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lifesver · 1 year ago

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@meatriarch said: [ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender attempts to stab the receiver. ( mama luda, does lee have the heart to hurt a poor older woman? 😞 ) + [ 𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐢𝐫 ] : sender is holding the receiver by the throat. ( thomas ((: )

it's obvious, by the way he nearly stumbles straight into her kitchen knife, that he doesn't expect to see mrs. hewitt — although he was certainly standing in her house, suddenly. hadn't paid enough attention to know where he was in the tunnels — just ripped a shard of rib from a carcass, and sprung for the first set of stairs he came across. anything — fucking anything to get out of that rot-smelling basement.

❝ mrs. hewitt — ❞ comes the beginning of an instinctive, startled apology.

she must have heard him come up in a stumbling hurry. must have heard the metal door thrown on its hinges. hands comes up instinctively, to shield from the wicked edge. instead, it catches across his palm, spatters new red on the peeling wallpaper.

leland hisses, clutching injured palm. shoots a wild look around him — trying to mentally re-orient. prolonged time in the tunnels had a way of making you lose your fucking mind.

' you stay right where you are, son. where's johnny? '

leland blinks; johnny was probably already looking for him. mind reels with the very real possibility that this was another test of some kind. wouldn't be a big shock, anymore.

leland doesn't dare answer her — her look of consternation and grandmotherly disappointment was piercing enough. her knife points outward, a warning, and he skitters back slightly. run — just fucking run, you have a chance just take it just run — she's just like all the rest of them. she'd kill you, all of them would kill you, they're fucking crazy —

— she's all that stands in his way between an open back door. he can feel a touch of night air. it was that close.

he could get by her. he could get free.

— but he freezes. has the truly stupid, guilty thought that she could be one of his aunts, or a grandmother. that he'd never hit a woman before, let alone an elderly one, and — she was kind to you, wasn't she? one of the only people here that was. the first face you saw waking up, after you fell down half-dead in that sunflower field at johnny's feet. patched you up after he was finished with you — as per johnny's request, he understood.

but it still mattered, to him.

even if he still didn't understand why. ( why are they doing this to you? )

his eyes flutter a dizzied blink, the walls of the front hall threaten to close in on his sides. threaten to warp and bend like a funhouse maze. floorboards give a low, tell-tale crr-reak. he can hear heavy, recognizable steps. then, an equally recognizable monstrous silhouette, stepping into the kitchen light behind the hewitt matriarch.

breath freezes. the big guy. now you're fucked.

he think he whispers a curse; harsh, fireworks adrenaline overtakes exhaustion, and leland staggers in a backtrack, away from luda mae and into the hallway.

straight into charlie hewitt's chest.

leland whirls around, having to think fast. having to immediately wrestle for the shotgun in the sheriff's hands. who laughs in his face, with fake, sinister cheer;

' well, look who it is — '

leland growls, slams the sheriff into the wall with force. operates on instinct, on some animal baseline of survive, survive, fucking kill him if you have to — he pins the man by his unrelenting grip on the shotgun. reels free fist back, nails the man in his ugly scowl so hard it reverberates back through the bones of his wrist. makes the sick bastard bleed, and that's satisfying, but —

click, bang. the shotgun goes off. feels like it shakes the hallway. his right ear blasts with everything and then nothing but a ringing white noise. dust from the ceiling lands in his hair, his eyes. he can hardly take inventory of himself — if he's been fucking shot — before the the side of the sheriff's shotgun cracks him across the cheek, spins his vision out.

hits the ground before the world can stop spotting and bleeding together.

boot slams firmly between his shoulder blades, shoves him down to the floor with a grunt. and before he can move to throw him off, he feels the barrel of the weapon nudge the back of his head, press his stinging cheek into the floorboards a little harder. reddened eye rolls up under his mussed, sweat-stuck hair. he scowls at sheriff hoyt — charlie hewitt — around bloodied teeth. but he goes still.

at least he hasn't been shot. yet.

' ain't you supposed to be tough? '

crackling, mocking laughter, and the man removes boot from leland's back — only to deliver a swift kick to his side that knocks him flat before he can recover.

' — what's that, son? you wanna speak up? ' charlie leans down a little further. he takes notice of the injury to leland's hand — drops boot down hard there, instead, to pin it in place. leland's back jolts against the floor with a cry. he groans with crunched expression, gives a sputtering cough around his bloody nose. still blinking back colour and shape while the man talks to hear himself talk, crouches downway too close. so close he can smell the man's whiskey-stinking breath wafting down on his cheek. he can feel the shotgun muzzle move, while charlie idly decides what part of him to threaten with it next.

leland's breath quickens, rabbit-fast, hearing the weapon adjust. a million horrifying images pass through his mind at once. every sound is muffled, or painfully-clear. no in-between. distantly, he thinks he can hear luda mae hollering something about ' don't you fire that thing in this house, charles hewitt. '

jesus christ. this fucking family.

