(no subject)
Life on the island was fucking surreal. But then, Henry had been faced with a lot of fucking surreal in his life. It was SSDD, really, even if the same shit here was different from the same shit he'd had back home. Ever since he'd heard dead people could come to the island, Henry hadn't stopped hoping, however slim that hope was. Good God, Maude, if goddamn Harry Potter's dad could come to the island, why couldn't Henry's nearest and dearest?
It wasn't something he liked to dwell on, but the three guys and Duddits were never far from his mind, never had been, even before the island. There was a guy who hung around the Compound a lot and bore a strong resemblance to Beaver, if the Beav had been about seven inches taller and had short hair, and every time Henry saw him it was like getting a telephone call from nowhere, or maybe from beyond the grave. Booze would always remind him of Pete. Every time the bookshelf gave him a detective novel he thought of Jonesy. And so many fucking things reminded him of Duddits. Henry was pretty sure he was never going to escape it.
Once upon a time, Henry had been a regular jogger. He hadn't been jogging once since showing up on the island, though. Probably having to jog nearly ten miles in the snow
Eight more miles, eight more miles to Banbury Cross
had served pretty well to put him off it for a while. Now, though, after being there close to five months, he thought it was about time to get started again. Slow at first, maybe a couple times a week, until he could run without those mantras - Banbury Cross, yes we can can - immediately taking residence in his head and drumming out a beat. Or at least until he could manage to ignore them.
He'd found running shorts and shoes in the clothes box, and had them on with a muted red t-shirt that said 'HARVARD' across the front in that distinctive font. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Henry started off, heading out from his hut, and hadn't gotten very far when something up ahead in the path caught his attention. It was yellow, and square, and it wasn't until he got closer that he realized just what it was.
Henry trots ahead of the others and picks it up. It's a lunchbox with Scooby-Doo and his friends on it, all of them running from what appears to be a haunted house. Like the shirt it looks new, not anything that's been lying out here for any length of time, and all at once Henry is starting to have a bad feeling about this, starting to wish they hadn't detoured into this deserted driveway by this deserted building at all...or at least had saved it for another day.
"I hate that fuckin show," Henry murmured aloud as he picked it up, echoing Pete's words from that day in 1978. He turned the lunchbox, read the sticker on the side even though he knew exactly what it said.
I BELONG TO DOUGLAS CAVELL, 19 MAPLE LANE, DERRY, MAINE. IF THE BOY I BELONG TO IS LOST, CALL 949-1864. THANKS!
Henry stared at the lunchbox, his eyes bright with tears. "Got some work to do now," he whispered, barely aware he was speaking out loud.
[He's on the path near his hut, which is somewhat close to and directly west of the compound. All tags welcome, though I warn you: he's clearly upset, but won't want to talk about it with anyone, whether you know him or not, and if you try and push the issue he *might* get belligerent. ST/LT welcome, open to new tags through the end of the weekend. Section in italics above is from Dreamcatcher.]
It wasn't something he liked to dwell on, but the three guys and Duddits were never far from his mind, never had been, even before the island. There was a guy who hung around the Compound a lot and bore a strong resemblance to Beaver, if the Beav had been about seven inches taller and had short hair, and every time Henry saw him it was like getting a telephone call from nowhere, or maybe from beyond the grave. Booze would always remind him of Pete. Every time the bookshelf gave him a detective novel he thought of Jonesy. And so many fucking things reminded him of Duddits. Henry was pretty sure he was never going to escape it.
Once upon a time, Henry had been a regular jogger. He hadn't been jogging once since showing up on the island, though. Probably having to jog nearly ten miles in the snow
Eight more miles, eight more miles to Banbury Cross
had served pretty well to put him off it for a while. Now, though, after being there close to five months, he thought it was about time to get started again. Slow at first, maybe a couple times a week, until he could run without those mantras - Banbury Cross, yes we can can - immediately taking residence in his head and drumming out a beat. Or at least until he could manage to ignore them.
He'd found running shorts and shoes in the clothes box, and had them on with a muted red t-shirt that said 'HARVARD' across the front in that distinctive font. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Henry started off, heading out from his hut, and hadn't gotten very far when something up ahead in the path caught his attention. It was yellow, and square, and it wasn't until he got closer that he realized just what it was.
Henry trots ahead of the others and picks it up. It's a lunchbox with Scooby-Doo and his friends on it, all of them running from what appears to be a haunted house. Like the shirt it looks new, not anything that's been lying out here for any length of time, and all at once Henry is starting to have a bad feeling about this, starting to wish they hadn't detoured into this deserted driveway by this deserted building at all...or at least had saved it for another day.
"I hate that fuckin show," Henry murmured aloud as he picked it up, echoing Pete's words from that day in 1978. He turned the lunchbox, read the sticker on the side even though he knew exactly what it said.
I BELONG TO DOUGLAS CAVELL, 19 MAPLE LANE, DERRY, MAINE. IF THE BOY I BELONG TO IS LOST, CALL 949-1864. THANKS!
Henry stared at the lunchbox, his eyes bright with tears. "Got some work to do now," he whispered, barely aware he was speaking out loud.
[He's on the path near his hut, which is somewhat close to and directly west of the compound. All tags welcome, though I warn you: he's clearly upset, but won't want to talk about it with anyone, whether you know him or not, and if you try and push the issue he *might* get belligerent. ST/LT welcome, open to new tags through the end of the weekend. Section in italics above is from Dreamcatcher.]