It's that time once again- It's invisobang! I hope you like my entry this year and you all should check out my artist, ValPal5117 who has made art inspired by this fic on their blog! This story is something of a departure from my usually awkwardly comedic antics, but nonetheless, I hope you like it. This is my first time writing Wes Weston and his family and I hope to write more stories about them. -Voorhees

Every morning Kyle would check the rat traps in the basement for his Dad. It wasn't that he had strong feelings for the creatures, but he still winced at the idea of killing the poor things. It bothered him, but you get used to it, y'know? It wasn't like he was a vegan or, god forbid, an ultra-recyclo-vegetarian. But death seemed so… permanent, for lack of a better word. It was such a severe punishment for the crime of just existing in a hostile environment.

Then again, this is Amity Park. Death didn't seem to stick here.

It had been more than a year or so since they moved here, and with every passing minute, it felt like an eternity longer. Kyle, like any child, was apprehensive about transition, but when his father said they wouldn't have to move again after their resettlement to Amity Park… he was more receptive to it.

But then again, it's Amity fucking Park. It had this habit of sucking all the good out. As soon as you step into the county boundary, it's like you forfeit all rights to happiness.

At the bottom of the first-floor stairs, the sixth-grader had sleepily pulled on his socks. He hated going down there. The concrete floor was always so cold. It was like the ice resting on Lake Eerie. It was freezing and— it'd kill someone in this house to break out the broom. Rocks and shards of debris would lodge into his heel, and the youngest Weston would limp around the house. Kyle's jaw popped as he yawned. The boy organized his choppy red hair into its natural cowlick before stuffing it into his ball cap. He got to his feet and shuffled towards the back of the house. The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended. The basement door caught a gust of wind and slammed against the wall, sending vibrations through the house.

Damn, I hope I didn't crack the wall.

There was no arm rail for the stairs because this architectural nightmare was built before common sense. Kyle turned his head back from the light of the first floor, back into the blackness of the basement. He didn't want to upset his Dad again.

See, this first year hadn't been smooth sailing, if you managed to guess. Kyle's brothers weren't as 'go-with-the-flow' with the move. Or anything that came after. Kyle didn't believe in conflict. He was the youngest; he was the baby of the family. He was the one who got the pat on the head for every single achievement; before, inevitably, the conversation shifted. It wasn't his job to rock the boat. It was his job to be a good student, get the garbage out, and of course…

Go into the creepy-ass basement to check for rats that may or may not exist.

See, Wes was the first one to see the rats. Or, more accurately, he saw the damage the rats did. Some chewed and frayed wires in the power box—things of that nature.

…Wesley was a lot to unpack. Some would say.

He was high-strung, had trouble letting things go, and, oh yeah, he kept seeing things that didn't exist. That was the concerning part. At first, everyone wanted to shrug it off as a 'middle child' thing. That's before he started saying his classmates were… dead. Wes said one of his classmates had been replaced with a ghost. Then there were the weird phone calls at all hours of the night. The obsession with short radios and the police scanners that would buzz and burst to life randomly with noise.

That's what led to Kyle and Easton being dropped off at practices and games, while every other Thursday, they had to wave off their brother Wes in the parking lot of a therapist's office. Kyle had only been inside that building once. It didn't smell like how a doctor's office should, sterile, harsh, and chemical. Instead, it vaguely had the stench of coffee and cigarettes and was… overwhelmingly stale. It wasn't a very ventilated place. There were hardly any windows except those in the private rooms where Wes would allegedly spend his allotted hour staring blankly out like he was in The Shawshank Redemption— effectively burning their father's money.

The shrink— or rather, Ms Penelope, seemed really nice. Teetering on the edge of overkill. Kyle understood why his older brother would be reluctant to share anything with someone who appeared to be trying too hard to seem trustworthy rather than proving it. She didn't seem too interested in Kyle's issues per se; they spent their introductory session playing all manner of board games. Her office was plush. The couch was padded arm to arm with throw pillows, the kind with the fur on them. Not that the sixth-grader could get comfortable anyway. It may not have smelled like a regular doctor's office, but it sure was cold like one. What little hair he had on his arms stood on end with the chill.

Kyle spent most of his appointment hunched over the coffee table, trying to rationalize in his head which colored 'Sorry!' pawn meant he had the least amount of mental disturbances. The idea behind the practice was to become emotionally vulnerable, but often that feeling overlapped with being completely exposed. Not that the middle schooler had anything to hide. Nothing out of the ordinary for a kid his age.

Kyle would argue that he was the most well-adjusted in the family, including the two adults, in terms of who needed therapy and who didn't. Ms Penelope agreed and thought Kyle was quite mature beyond his years. However, that wasn't the thing that stood out the most about that first and last session. Maybe it was something in his mannerisms or when Wes was brought up— perhaps it was what Kyle didn't say.

