notes: i dont know how to explain this. imagine kenny mccormick with a side of the extreme supernatural? beats me. this is like 2 years old. anyways no powers!au jsyk.
disclaimer: no.
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i—let me tell you a story i don't really know; one bright day in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight;
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{if I change and start to fade, all the green in my eyes desaturate}
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Townsville is a quaint, quiet town in the middle of the middle of the United States. Nothing relatively interesting happens in Townsville. The biggest event of the year is the pickle festival, introduced by the mayor several years prior. The very same mayor Townsville has had for years upon years.
It's got the normal small-ish town feeling to it, of course. There's a diner on Main Street that serves slices of fresh apple cinnamon pie and a plate of the best baby back ribs around. The hardware shop around the corner has been a family hand-me-down from three generations back. The police force consists of the sheriff and two deputies—maybe even three, but only on a good day. Friday Night Football is the most anticipated event of the season, and Townsville never fails to disappoint. Pokey Oaks High's sports rivals are the Cityville Cougars, and they've been arch enemies for decades. Everyone and their mother turns up for a good ol' football game of the Porcupines versus the Cougars—especially a home game. Teenagers still do stupid things like partying after winning one of those very same Friday night home games.
And sometimes, bad things still happen.
Brick sighs into the early November air, watching it materialize before him. He's making his way out of the bleachers and away from school property as soon as physically possible. He doesn't even really like football games, but Boomer was on the team and dammit, even Butch had been here to support their little brother.
So, after being guilt tripped, by Butch of all people, into coming to this dumbass football game to watch his blond brother fumble around the field, he's ready to go home. It's not like Boomer even noticed his presence, due to his attention being devoted to a pretty cheerleader with blonde pigtails, a pair of white and blue pompoms clutched in her hands.
He scoffs as he walks out into the parking lot and attempts to find his car and not get run over by newly-driving sophomores and possibly drunk juniors. Nobody spares him a second glance, which isn't unwelcome. Everyone is always preoccupied and absorbed in their own thing, whatever it is. He scowls at some of the stoner kids lazing around their beat-up clunkers and smoking near the back of the lot and wonders what this world is coming to.
Something's always felt off to him. Something about the town seems wrong, though he isn't sure why. Nobody else ever seems to notice it, or if they do they keep it to themselves. Whatever, he always figured, he'll be out of here before too long. He has his sights set on Harvard or Stanford, high aspirations that his mom and dad have always praised him for. He's going to make something of himself and get out of this backwater town.
Brick fumbles around in his coat pocket for his keys when somebody bumps into him. He hears a quiet swear as his keys clatter to the ground.
"Sorry man," Buttercup Utonium, resident weird girl of Pokey Oaks apologizes. She hurriedly stoops to pick up his keys from the cracked pavement and shoves them into his hand. Then she's gone, black leather jacket and dark choppy hair hiding her in the night.
He stares after her—this girl he's known since childhood—and realizes that's the most civil thing she's said to him in probably twelve years. In fact, she hasn't really talked to anyone for a long time. Not since—
He unlocks his car and slides into the driver's seat, taking a deep breath of the crisp air and letting it out. There's a picture in his dashboard compartment which he never opens, simply because it's there. She's there.
"Hell," Brick mutters under his breath and lifts his head, crimson eyes staring back at him from his rearview mirror. "Dammit."
Whatever. It didn't matter anymore. She was gone and in her wake was a withdrawn Buttercup, a quieter Bubbles, and a father who locked himself away in their basement for days.
So, the formerly active and sports-loving Buttercup hadn't taken her sister's death so well. She had become kind of reclusive and he didn't see her around a lot, but whatever. It wasn't his problem.
Brick starts the car and puts it into reverse. He just wants to go home and forget about not forgetting.
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Butch watches the dark-haired girl quickly leaving the bleachers. Some of the guys around him begin to snicker and shove at him. "There goes the witch—you think she's going to cast a spell?"
"What a cold-hearted bitch."
Something snaps inside him and he shoves back at the one of the guys he usually hangs out with. It's not so friendly. "Shut the hell up, you dick."
"What's got you all worked up?" Randy huffs, cigarette smoke trailing out between the gap in his teeth. "Or should i say who?"
Butch clenches and unclenches his fists. Suddenly everything about these guys is making him nauseous. "Leave her alone. It's not funny."
"What?" Keith starts in surprise. "Big ol' Butchy boy is sticking up for the goth girl now? What's this world coming to?"
He remembers seeing her at the funeral—wearing a dress for the first time in at least eight years. Butch grinds his teeth. "Whatever man, just shut the fuck up about her."
