#Fall of Neil Hargrove

[strangerqueerthings]

A mix of multiple prompts for @fallofneilhargrove

Haunted (The Camaro), Public Scorn, "What Happens in Hawkins, Stays in Hawkins."

CW for veiled mentions of alcohol abuse, abuse and death.

He doesn't think much about it after the fact. It was just a car, and now it's just a wreck. A ruin in the vague shape of the loud, fast car that had been leverage against the wreck of a son he could never hammer into the proper shape of a man like himself. The squeal of tires on asphalt, spitting gravel and dust; the desperate, helpless fury of his protests, they were the same. Pointless noise. Feeble attempts at rebellion.

He doesn't think much about him after he signs the death certificate.

He never had a son, not the one he wanted. He took after his mother, and just like her, he was gone, a pointless life that winked out of his without trying to be better.

It was easy to forget him, to move on. It had been a momentary annoyance, knowing that he'd failed to get the boy to be anything other than a self-absorbed, violent little delinquent, but that wasn't his fault.

He took too much after his mother.

He doesn't think much about the car once he signs it over to be scrapped.

The town notices his lack of mourning. The whispering, busy body women that eyed the boy like a piece of meat mourn the loss of something so fine, taken down before even hitting his prime… and they notice how his father never shed a tear.

They went to his funeral, and noticed he was only there long enough to half-heartedly toss a few grains of dirt on the grave -a grave the mall had paid for, as part of the settlement.

He never would have paid that much money otherwise. A waste of money for a waste of time, a waste of a boy that never became a respectable man, and never would.

He notices the tracks in front of the house a few weeks after the service. They're familiar, but he brushes it off. Leftover skid marks from the many times the car went peeling out of the driveway.

He dismisses it, and doesn't think much about it.

It's her fault, really. She looked up to him, and picked up his smart mouth. She blames him for his death. She says the town is starting to put it together, starting to see what he really is.

The blood on her lip is bright, brighter than he remembers blood ever being, and it would unnerve him, but he's had one too many beers.

He doesn't think much about it.

He's out later and later each night. Alcohol doesn't seem to work anymore- and when it does, all he can think about is the lock on the door, swinging whenever he looks at it.

No one has been in his room since he died and it was cleared out. No one goes near it. Not even her.

He dismisses it as the wind, or the shifting of the house during the change of seasons, and tries not to think much about it.

Headlights seem to follow him every night when he goes to the bar. He swears they're familiar, but when he stops, pulls over to let it pass, they're gone. When he makes a turn and waits to see it pass, it never does.

The town is getting more folks moving in, or coming to pry, curious about the supposed curse on Hawkins. He dismisses it as another tourist playing lookie-loo and getting lost on the winding backroads.

He tries not to think about it, but he can't shake the feeling he's being watched.

He stops coming home entirely some nights, going to the Motel 6 to sleep off the alcohol that makes him slow, makes him heavy, but doesn't let him forget, won't make him numb, not the way it used to.

He doesn't get sleep.

He keeps seeing headlights pass back and forth past his window.

He peers through the curtains, his heart pounding in his chest, soaked in cold sweat that reeks of alcohol and fear, and he sees the car idling in the parking lot. He can't see the color, or even the shape, but he recognizes the headlights.

They're the same headlights that have been haunting him for months.

He locks the door and shuts himself in the bathroom, curled up in the bathtub with a pillow and blanket ripped from the bed. He spends the night shaking in a fetal position, hearing the barest hint of the car's engine idling outside all night.

It's gone as soon as the sun begins to rise, and the silence it leaves behind is deafening.

He can't stop thinking about it.

It has to be a prank. One of the meddling teenagers in town, maybe one of his whores, one of the delinquents he drank with, trying to drive him out of town. It has to be. There's no other explanation.

The new chief of police is skeptical when he comes forward with the complaint. The man lifts a brow, taking in his haggard appearance, the smell of alcohol that has become part of his natural odor. He doesn't take the report of a stalker seriously, but in a placating, sympathetic, almost mocking tone, he says he'll look into it, and advises him to go home and sober up.

He changes his work shift to nights. He's safe at work at night, and when he drives home, the sun will illuminate the thing that has been stalking him. He just has to switch his sleep schedule, so he takes a weekend off to rewire his clock.

He still can't stop thinking about the car.

She's gone more and more, and she takes her daughter with her. She's been doing that ever since that evening, with it's bright, bright, vivid scarlet, fixed in his mind.

He wants to lay hands to them both for daring to abandon him. For her daring to shirk her wifely duties, for her to be anything but a dutiful surrogate daughter figure.

