Latest Posts by lyamnothing - Page 7

[once every six months] OUGHHHH I NEED TO PLAY VIDDYGAME

okay we NEED to put “camp” up on a shelf where people can’t reach it too because i just saw someone call the mario movie camp like girl what in the fresh hell are you talking about 😭

imagine Lester brining home a rat to keep as a pet but doesn’t tell Vincent or Bo. he puts it in a shoe box with some bread crumbs and a water bottle cut in half with some water in it and goes to bed. the rat chews its way out of the shoe box and ends up in Bo’s room and all you here is a high pitched scream, sounding close to a woman’s scream and low and behold its Bo standing up on his dresser cussing everybody out, screaming about a rat nibbling on his toes in the middle of the night. Vincent is holding back from laughing & poor Lester is getting the brunt of it all and has to find his new friend, Joe.

Put bubba in a bread pan big enough for him

Make him sit in it like a cat

Please

I beg u

If you have bodily autonomy, then there is always a chance that you will do something to your body that you will regret. This is not an argument for taking that autonomy away.

more black phone posting. finney has to be one of the most badass final guys/girls in all of horror movies. most of them will just shoot or stab the killer and call it a day, but finney? no, not him. he beats THE ABSOLUTE SHIT out of the grabber before strangling him with the phone cord. keep in mind the grabber is a well built grown ass man and finney is a tiny middle school aged kid (I’d say 12 or 13). I was trying so hard not to aggressively cheer him on during that scene in the theatre

The wizard in your party only knows one spell. It’s effective, but even the assassin feels bad about it.

Man I love the 2005 horror movie House of Wax, my favorite part was when Bo and Carly laughed together and said "I guess the real House of Wax was the friends we made a long the way"

I heavily associate Vincent with the colour green for some reason

This took forever and now my fingers hurt

my bad for assuming everyone has critical thinking skills btw

This took forever and now my fingers hurt

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

Security Blanket

This doesn't even almost do it justice, but this post by @skylarsblue and this piece by @minilev made me feel some type of way so I tried to spin up the scene in my head real fast.

900 words. Emotional hurt/comfort. Description of night terrors and panic attacks and thoughts of self-harm.

He wakes up in the kitchen this time.  Standing barefoot in the middle of the floor, soaked to the bone with sweat, chest heaving like he just outran the devil. 

His brain knows where he is but his body doesn’t and the dark room is spinning around him and he staggers to the sink like he’s drunk and about to throw up, and he might throw up, but he’s stone cold sober. 

He slumps against the edge of the countertop and waits for it to pass.  For it all to pass.  For his skin to stop crawling, the stinging in his eyes to go away.  For the echo of her screeching to fade back into memory. 

He listens intently to the silence of the house as the ringing in his ears diminishes.  If he was screaming, he’ll hear Vincent scrabbling up the stairs to make sure he hasn’t found a knife or something.  Something his subconscious knows how to use.  Minutes pass, or maybe seconds.  Vincent doesn’t appear. 

The tension won’t leave his body for hours, but he wishes it would.  He can’t unclench his jaw and his shoulders are hunched like he’s waiting for a blow.  The veins in his arms are bulging beneath the skin, knuckles white. 

His wrists fucking itch. 

When at last his mind clears enough to let him peel his fingers off the edge of the sink, lets him dig his nails into his skin instead, he turns to face the house.  He tries inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth even though that has never worked.  He tries reciting things he’s sure of in his head, but every time he gets to his name he hears it in her voice.  He starts to spiral. 

It’s a funny thing, to know your fear is unfounded and be trapped in the throes of it anyway.  He can’t catch his breath.  He’s lightheaded.  He feels watched.  One time he swears he saw her, standing just around the corner, peering at him with beady eyes like pinpricks in the darkness.  The memory triggers a visceral reaction and he doubles over like he’s been kicked; he can’t do that again, he can’t, it'll end him; he is sinking to the floor and burying his face in his arms. 

His wrists fucking itch. 