( come on, you're not dying like this. )

fingers curl tighter around the scrap of ribcage he hides under his opposite palm.

❝ hey. asshole, ❞ he growls. dark eyes turn down to him for just a moment — and leland promptly spits a mouthful of blood up into the man's face. sheriff snarls a string of curses. with free hand, white-knuckle grip plunges bone shard into charlie hewitt's ankle. this time, the man jolts back with nothing short of a howl — weapon twists in the muscle, and rips free with a spatter across leland's cheek. he doesn't think much, then — uses the moment to scrabble out from under the man. he forces himself up to his feet, staggering to drag himself along the wall. back to the kitchen, chased straight back into luda mae.

square one. the door, the night air. can't get to the front of the house. can't run into that shotgun again. can't go back to the basement —

down the hall, it rings out again; the sound of the man he hated — truly fucking hated, who's shouting something to the effect of ' goddamnit tommy — '

worse, maybe; the crr-eaak-thud across the floorboards. it makes his blood run fucking cold.

— just get by her. just run. you have to just run. the bloodied piece of ribcage in his hand feels unwieldy, suddenly. suddenly he feels like he's done something wrong. hadn't she helped you? wasn't she the only one that had been kind —

it's all too much noise. his head hurts — you can't. you can't do it. not to mrs. hewitt.

❝ wait, please, ❞ breathless rasp; his hands come up halfway in a surrendering motion, eyes wide and sharp.

❝ — i don't … want to hurt you, mrs. hewitt, i — ❞

— just want to go home. you just want to go fucking home.

but there's no point in saying it. not one of them cared.

— it's just that you care. you care that this old woman doesn't get hurt in the middle of all this — and you're going to get killed for it. he can hear the big motherfucker coming up at his back. thomas hewitt. he had just threatened his mother, attacked the sheriff. pretty damning list, so far. he might as well be dead, actually.

leland can hear the low, rasping breath from behind the mask. breathing down his neck. he makes a show of dropping his makeshift weapon — but it's too late for good faith, as far as the monster in the mask was concerned. leland turns halfway, just to get a rough hand around his throat, all but tossing him, with little effort, into the nearest wall.

violent thud, quake of every bone in his body — a few picture frames are shuddered off their nails. new starry patterns blacken his vision for a half-second, but neither thomas, nor his own body are forgiving enough to let him fall into unconsciousness so easily. the heavy hand around his throat is dragging him up the kitchen wallpaper, harsh, and reopening cuts in his back. pained gasp — but no real coherent sound making it past the bruising chokehold.

eyes pinprick wide, helpless, when he stares at luda mae over her son's shoulder, as he seems to take immense satisfaction in crushing the the life out of him. heels try, fail, to catch purchase on the wall, fingernails clawing at thomas' arm — felt like the only sound, besides his strangled gasps for air. consciousness slips; and eyes draw up toward the ceiling, blink full of saltwater. the pressure in his skull, behind his eyes, feels impossible. and just as his world threatens to swoop dark and empty — a voice speaks again, distant, sounds underwater;

' — think the boy's had enough, thomas. '

a pause. sound of gruff assent in his un-ringing ear, and the pressure around his throat releases abruptly. thomas drops him without ceremony, and his body immediately crumbles like a ragdoll. painful shocks bounce up wrists and knees as he hits the wooden floorboards. every breath compresses into one tight ache in the center of his chest.

leland blinks, exhausted, hardly able to breathe, at the blood spots landing between his trembling hands. it always ended the same, didn't it?

( these people are all you have, don't you know that by now? )

… and maybe if you give up now, it won't be so bad. when johnny gets here.

he's not allowed much space at all by the brute, who makes sure to stand between him and his mother. but still, he scrabbles back like a cornered animal, eyes flicking between thomas hewitt, and the doorway, where he expected the sheriff to appear at any moment. he doesn't regret what he did to the sheriff.