"You gettin' with her or somethin? She is pretty damn fine, if it weren't for her shitty personality. Who knows, maybe that'll finally loosen her up some—"
Randy never gets to finish, because suddenly Butch's knuckles are cracking against his nose. He lets out a pained screech and falls back over the metal bleachers, blood dripping all over his outstretched hands. Randy wails in agony, nose definitely broken. Keith watches Butch in muted shock, not even moving to help his fallen friend.
Butch shakes out his hand and turns on his heel. Suddenly, he doesn't feel like partying with these douchebags anymore tonight, or maybe at all, ever. Instead, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and makes his way toward the stadium exit. Maybe he'll just go home. They really killed his mood, those jerks.
The dark-haired teenager scowls as he scuffles through the streets. His thumb brushes over the screen of his phone and he contemplates calling Brick to come pick him up, but decides against it. His older brother probably wouldn't come, anyway.
Brick was somewhat of an odd soul—sort of like a grumpy old man and frustrated hormonal teenager all morphed into one hot-headed dreamer of a disaster. He'd been that way for as long as Butch could ever remember. Resigning himself to walking the rest of the way, he watches as Townsville passes before him. Houses of all different shapes and sizes go past as he walks down the sidewalk, some even still have their Halloween decorations up. He scoffs at a yard full of gag tombstones and turns away, feeling worse by the minute. Damn, he's not even had anything to drink tonight and he's already feeling sick.
As he rounds the corner, he notices something in the middle of the street. He has to cross over here, anyway. Quickly looking both ways, he steps out into the road and leans over to look at it.
The sight of it makes his stomach churn. Numbly, he picks it up and stares as it dangles from between his fingers. A red ribbon, most likely from the Halloween setup on the other side of the street, but it's still unsettling. It reminds him of her. Or rather, the lack of her. How everything had changed after she had died.
Suddenly, something bright makes him tear his eyes away from the ribbon. Butch turns his head to see what the source of the blinding light is.
He never even has time to get out of the way.
There's only the screeching of tires, the blinding beams of headlights, and then nothing at all.
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"Hello again, Butch."
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Across town, Buttercup suddenly finds herself staring at the alarm clock on her night stand, unnervingly awake. It's 10:38 pm. She hadn't gone to sleep that long ago. Scowling, she pulls the blankets over her head and attempts to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach.
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It's the middle of the night when their home phone rings.
"Dammit Butch," the redhead hisses, as he drags his body out of bed and stumbles to the kitchen. His mom and dad are away on some couples getaway retreat, and Boomer is still out cold. Brick
fumbles around for the phone. "If you're drunk off your dumb ass again I swear—"
Switching on the lamp, he blearily looks at the screen and rubs the heel of his hand over his eye. It's a local number that he doesn't recognize calling their house at 1:17 am.
"Hello?"
"Is this the Johnson residence?"
Immediately he sits up a little straighter. "Yes."
"This is Deputy Lumpkins down at the station. Is this Brick? Are your parents home?"
Fucking hell, Butch, he thinks. Did you land your sorry self in jail?
"No," he replies. "It's just Butch, Boomer, and me for the weekend."
Something isn't right. He can tell that something isn't right. This doesn't sound like a call about picking up his dumbass brother for being a public nuisance or for underage drinking. There's something that Lumpkins doesn't want to tell him. Brick hates that more than anything. He feels as if he's 5 again and adults don't think he can handle the truth. He tries to get his bearings. What time was it again? Where had Butch said he was going to be?
After what seems like an eternity, Deputy Lumpkins heaves the biggest sigh Brick has ever heard. The man sounds like he's carrying the weight of the world. "Brick, listen to me. I'm afraid to inform you that there's been an accident involving your brother."
Brick's heart has suddenly found its way to his throat. "...what?"
"...you'd better come down to the station, Mr. Johnson," Lumpkins tells him, sympathy and something like fear in his voice. "Would you like us to send someone to pick you up?"
"No," Brick replies almost immediately, already back in his room and grabbing the first pair of jeans and shirt he sees. "No, I'll be right there."
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Brick stares at the clipboard in his hand. It slips out of his hand and clatters to the floor. The entire world around him immediately begins to crumble again, for the second time. Only this time it's worse. He can't breathe. Oh God, he can't breathe. Deputy Lumpkins calls for someone to help as Brick sinks to his knees, fingers scraping his scalp. God. His brother. His little brother.
The clipboard has landed face-up. The crisp and new report from the hospital mocks him. He thinks that he is going to vomit.
Name: Butch Theodore Johnson
Birth Date: March 17, 1998
Time of Death: 10:38 pm
Cause of Death: Massive internal bleeding, blunt force trauma to the head, damage to the spinal cord, spinal shock
Date: November 2, 2016
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{it's my head not my heart that's strayed}
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end notes: listen, i am not a doctor, but. also i took some liberties with information because i do what i want (within moral obligations).