He’s panting, mind racing, muscles howling.  He’s scratching and he can’t stop.  If he looks up, she’ll be there, he knows it, he can sense it.  He can feel her staring at him.  He’s three years old, he’s five years old, he’s twelve, he’s seventeen, and he’s scared, and she’s so angry.  She’s everywhere, fucking everywhere, can’t stay dead, can’t stay away, and there’s just one thing she hates more than she hates him and he remembers and it takes everything he has to lick his dry lips and muster up a quavering whistle.  It barely carries in the choke of the darkness.

Moments later the sound of a thump on the stairs and nails skittering on wood pulls a strangled sob from the constriction of his throat.  There’s a cheerful jingle jingle and then the snuff of a damp nose on his forearm, and then a very warm, very wet tongue is lapping at the marks in his skin. 

His mother loathed dogs.  As a kid, a puppy was all he wanted.  As an adult, he couldn’t make sense of why you’d want another mouth to feed.  An endless supply of messes to clean up.  But he never could say no to Lester. 

And now on the floor in the dark, he grabs that mongrel like she’s the last living thing on earth besides him and pulls her to his chest, and she lets him because she’s a good dog.  She laps awkwardly at his face before she settles and sighs and he almost starts crying.  She allows him to squeeze her for many long minutes, her baleful eyes sweeping over the benign expanse of the kitchen, keeping watch for ghosts while he struggles to catch his breath. 

They sit on the floor for the better part of an hour. 

He lets go of her slowly when the paralysis starts to fade, and she stands up and shakes herself before turning back and nudging his hand so he knows she hasn’t left him.  It takes him a long time to stand up, and she watches him closely.  When he finally shuffles out of the kitchen, she is on his heels, waiting for her moment. 

The stairs are insurmountable.  He collapses on the couch.  The poor, mutilated thing barely has any stuffing left and he sinks into the familiar hole worn into the cushions, exhausted body and soul.  He lifts his hand to pat his lap and she’s already up, already stepping gingerly across his legs, shooting him apologetic glances as she turns around twice out of obligation and then sprawls across his middle. 

He exhales with finality.  His muscles are twitching with exertion.  The weight of her on his ribs grounds him in his body in this time, this place.  He is not three, or five, or twelve, or seventeen.  His mother is dead.  He has a dog. 

She’s warm under his hand, her fur coarse and dusty.  She stinks like roadkill and the reek of her breath clings to his hands and arms.  She huffs and lays her head on her paws and he gives her silky ear a flop.  His breathing is level.  He unclenches his jaw. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles as his eyes slip closed.  He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep, but he does, quickly, and his dreams are painless. 

The dog sleeps too.  

Belong

A Lester POV dabble based off this song.

Tw: unalive attempt by drowning, CPR, Worried Bo and Vincent, this is very dark, sad thoughts from Lester, violent Bo, emotional abuse mentioned, physical abuse mentioned, abuse from parents mentioned, misnaming Bo, strong language used, not proofread

If you are feeling as if you can't be here anymore, just know you are welcomed to talk to me. If you you need help, reach out. You are loved and needed in this world, starshine. You are not alone. I am so proud of you <3

The Louisiana marsh was high as the everglades became muddier by the hour. It's rain season in the south, and the Sinclairs weren't strangers to it. They know the woods around the town. They know the best place for crawdads and fishing. They know where the gators mate have their nests. They can tell you where the best little beaches for picnics and little cries if you need to be alone. It's sometimes dangerous to be there by yourself if you don't know where you're going, but it's even more dangerous when it's flooded and the currents could take you before you can scream.

Maybe that's why Lester is out here on top of the broken railroad bridge, looking down at the murky waters. He held the faded photo of his family between his fingers that a girl took when days before his mother died Vincent's hands. It's been two years now and he feels as if he was stuck as the forgotten child. He only asks for one day, one day for his brothers to remember, and they couldn't even do that! Bo's been wrapped up with their mother's "future" and Vincent's been working hard. Killing is bad, it's the worst sin there is; that's what the pastor told them one morning in church. But he never said anything about dying by your own hands.

Lester's suit wasn't too snug, but if you're going to meet God, you gotta look nice, right? That's what his father said before he blew his head off in front of Lester. He took the time to shower and dress right as if he was going on a date. He combed his hair and cleaned his face. Even though the two cinder blocks tied around his ankle clashed with the outfit, Lester still looked good. He felt good, too.