Penelope seemed to believe that Kyle was developing the early stages of SAD. Separation Anxiety Disorder. She said it was completely natural, given what he's been through. Kyle didn't like to be alone. Who did? What shocked him was that he didn't refuse. There was no initial denial when the shrink laid it out like that. With her soft and educated voice, she had smoothed out her red pencil skirt, and lowered her cat-eye glasses to the bridge of her upturned nose. She just said it without any preamble; no fanfare at all.

Who isn't anxious these days? In this economy? Have you seen where they live?

Penelope had deduced effortlessly that Kyle used his humor to distance himself from his fear. The facade that took him twelve years to craft had been pierced.

In even less time, she had come to the conclusion that the trigger for Kyle's anxiety was… Wes.

At once, Kyle had leaped to his older brother's defense. Saying that, while Kyle may have been a bit… stressed , for lack of a less clinical term, Wes would have never done anything intentionally.

That's where she stopped him, her pen coming to a halt on her yellow notebook. Penelope dotted the end of her last sentence. Her eyes found him, then the cozy clutter of the office fell away. The maternal cadence dissolved into something cold and purely analytical.

She told him, 'The path to hell is paved with good intentions.'

Every morning Kyle would check the rat traps in the basement.

The wooden stairs exhaled—Groaning with each step the youngest Weston landed. The water heater churned ominously. The grey floors were warped with age and stained with damage from times long gone. Kyle carefully found his way to the bottom and glanced up from his feet. He saw his brother now. Wes was hunched over the rat traps. He had one of his freckled hands inside like he was digging something out of it.

Kyle cocked his head, still blurry with sleep, rubbing his eyes, "What're you doin'?"

Startling, Wes didn't drop the metal box. Instead, the elder brother froze and stared up at his younger with bloodshot eyes. He didn't answer right away.

Clearing his throat, Wesley pulled his fist out of the plastic box. He explained, "I thought I'd check the traps for you. I know it's… it's kinda gross."

Kyle let go of a sigh he didn't know he was holding. He'd rather not look at something that small being dead. He asked, "Did we get'em this time?"

Hesitant to answer, the elder moved the now closed box into the trash, "Ye-yeah. We did."

"Thank god." Kyle scratched his forehead nervously, "Well, I mean, it sucks that it's dead-dead, but…"

Standing, Wes clapped a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, "It's just nature. Don't feel too bad about it, 'kay? If it wasn't us, then it'd be a cat later or somethin' else. They were already dead when they walked in here."

"I guess…" Kyle begrudged and leaned into his brother's hand, taking him wholly at his word. It was effortless to believe him. Wes had a way with words. Y'know that was his nickname when they were younger; Wesley the wise. Then there was Kyle the kind, Easton the earnest, and Clay…

Kyle winced. They weren't supposed to talk about Clay.

Awkwardly, the older turned and stuffed something into his backpack before zipping it up, "Hey, don't get too bummed out, alright? It's still kind of early, so now you have extra time to stop by the corner store and get some doughnuts for breakfast." He threw his bag over his shoulder, "Doesn't that sound good?"

Kyle rubbed his arms, sniffling, "Uh, yeah… chocolate milk with a maple bar… what're you gonna get?"

Mirroring his younger brother's body language, Wes shook his head, "You can go on ahead of me; you're old enough."

"But Dad says—"

Wesley cut him off, "What Dad doesn't know won't kill him." He extended his pinkie, "I promise."

Taking a step forward, Kyle wrapped his pinkie around his older brother's; he nodded, "Alright. I'll walk to school by myself."

"Get a move on! I wanna hear all about your solo excursions when I pick you up!" Wes coaxed his brother up the stairs and out of the basement, "Talk to some cute girls, put in a good word for me."

The conversation struck Kyle as odd. He couldn't exactly put his finger on why. Maybe because Wes, for once, didn't have to be dragged out of bed by his ankles. He seemed motivated.

Then there was the second fact: Wes basically told him everything he wanted to hear. This wasn't a conversation but the facsimile of one. Like there was a cue card Wes was reading just behind Kyle's head. Somewhere out there, the same audience that got their kicks from Full House would be cracking up about this.

He was pretending to be okay.

Like with every rehearsed motion, the elder was telegraphing silently, 'Look! Look at me! Look at how good I am! Aren't I fixed now? Aren't you proud of me?'

There was something quiet about his desperation to be accepted back into the flock. The family didn't like to acknowledge their blackest sheep. It was almost like an unspoken rule. Wes' appointments and his antics were written off and thrown under a huge rug. Less like he was a young adult approaching college and more like a precocious toddler or a rambunctious family pet that was resistant to discipline. After all, both of those options bite people unprovoked.

Kyle could only wince through a smile. What was he supposed to do? He was just a kid, and as life liked to remind him at a near-constant pace— there was very little someone his age could contribute. So, he stays out of the way. What else could he do?

"Uh…" He asked once more, knowing he wouldn't enjoy the answer, "Are— Are you sure?"

Wes silently tilted his head. He didn't understand the rising fear in his younger brother's voice.

Kyle clarified, "Are you sure you don't want to walk together?"

"Don't sweat it, bud. I won't be late."

That was the furthest thing from what Kyle was worried about.