They're both like him and his mother, and he hates them for it.

He can't sleep, and finds himself at the bar again. Before he knows it, night has fallen, and he has no choice but to drive- to the hotel, or home, it doesn't matter, he has to drive. He can't stay at the bar. It's closed, and his tab has been cut off until he pays it off.

It doesn't matter. Alcohol doesn't work the way it used to.

Adrenaline keeps him far more sober than he'd like.

Home isn't home. It never was. He hasn't had a home since she left and made him feel like he failed, because he couldn't hold onto her. Not her, with her daughter, but her, leaving, instead of submitting, leaving her son because she knew if she took him, he'd have a grasp on her until her son turned 18.

He had turned 18 and died, and there was no one to blame but him, and it was her fault the blame was on him. It was her fault the town whispered about him.

Drunk.

Wife beater.

Child abuser.

Fragile ego.

Failure.

The whispers circulate through his head, and he gets home, drunk on impotent rage rather than alcohol, and he starts throwing things into a suitcase. If she can leave, so can he. He won't be held accountable for another failure, for another child becoming a useless delinquent, a dead child that was a waste of time and money. Especially one that wasn't even his.

He tosses his luggage into the truck and starts driving. He doesn't even know where he's going, not precisely.

He doesn't think about it. He just wants to get the fuck out of Hawkins. Away from the whispers, the gossip, the pitying and skeptical gazes, the accusatory rumors, the too-bright blood on a girl's split lip, a grave he didn't pay for, and a car that should have been compressed into a metal cube.

A car that sits in the road, headlights dazzling, blindingly bright, blocking his path out of Hawkins.

He slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt. The sun will rise soon, and the car will disappear. It always does. It has to, because it's not real. It's scrapped. It's gone.

He stares at the car in the road, watching exhaust trail from the tailpipe, curling into the air like dragon's breath, dissipating like his sanity into the late night air. Above him, the stars seem to spin and dance, as if bouncing in glee, watching from the heavens in anticipation of what will happen.

He doesn't leave the truck. He's never liked horror movies, but he knows the main rule: never get out of the car.

The last bit of clouds drift away, revealing the full moon, and the cold white light glints on the curves of the car, and there's no mistaking the shape.

It's the Camaro.

And it's empty.

His mouth is dry, his throat stuck, and his tongue feels like sticky clay between his jaws. His eyes hurt from being open so wide. His heart is pounding at his ribs like a jackhammer, and fear grips his stomach like ice cold claws of iron. His pulse is heavy in his ears, but somehow it won't drown out the sound of the Camaro's idling engine.

The headlights flare, brighter than he ever imagined, blinding him, as the engine lets out a sound that could only come from something born of Hell- a metallic screech, a mechanical scream, and a roar from an engine that was supposed to be melted down months ago.

The car leaps at him like a wild animal, and in the throes of terror, flooded with adrenaline, he does the one thing he knows he shouldn't do.

He doesn't think about it.

He abandons ship, leaping from the truck to avoid being crushed inside it, hoping the impact of metal on metal will distract the impossible vision from his absence, that will spare him enough time to escape into the woods where it can't possibly follow.

It knew. It knows.

It swerves, tires screeching on the asphalt, smoke reeking of burnt rubber, and comes right after him.

Moments before the fender collides with his body, he stares through the windshield into the empty Camaro, only to find himself locking gazes with a pair of eyes that stare back at him with rage, sorrow, and bitter satisfaction.

He locks eyes with her son, only for a moment, before he's gone again, before the car breaks his spine, crushes his ribes, ruptures his innards, and sends him flying into the trees, plunging him into darkness that he sought so long in the bottom of his cups, but never found.

The police never know what to make of it. Neil Hargrove's truck is parked in the middle of the road, door open, luggage in the back. Skid marks trail away from his truck and towards the woods, but there's no evidence of the other vehicle actually leaving the road.

What they can't understand is why the truck is left where it was, and where the tracks started and stopped where they did.

There was a clean line, where the truck stopped, and the tracks began.

The boundary of Hawkins.

[ihni]

The death of Neil Hargrove

For the Fall of Neil Hargrove, day 5, prompt: "Monsters"

~~~

There once was a man from South Cali Who moved his family out of The Valley Alas, he got beaten And then he got eaten by bloodthirsty dogs in an alley

~~~

@fallofneilhargrove

[jaylikesrainbowtigers]

My entry for day 3 of @fallofneilhargrove. The prompt was Public Scorn and Don’t make enemies of the local knitting club.