Bo would've made fun of him looking like this. Though he isn't the cleanest out of the three, he does know how to look good in a suit. Of course, it didn't fit the status quo of them: Bo the pretty one, Vincent the artist, and Lester the grimy and creep.

He wasn't a creep; he just looked like one because he was always dirty from the roadkill! It wasn't a pretty job, but it paid well and he got holidays off along with his birthday!

...but his brothers couldn't even remember that. Instead of cake, he got Bo yelling at him in the morning, wishing him dead and gone. He looked at Vincent, who silently watched in the background and didn't cut between him and Lester. Bo yelling at him was one thing, but for him to wish death on him was another.

"Wish ya weren't born!" He spat, his words filled with venom. He can't even remember why he was yelling at his little brother, but he didn't want to lose this battle. "Should've died at birth!"

"Don't say 'at, Bo! Please!" Lester's throat felt dry as he looked at his brother in the morning light. The sun in his hair made it look like he was on fire. "Ya don' mean it!" His hands wrap around his arms tightly.

Bo pushes his brother away, picking up an ash tray that Lester made out of glass years ago fro their mother. "Don't put words in my mouth, Les." He scoffed. "Ya torn 'is family apart! I's your fault! All of it!" The memories he held in the glass played in his mind like a movie. "Fuckin' bitch!"

Lester looked at Vincent for help, but even Vincent didn't know how to help. How could he? This was his twin, his other half. "Bo... don't say that." He didn't mean to start crying. "I-I'm sorry."

"Ya know betta than 'at!" Bo shouted, making him flinch. "Fuckin' cryin. What? Ya a baby, now? No, yer a fuckin man--!"

Lester didn't mean for the words to fall out, but, "Stop, Pa! Stop, please!" He covered his ears, tears burning his eyes. "'M sorry, Pa! 'M sorry! I promise I'll stop! Pa, 'm sorry!" Within a beat, silence filled the house as horror took over Lester's eyes. Why did he call him that? Why did he think Bo was his Pa? "Wait. Wait, no, 'm sorry, Bo! 'M sorry! I didn't mean it!"

"Git out of my house."

"'M sorry--!"

Bo threw an ash tray at his face, but it broke on his shoulder, glass cutting into his shirt. "Gi'out!" That's when Vincent stepped in, pushing Lester out the door so he didn't the full front of it. As he ran out of the house, he heard his brother yell, "Kill yourself before I kill ya, fuckin' freak!"

... that's all he needed to hear.

Bo must've found his note he left on the counter in the shop by the new oil cans he brought in the afternoon. Bo must be wishing he took back his words, unsaid everything as his eye read over and over Lester's neat hand writing. He might be getting Vincent from the basement in a frantic to go get his brother off the railroad bridge. He's probably gunning the truck towards the marsh, cursing himself out as he comes closer to the freshly broken path, finding Lester's truck with his gun still in the passenger seat.

Or he doesn't care. He saw the note and laughed at it, shaking his head at the call for help. Might call him "attention seeking" as he goes back to working without a care. He might be looking for his wretch for the car, thinking Lester is home with the dog. Vincent will be underground with his wax creation, not caring about him.

Yeah... he likes this one better. If he goes without his brothers ever knowing and he would find out on the news, he thought that was better. It'll save the trouble and stress.

You were always in the way, his mother hissed at him once when he came home in the middle of Bo arguing with their father. She pushed her youngest son away when Vincent stopped playing the piano, and she started yelling at him for playing the wrong note. He was shoved aside and sent to his room without food as if he was an animal.

He might as well be an animal to his family. He made it through high school and life with out his family, so why is he struggling now? Why did it bring him here?

Because you're nothin', Lester Sawyer Sinclair, his father answered for him.

He looked down at the photo again and let out a shaky breath. Though they were force to be in suits for Easter Sunday, a friend shot a picture of them smiling at a terrible joke Bo said that made all three laugh. The muddy waters below faded as he thought of the memory. Rebecca took that photo with her new camera that she got from the Easter Bunny, the bright blue and green Polaroid taking picture of everyone that morning. When she got them in this photo, it only showed the happiness and calm thoughts of the brothers. That's when he thought he was truly happy. Trudy was nowhere to be seen when it was taken, but she came back in a flash when she saw her kids standing next to Rebeca looking at the photo, giggling about how they should get a group picture together in their nice clothing.