❝ — i'm sorry, ❞ he gravels out, stinging lungs heaving, ❝ i wasn't … i wouldn't have … ❞ tries to string together another few incoherent apologies, before thomas roughly pulls him to his feet, iron grip closed around his arm. leland grits his teeth, pride long dead, and doesn't fight him. head bowed slightly, he stares at the floor — at his blood on the floor — hiding the burning look on his face.

quietly, softly, he draws stinging gaze to luda mae;

❝ … please just. take me back. i swear … i — i won't try anything. just … take me back down. ❞

#got rocked by the hewitt fam press f. this is how it feels when i run into the franchise in game #sorry i just wanted to see what i could get silly w in terms of violence/action prompts god bless #meatriarch #( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.#( ☆ ) ⸻ DUSK / verse.#hoyt jumpscare cw i fear #gun cw #blood cw #choking cw #me gesturing vaguely... idk like... early-ish dusk i feel... first time he really hesitates trying to save his own damn life #sorry that i possibly have a few dire drafts on hand for u...on the day of ur birthday

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lifesver · 1 year ago

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@meatriarch said: [ patch ] - for sender to patch up receiver's wound/s + ❝ i know this hurts. you’re gonna be okay. ❞ ( mama luda, les' say nosy/dusk vibes c: )

he just trembles, like some shell-shocked animal. silent, staring into the yellow-white wallpaper patterns of the hewitts' kitchen. the radio is droning an indistinct old song, blurry as the edges of his vision. the room is sticky-hot in the texas afternoon, and he can feel the sweat at his hairline, with the remainders of dabbed-away blood.

he remembers when he had first been sat down at this table. struggling and thrashing until he'd exhausted himself ― sure he would die. she had waited patiently for him to tire himself out. and then she had asked him if he was scared. had told him, much less kindly; that he had no idea what being scared was. not yet.

not yet. the words reverberate senselessly in his skull, again. when would he know? if not when imprisoned in a basement for days on end. if not when anticipating the now-familiar bite of a knife under his skin. he wondered if he was allowed to claim an understanding, now.

his fingernails curl into his palms. wrists rub uncomfortably against the rope keeping his hands in front of him, tied firmly to the kitchen table leg. once, earlier on, he had slipped the bindings, and had made it as far as the front door, before he'd run in with the big motherfucker ― thomas, on one end of the hall, and luda mae, disappointed behind her spectacles, on the other. he quickly found out that he didn't have it in him to use the kitchen knife in his hands on her, after all. leland's eyes flick sidelong toward the edge of the room; it wasn't really worth trying again, when there was that same mountain of a man watching his every flinch, from the doorway.

he looks away again, and tries to remain still. the needle pierces his cheek, and he bites his tongue, brows crunching down softly. the thread pulls through the wound ― aching, and unhealed ― again and he just sniffs, and then forces his expression to steel. it doesn't hurt as badly as it used to, at least.

luda mae hums lowly along with the radio as she works, and he finds himself lulled, oddly comforted by the sound. if he listened to that, and to the birds outside, he could breathe properly for a moment. his nerves gradually settle. and he felt like he was losing himself, sometimes ― when this was kindness. a type of love, really. like the ripped stitches themselves, and the cloudy purple-red bruise under his eye. after all, hadn't he told you he was proud of you, when you got back up? that time, hadn't his hands been gentle afterwards, too ��

he blinks, registers her words in delay, surprisingly sympathetic, surprisingly gentle. for a stupid, delusional moment, it felt like his mother's touch, warm against his cheek. like aunts that he had visited as a child, who would fuss and scold, and then gently dab the dirt from his scraped knees. a tough exterior, and tougher love ( he could guess why she needed to be that way, from what he'd seen of this family ) ― and still with a motherly gentleness. because still ― tied to her kitchen table ― he felt safer than he often did, here.

❝ sorry, mrs. hewitt, ❞ he manages, from a raw throat, when she pauses her ministrations. tear tracks slip down his cheeks unchecked, but he keeps his voice even; ❝ ― for pulling them, again. i … didn't mean to. ❞ he hates how weak he sounds ― like a child getting reprimanded, instead of a captive, a stray dog that could overstay its welcome at any moment with these people. how powerless he feels. how stupid it felt to impulsively apologize, for what was inflicted on him. when he would be back here in this kitchen getting sewn up again, soon enough.

he thinks maybe she's come to not mind him, so much ― his presence on the property, as one of johnny's little projects. supposed it counted for something ― that johnny was kind enough at all, to hand him over to someone to fix in the first place. he swallows the bitter taste, of acid and iron beading new inside his cheek. his teary-eyes are plainly earnest when he peeks up at her;

❝ i ― i didn't mean to cause you any trouble. ❞

#when the situation is real dire but any time anyone is kind to u u just get attached #meatriarch #cw stitches #cw injury #cw ... nosy/dusk situation #i combined prompts again idk u know how i behave #( ☆ ) ⸻ THE FILM WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE... / ic.#( ☆ ) ⸻ NO ONE SAVED YOU / verse.

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