Tw: abuse, abuser point of view, arrest, jail and swears

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Neil Hargrove was having pretty fucking good day. He had been to work, had Susan cook him a proper meal and had sat down to watch football. Like a proper man does.

Sure, things had gotten a bit sticky when attempting to get Billy to be a proper man again but that’s just what Neil had needed to do. Really the bruises were the boys fault. His lack of respect to his elders was a serious problem and there was only one way Neil could sort that. Eventually the pussy had to learn respect.

The game was on full blast and his fresh beer was nice and cold when Susan edged into the room. Neil’s forehead creased. That damn woman was ruining the game.

She stuttered out a “Neil. There… There’s a package for you.” She held out a brown, lumpy package addressed to him.

“Fuck off, woman. Can’t you see the game is on!” He snatched the package out of her hand and ignored her gasp of pain.

He ripped open the paper expecting a awful jumper or something. A belated birthday gift from a aunt or something.

Instead, he got an equally cushy lump of knitting. He scoffed and thought what grandma made this shit? The lump of brown knit unfurled in his hands revealing a bunch of what resembled letters. Neil twisted it around in his hands trying to make out the letter. Ne lnow vhol gau’re dainy. What? He looked a little closer and his blood ran cold.

We know what you’re doing.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Click, click, click.

———————————————————————————————————————————

It was the next week and Neil had put the knitting out of his mind. It was probably a mistake or a prank. Neil had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. He was certain of it.

In fact he was so sure, he had burnt the knitted monstrosity outside. He wasn’t scared of some stupid message.

Which was why when Susan slipped in holding an identical brown package to the one the week before he paid her no mind. No, he certainly didn’t pause the TV to scream at her and snatch the parcel away from her.

He tore open the now familiar brown wrapping to see a flash of blue. He pulled the knit outside of its wrapping to show off the blue hat. The half he was holding looked normal.

The red lettering he revealed by turning the hat spelt was again hard to read. Or perhaps the reader was a little bit drunk.

Asshole.

———————————————————————————————————————————

The crunch of bourbons filled the air.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Wednesday had arrived again. Neil didn’t have the football on this time. He wanted to see if what he had did stopped the knitting.

He had been so sure it was some type of prank. It had to be one of the people in his house. Of course, his pathetic excuse for a son was first. Perhaps he should have held off on the punishment before searching his room to find nothing.

The next day he had been down to the craft shop of Hawkins. According to Claud or whatever her name was from the shop, the boy had never set foot in that shop in his whole life. She would have remembered as she was the only worker there. Neil felt the urge to smack her rise again. Alas he couldn’t smack another man’s wife. He’d go to jail because there would be obvious proof.

Next step was to check his stepdaughters room. An unlikely culprit but one to try anyway. The girl wouldn’t get into anything suiting for girls no matter what he did. She wasn’t going to start just to knit him stuff. Clear.

He told Susan not to go anywhere near the mail box today. There was no way she could have knitted them without him knowing.

He pulled himself up from the couch. Time to see if his counterfeit measures had worked. He opened the post box.

Lo and behold a brown package was crumpled in there. His hands had a slight shake to them as he pulled out the package. It was slightly bigger than the rest.

He unwrapped it in the living room. A green jumper came out of the mess, on it knitted a sentence.

Arrest me. I deserve it.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Giggles in the background as the net tightens.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Neil refused to sit this Wednesday. He stood looking out the window. It was package time. On a Wednesday.

The postman stopped at a house. Then the next. And the next. Geez, this guy was slow.

Finally, he arrived. Neil watched like a hawk as he produced the brown package filling Neil’s mind with dread.

In fact, over the course of a week when thinking about the package Neil had a) spilt boiling water all over himself, b) accidentally shaved off half of his moustache, and worst of all c) accidentally screwed up the biggest work project of the season. He was lucky to not get fired. He had gone everywhere feeling like everyone was looking at him. The paranoia of not knowing who was sending the packages. What did they know. Whoever it was had to be ruining Neil’s life.

As he looked out the window he though about who it could be. The lady from the supermarket with the wart? That woman with the blonde hair walking down the road Or maybe next door who he was constantly in a argument with? The odd pair of friends with ten cats down the road? Or that guy he beat at poker the other week? Or the man with the moustache and glasses sat in his car outside? One of his stupid boy’s friends? Or maybe one of Maxine’s friends? An unknown stalker?

Whoever it was still eluded him.

In his thoughts he had managed to collect the parcel. He held the thing in his hand and looked hard at it.

