start gossiping about other people, like she did all the time.
Sheryl, my fraternal twin sister, was certainly more than happy to hear about the news. We were only twelve and yet her life was devoted to any boy, any age, who was popular or handsom enough. Surely, she would go about our new middle school, gloating about the boys she's kissed (boy, has there been alot of boys), and become one of the populars within the first or second day of school. I never really understood Sheryl, but I did make some attempt to. She became the pretty, perfect, pleasurable twin that everyone loved (especially our parents), whereas I became the lousy, lonely, lifeless twin everyone ignored or thought was gothic or emotionally disturbed.
And a little crazy, too.
"Shirley," Sheryl said as she put the last of her pink, pretty clothes into her box. Dad had made us skip dinner to clear out the rest of our room, since we'd been "putting it off" for too long, and we were making the move just tomorrow. "You don't seem too happy about the move." She carried the box and set it upon her many others. "Why is that?" I didn't usually mind Sheryl asking me questions. This, however, was not one of those times.
"What does it matter?" I hissed at her. I was in a foul mood because of the move, and I hated hearing about it, I would always leave dinner or breakfast, if they started talking about anything involving the move. But I knew I shouldn't be so foul towards Sheryl. Despite being twins, and despite Sheryl being two minutes older than me, I was still the older sister, mentally, that is. If you took a look at us, you would have thought Sheryl was older (technically she is, since she was born first), and that we weren't twins, fraternal or not. We just looked so much different.
Sheryl had long legs, which made her five-foot-two, her arms were the perfect length, she had thin lips and a good structured, thin face. She had boobs, too. She had already started to mature, and comparing her to me, she made me look like a little kid. Her darker blonde hair reached mid-back whenever she pulled it up into a pony-tail, or braided it. All the guys called her perfection.
I was only four-foot-ten. I took pride in my legs, they were skinny, but they were not long. But they were still the best atribute about me. I hated wearing pants, the legs always being long on me, so I often wore shorts or a skirt, so thankfully, I had nice looking legs, so I never got made fun of for them. My arms were nothing special, my hands were tiny though, compared to other twelve-year-old girls I met, my cheeks still had baby fat (which my Aunt found adorable), my hair was short, barely touching my shoulders. It was bright blonde, and was a little wavy.
The boys called us complete opposites, which was true. Everything was different, except for our baby blue eyes, which we shared.
Sheryl gave me a 'don't-be-mean-to-me-just-because-you're-having-a-hissy-fit' type of look she's mastered over the years of yelling I've done at her. She never yelled back, though. She knew better. I was the only person she could actually talk to. I remember her telling me one day, "Sometimes people forget that I'm human. A human girl. That has feelings, and worries, and that there is stuff in the world that I don't like, and stuff I'm scared of, and sometimes they forget that I need to talk too, like a human being." That was about two years ago, when she started to mature, when she started to become eye-candy to all the guys in the classrooom. That was when we started to stop arguing, and talk. When I started to protect her from the people that only wanted to hurt her, use her.
"Sorry," I told her, "I just don't like it." I had hoped that was a good enough explanation, but of course, it wasn't.
"Shirley, look at the positives." She said smiling, walking towards me with a sheet of paper in her hand.
"Oh, the positives," I said sarcastically, "how could I forget about those?" She rolled her eyes.
"Look at this," She said, handing me a piece of paper. I opened it to read what was written in her pink ink.
"One," I read aloud, "boys." I rolled my eyes and pretended to gag. Sheryl scowled. She told me to shut up and read the rest. "But how," I began to ask, "can I shut up and yet still talk, my loveable twin?" I smirked at her as she gave me a glare. I read on. "Two," I said. I read over what it said before I was going to read it aloud. I bit my bottom lip. Sheryl smirked this time. She knew just what to do, to get to me. "Second chances." I finally said. I crumpled up the paper and threw it at her.
Second chances my ass, I thought. Sheryl looked at me with concerning eyes. I hated the way she looked at me. She felt I deserved some second chance, or some shit like that. I was over it all. I got a bad-rap with all the teachers and most of the student about half a year ago, since then things weren't quite the same.
"Maybe," Sheryl said quietly, looking at her feet, "maybe you'll get better sleep here, y'know, a new place, new surroundings, maybe you won't have so many nightmares." I winced at the thought of the nightmares. They were horrid. For months I woke up screaming in shear terror, others I would wake up crying my eyes out, sometimes I would wake up, unable to scream or cry. Just lay there, like there was something heavy on me, like I couldn't breathe. All I could do was gasp for air until finally it would all stop, and I would bolt up and run to the bathroom to get the bandages, sometimes the gauz and ace wraps.
Because I would always wake up with blood on me. My blood.
When I told my parents, they called a doctor or some sorts. People that try to get inside your head, to know what you were thinking. I would have none of that. I didn't like my privacy to be invaded. The man was stupid, anyways. He came up with some lame excuse about how I'm doing it to myself when I sleep. When I feel like I'm getting cut in my dream-nightmare-it's because I'm actually cutting myself in my sleep. Maybe it was possible, maybe not. I pretty much came to the conclusion that I was crazy, though. Calling myself crazy... Somehow, it kept me sane.
"Maybe," I told Sheryl quietly. I had something to hope for, even if somewhere deep inside me new that it wasn't true, that it wasn't worth hoping for. "Maybe I will sleep better."
"Who is it anyways?" She asked me. I had told her many times about the man that hurt me. Sheryl was the only one that believed me about the man. I guess she was another reason I was sane. "What's his name again?" I gulped at the thought of him. I could feel my heart race just from the thought of him.
"He calls himself... Freddy." I closed my eyes, trying to keep the horrible pain of metal claws that was once inflicted upon me many times, burried deep in my thoughts. "Freddy Krueger."
Sorry, I don't write long chapters! Each chapter should be at least this long, if not a little longer! (A/N: I changed Shirley's sister's name from Sausha, to Sheryl. So if anyone read Sausha, don't get confused, it is officially Sheryl now. It felt more twinnish. If anyone saw a Sausha I missed (meaning I forgot to change it) please tell me!)
