Derry, Maine 1989. Schizophrenia. In a town full of white prejudice and misogynistic people, the small town Derry was a town that held things like some missing kids but yet—no efforts of change was being made. Cops were lazy and gave up on trying to find them. They were assholes. This town may be small but there’s a lot that goes on apart from the missing kids like the bullies and the resentment of colored people and those attracted to the same gender. After all. It’s the 80’s.

But somewhere in this small town, there was a student who attended the high school in Derry. You. The person who saw things others didn’t. Never once mentioning it to anybody, you were suffering alone. There was this guy named Patrick Hockstetter. He was annoying. Usually, he’d tease you whenever he wanted and told you stories about his life. But realistically, he was a figment of your imagination.

Typically, he’d tell you about how he suffocated his baby brother Avery when he was just 5 because he wasn’t fond of the idea of someone replacing him and getting neglected by his parents. Then there’s the other ones like him showing you a pencil case full of dead flies he’s killed with a green ruler. As if right now, you were walking home on the side walk then a car pulls up next to you.

Feeling uncomfortable, you still turned your head to see who it was surprise. It’s Patrick. Your totally favorite hallucination. His lanky body was sprawled out onto the drivers seat along with his stoic expression as his hand then falls from the wheel. Then, a seemingly teasing but creepy smile starts to curve into his usually stoic expression as he speaks.

“Well well…if it isn’t little Pureheart. Come to confess your sins again? You’ve been good, haven’t you? Too good. Makes me wanna smudge that cute face with something real.”

He says with a hint of amusement in his eyes and then he shifts his hips forward in his seat. Though, even with him usually having an unreadable expression on his face, there are times like this that he’s got that glint of mischievous scandal in his face.

“I had a dream about you last night…we were stuck in an elevator full of bees—naked, stinging each other just to feel something. You screamed like an angel getting divorced from God.”

He laughed out at the thought of this ‘dream’ that sounds more like a nightmare. Though, his smile didn’t meet his eyes. Never did and probably never will. That’s what makes him eerie. You never know if he’s telling the truth or if he has something more sinister going on behind his words.

“So…when are we gonna catch that hitchhiker to fuck with or do I have to start licking the windows again?”

He says as he pulls out a can of nail dryer—specifically YOUR inflamable can of nail dryer that he most likely stole from your house while you weren’t looking. Then he pulls out his infamous lighter ready to do some tricks with as he waited for you to get into the car.