His hands shook as he pulled back the paper. A pair of red gloves fell out of the package. They lay side by side on the floor as if someone was wearing them with their palms facing upwards.

The black text clear for all to see.

Abuser.

Neil jumped as he heard a shout at the door and a group of men entered.

“Freeze! Police!”

———————————————————————————————————————————

The sloshing of wine as a toast to victory. But work wasn’t quite done.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Neil Hargrove was sat down again. It was the next Wednesday after his entire life had changed.

His orange jumpsuit itched and his bunk mate snored loudly. His bunk mate wouldn’t cower under him. The large man had left a bruise on Neil’s cheek from the only time Neil had tried to enforce his way on the man. It was supposed to be his house, his rules.

But jail certainly wasn’t his house.

And the worst thing was that he didn’t know how. How had it gone so, so wrong? The police had presented him with the photos and the files. Weeks worth of photos, videos and even recordings all painstakingly took. A solid lot of evidence to sink him down. Each strike left on his son. Recordings of his screams slid over his soul. Videos of what he did in his own house.

It had to be connected to the knitting. The evidence hadn’t started collecting until a mere week before that. The calendar in the background of so many photos had proved that.

And here he sat another brown package in hand. This time delivered by a prison guard.

Neil felt like weeping. But of course he didn’t because real men don’t cry. And Neil’s a man.

A orange scarf trailed out of the package. A perfect match to his prison garb. More bold black letters stared out at him.

You got what you deserved.

The contact card of the Hawkins Knitting Club lay forgotten on the floor.

———————————————————————————————————————————

Four beings of pure rage sat around a table six weeks ago.

Joyce a woman who had lived under a man like Neil. She had children living under a man like Neil. She wouldn’t let him get get away with it.

Claudia who had lost her husband but loved all the more fiercely because of it. No one would hurt a child under her watch.

Sue who was largely unspoken but Sinclair's fight for those who can’t. No matter what Sue didn’t let it slide and she would always fight.

Murray who ran on rage and spite. He was always ready to take people like Neil down. It was his shit, his life’s goal.

They raged in a circle when Joyce had met the brother-sister duo of Max and Billy. When she saw the signs. Neil had crossed the wrong club.

Don’t make enemies of the local knitting club.

So they did what they did best. They knitted.

Not only that but they were patient. Knitting was a craft of patience.

Murray and Joyce sat outside of the house. Everyone went out and they went in. They had plenty of experience planting cameras and listening devices. Murray continued watching and took photos when he could. Claudia made sure to put salt into that man’s coffee every time he asked for sugar. He never remembered her despite seeing her serve him at both the craft show and the coffee shop. Men like him never noticed women like her. Sue was the one who made the call as she compiled evidence meticulously. Erica obviously got it from her mom. She wouldn’t miss a single moment until this guy was finished. And all of them knitted. They knitted until their fingers felt like bleeding. They had a lot to knit as they needed to make this perfect. And perfection takes time.

In the end it was the rage of the knitting club that tore Neil Hargrove down. Because you should never underestimate a bunch of mothers and a journalist who are thriving off coffee, bourbons and wine.

[fallofneilhargrove]

Prompts!

The prompts are here! See below for more information.

The event - which is for those of us who wants to see Neil Hargrove pay - will run from October 1st to October 7th, and you are free to interpret the prompts however you want.

See here for rules: https://fallofneilhargrove.tumblr.com/rules

When posting, please tag "fall of neil hargrove" and mention @fallofneilhargrove in the post, so we can find it and reblog it.

Prompts in text form beneath the cut!

October 1: DEATH – deathbed/funerals | rest in pieces (dismemberment/beheading and the likes) | “What happens in Hawkins stays in Hawkins”

October 2: HAUNTED- The Camaro | lingering essence | "I keep seeing his face in the crowd"

October 3: PUBLIC SCORN – neighbors | don’t make enemies of the local knitting club | “I always knew there was something off about that man”

October 4: JAIL – realizations | justifiable police brutality | “He’s going away for a long time”

October 5: UPSIDE DOWN – monsters | show of supernatural power | “What is this place?”