"If 'm still single when 'm olda, promise I'll marry ya,' Lester whispered in her ear. "Promise."

"I wonder how ya doin', Rebecca," he whisper to himself as he gripped the photo. "Wonder if ya're alive and well." He smiled at the thought of her smiling somewhere up north with her collection of photos and drawings. She always wanted to be an artist like her grandmother--

"Lester!"

"Wonder if ya miss me," he continued, ignoring Bo's call. He could hear his boots snapping through branches and muck. "Wonder if they'll miss me--"

"Les! Git down from 'ere!" Bo didn't like how fast the water was rushing. He didn't like how Lester was looking at the water below, seeing ropes tied to blocks, how dangerously close he was on the edge. "Come home--"

"Ain't my home, remember?" Lester said bitterly, looking up at the full moon. He closed his eyes and took in the light. "Ya tol' me 'at 'is mornin'!"

"Didn't mean it!" He took off his jacket and threw his hat behind him in front of Vincent. He motioned him to stay back. "I swear I was lying! 'M sorry!"

"Does 'at heal my arm, Beauregard?" Lester snapped, his foot resting on one of the blocks, ready to kick and go under. "Does 'at take back everythin' ya said?" His laughter cut through the trees as he shook his head, making Vincent's shoulders tighten and flinch. "There's too many colors, Bo! It hurts ta look an' think! An' ya said 'at 'm betta off dead." His throat tighten like the time his father had his hands wrapped around his throat after walking in on him cheating with his first grade teacher. "I don' belong," he chocked out, tears falling faster than the river below. "Didn't ya say 'at?"

Bo looked down as he stepped on the bridge, walking carefully over the wood and metal. " 'M sorry, Les! I didn't--"

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" Lester hung his head towards Bo, pushing the blocks closer to the edge. In the moonlight, his brothers saw the pain swimming inside him, and he was drowning so fast under it all. "I'll do wha' Mama couldn't when I was a kid." A broken smile escaped as he sobbed, "I'll as-ask God to le' y'all in."

Bo started running towards his brother, his hand reaching out. "Lester, no--!"

Welcome him with open arms, sweet water below.

Without hesitation, he kicked the bricks forward and he fell with it. Time slowed as he looked up, arms reaching up towards the moon and stars. He wondered if he could be able to paint the sky when he's an angel, if he could put up the moon, and let out the rain. There has to be room for him up there somewhere. His mother said it wasn't his fault that she couldn't love him. She could only love one child and Vincent was the one she loved. If he was a bit better, a bit more like Vincent as an artist, maybe his mother would've loved him? No, that's not right--

Then his mind shifted to Rebecca in her lemon printed dress over white fabric. Her red hair braided and tied into a bun. He promised to love her with ever fiber, and she did the same. They split a locket in half, her with a picture of him and he with a picture of her. He kissed her goodbye when she got on the train in the city and headed north to Indiana to live with her aunt after her parents died. She was the only woman he loved, and he wanted to see her again...

Is she looking at the same moon, thoughts of him passing over tear stained face? Does she still wear the locket like he is tonight?

Why do I think of ya now, dandelion? Why now in my death hour? He thought bitterly as his back hits the cold water below. He doesn't know what to do as he sunk under the water, going down with the coldness. He can feel the moonlight grace his face as his hands reaches up. He closes his eyes and lets go of his breath. He felt himself fading into the currents and mud, passing fish and sticks. He's swam in these waters when he was a kid, so he knows the bottom, he knows the cold mud, he knows the true embrace of Louisiana and her arms over the ruby fields.

I'm sorry, Bo... Vincent... I'm not strong like ya.

When darkness welcomed him with a tight embrace, felt like home, like he belonged somewhere.

.

..

...