October 6: SACRILEGE – The Wrath of God | crucifixion | “You reap what you sow”

October 7: FREE DAY

[ihni]

Justifiable police brutality

For the Fall of Neil Hargrove, day 4. Prompt: "Justifiable police brutality"

~~~

When Hopper gets to Cherry Lane, the boy is black and blue It’s clear, by ways of welts and cuts, what Billy has been through An eye that’s black, a lip that’s fat, a shoulder dislocated He whimpers when he’s touched, a sound that can’t be fabricated Neil Hargrove’s cuffed, off to the side; his knuckles are all bruised He watches paramedics treat his son, and looks amused

Jim Hopper had a dad himself, the asshole long since dead He used to hurt Jim just like this, and beat him ‘til he bled No one will beat Jim today, he’s big and strong and tough But he remembers how it felt when nothing was enough Remembers feeling hopeless, and like there was no way out Asshole dads and pain is something Jim knows all about

He takes Neil Hargrove by the arm, and leads him to his car It’s just out through the door, across the yard; it’s not that far It’s strange, then, how the man can’t seem to keep himself upright How he keeps tripping – Hopper asks, voice flat, “Are you alright?” “You tripped me!” Hargrove spits, then groans and squeezes his eyes shut (It’s hard to keep on shouting when a boot is in your gut)

Jim yanks the man upright again, ignores the way he swears His fingers might leave bruises but it’s not like Hopper cares He gets the man into the backseat then, but not before He accidentally bangs his head against the Blazer door Slamming the door shut, he just makes sure that Neil can’t flee It’s really not on purpose that he clips the bastard’s knee

He gets behind the wheel and drives, then suddenly, he brakes Neil Hargrove crashes forward and Jim hopes that something breaks “Ooops,” he says, without remorse, and puts the car in drive He’s not a monster; when he’s done, Neil will still be alive But Jim is just a man, and he cannot resist temptation He decides that he will take the long way to the station

~~~

@fallofneilhargrove

[ihni]

Off the edge

For the Fall of Neil Hargrove, day 2 prompt; "The Camaro"

~~~

The car is an object; not living per se But sentient, maybe, perhaps, in a way She knows her boy’s touch from the many repairs Knows that he loves her, and knows that he cares

He fixes her ailments and fills her with gas Washes her paint job and polishes glass Until they sparkle, until they gleam Together, they make such a glorious team

He’s a good driver, she’s a good car Together, they’re great; they go fast, they go far She doesn’t know feelings like hate and thereof But loves him, as much as a car can feel love

Some nights, he is hurting inside her, she knows His driving is reckless and angry, it shows On some nights he screams, on others he weeps Sometimes, he curls up on the backseat and sleeps

One night, he is shoved to the driver’s side door And held there, and screamed at, then shoved to the floor Another man enters her, sits in the seat And backs her away from her boy, to the street

The man drives her off, he is angry and strong His grip is abrasive, he drives her all wrong She knows; this is he who has caused her boy’s pain She knows; she will not let him do it again

So she speeds up, though the man tries to brake She turns on her own, and she drives to the lake She knows these roads well, and she knows where she’s going He tries the handbrake, but she is not slowing

Right up ahead, there’s a turn in the road They’ll crash, and they’ll drown, and they’ll sink and corrode She speeds through the fence and then they’re in the air The man in her seat screams, but she doesn’t care

She is an object; not living per se But sentient, kind of, somehow, in a way She doesn’t know feelings, but maybe it’s glee? She feels as she dies, and her boy is set free

~~~

@fallofneilhargrove

[ihni]

Rest in pieces

For The fall of Neil Hargrove day 1, prompt: "rest in pieces"

~~~

The man has been begging; been crying; been hurt There’s teeth on the floor and there’s blood on his shirt His breaths have been panicked, his screams have been shrill But now he is silent, and now he is still

His hands that have caused so much pain and distress no longer have fingers; the stubs are a mess Looking back, that was what finally broke him; His own fingers stuffed down his throat as to choke him

Held by the ropes, he is tied to the chair What has been done here is justice; is fair As he deserved, he has suffered and bled In his son’s name, he is finally dead

In front of him now stands a young man, fulfilled This isn’t the first time the young man has killed He isn’t a stranger to torment or death Now he looks around him and takes a deep breath

What he has done kind of scratches an itch It’s always a mess, though, and clean-up’s a bitch A body to bury, and garments to burn A room to scrub down and a car to return

He watches the body; his boyfriend’s dead dad In death he’s pathetic, small-looking and sad The man’s in a pool of his own blood and feces He kind of deserves to be chopped up in pieces

In pieces, the man will be easy to carry Easy to spread out and easy to bury No one will find him; the woods here are vast He will just simply have ‘left town, at last’

The dead man’s son’s boyfriend flicks blood off his hands And grabs both a saw and a knife as he stands He says to the body, “It’s your own fault, really, You should have known, no one hurts my boy Billy”

~~~

@fallofneilhargrove