Strong arms pulled under Lester's shoulders and lift him up from the sand and mud, dragging him to shore. Bo ripped his shirt open and started CPR on his chest. The Louisiana heat touched his skin, the swampy air making his hair stand, as Vincent met him on the shore. He went to Lester's legs and started cutting the rope, pushing back the blocks. He didn't want anything near him that reminded of their failure. The twins are at fault, and he'll blame himself until he dies. He could hear Bo counting then--

Lester coughed roughly, Bo lifting him and turning him to his side, throwing up muddy waters and death. He's breathing roughly as he tired to see if he's dead or not, but when he saw Bo's face in the starlight, his worried face and breathless expression, bright blue eyes wet from water and tears, Lester was pissed.

He pushes his brother away, coughing, "Why'd ya do 'at?" He turned his head and threw up in the sand, coughing mud up until it mixed with his birthday cake he made for himself. It was just a small cake, too.

Lester cringed away from Vincent's hand rubbing his back. "Breathe," Vincent whispers. "Breathe, Les."

"Fuck you," Lester gasped, wiping his mouth. "Fuck ya both--!" He leaned forward and threw up more, food hitting the mud under him. "Now y'all care?" He wanted to shout at them, but he can't find the air to do so. He was shaking from shock, form anger, from death. "I had-had to do 'is t'make ya notice?"

It's like a stick snapped in his brain as he felt Bo wrapping around him, Bo holding him close. Lester tried to push away, hitting his chest to get away from Bo's grasp, but Vincent cornered him, holding both his brothers in tightly. He was tired, so tired...

Lester's hands fall as he stopped fighting. He was sandwiched between the two people he loved most, and he started falling apart. He felt the swamp looking at him with glowing eyes and gentle kisses from the fireflies brought him back to his family. He buried his head in Bo's chest as regret and self-hatred fill his lungs. What did he do? Why did he do it? Brothers fight, but...

"Never leav' me," Bo whispers in his hair, his wet clothes sticking to his skin. "Les, never do 'at again."

"Ya wanted-wanted me gone," Lester chocked out, shaking like a leaf in Bo's arms. "Ya said 'i yourself!"

"Stupid," Bo murmurs. "Was fuckin' stupid ta say 'at." He takes a staggered breath. " 'M the worse. Don' forgive me." His grip around his little brother tightens. "Never forgive me."

You're just like me, boy. Just like your old man.

Lester felt Vincent snake his hand into his. "Love you," Vincent said in his curls. "Lov' ya so fuckin' much." Vincent started rocking back and forth slowly, pulling Lester and Bo in tighter. "Don't know wha' I am without ya."

Lester squeezed his hand. "Y'all hurt yer throat if-if ya keep talkin."

"Shut up," Vincent breathed out, his voice raspy and gravely. "Shut up. Ain't 'bout me now. Just you... always you, Lester."

The moonlight glowed brighter around the three, and Lester closed his eyes, allowing himself to cry in his brothers' arms. He felt his heart breaking faster and harder as he sobbed harder and louder against Bo's wet clothing. His ankle where the stone was tied felt sore and hurts to move. In his pocket, he felt the photo of his brothers, and he felt the memory of their laughter fill his head, Rebecca's giving them the photo when it was ready. The blanket of moonlight covered him in comfort and love. He knew it'll be a long road for him to recover everything mentally, and his brothers will be there this time. No pushing, not throwing, nothing but love for the next couple of months.

He'll grow wings and he'll fly his brothers out of here. He promised to the moon and the muddy river. He promised the stars and his brothers in his arms. He'll get them out of here, somehow, someway.

Get a load of this train wreck.

Sooo was anyone gonna tell me there's gonna be a House Of Wax reunion or was I just supposed to find out from Brian's Instagram?

thinking about how much work i could get done if i would do it

beauregard really is the perfect name for that freak

babygirl your enormous eyebags and just barely noticeable tremor have captivated me

You seem to care a lot about trans people for being cis yourself

local internet dumbass discovers what empathy is

THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE: THE BEGINNING

he's forty years old. he's babygirl. he's unhinged. he's creating problems for himself and everyone else. he's god's favorite punching bag. he's a whore. he's pathetic. he's my poor little meow meow

It came to me in a vision

Hello slasher community :) did ya need a shirtless Tommy?

I did.

condolences to everyone in this age of polls who has to see their favourite thing thrown in the ring against a wildly more mainstream character/piece of media armed only with a bad picture and worse description. stay strong.