Some Steps Need To Be Taken Alone. It’s The Only Way To Really Figure Out Where You Need To Go And

There are shards of my childhood on the floor. I try to piece them together, but everywhere I step, I bleed.

💭 + mementos of childhood

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 — send 💭 + a topic to receive a headcanon about said topic.

HER FULL SET OF NANCY DREW MYSTERIES. those are precious to her and she keeps them well past adulthood and collects every one for as long as they’re published. 

a whole stack of little diaries with the worst locks of all time as clasps. you know the ones. she never wrote in them regularly and mostly copied passages from books and little poems that she liked in between actual thoughts and doodles. (only when she had good hiding places for her diary did her real thoughts come out.) all the identical cheap metal keys live on a frayed green ribbon necklace that chrissy used to wear “just in case anyone tries to steal my secrets”. 

lisa frank pencils and sticker covered notebooks. she kept a few of her favorite pencils whole and unsharpened and they live in her desk. same with several novelty erasers that have since dried beyond usability, but are just fun to look at.

teeny tiny scrunchies from when she had less hair and her wrists were smaller. their shrunken size doesn’t make them any less sweet and she enjoys keeping track of her favorite colors through the years.

a decorated shoebox full of ribbon bows, with notes and letters from cheer coaches past who always had lovely things to say. 

stuffed at the back of one drawer is the ace bandage from her first cheer injury - a rolled ankle. 

several shoeboxes full of makeshift scrapbook pages she tried throwing together as a little girl that never looked anything except disorganized. but she had a pretty solid eye for color grouping and aesthetic building, all the pages just looked messy. she keeps them as a reminder of how much she’s improved her approach.

then, there’s different boxes filled with victorian style cutouts of animals, angels, hearts, bows, gifts, phrases, and symbols of all kinds that she’s either saved or collects to use for cards. her valentines are stuff of legend. and lace. lots of paper lace. there’s also plastic gems she pried out of costume jewelry that get glued here and there onto the paper designs. more punchy than glitter, and far less messy. 

chrissy on vigil by max’s bedside. 

switching between rubbing the blood back into max’s fingers, putting lotion on max’s hands, brushing max’s hair, and taking stock of her own still bruised limbs.

sitting by lucas while he’s reading to max and taking over when lucas has to leave or gets tired. 

asking lucas (and whoever else is willing) to tell stories about max so no one even gets close to forgetting what max was like alive and well. 

chrissy telling dustin she’s noticed his hat collection for a while and likes all of them. being fascinated by dustin’s fascination with radios. 

chrissy asking erica with genuine interest how she got into d&d, immediately getting more curious when she learns about figure painting and dice towers and homemade maps and dioramas. erica is no cliché and she has too many facets to ever be boring.

chrissy finding out nancy knows a thing or two about guns and with great trepidation asking if nancy will show her what she knows. saying she needs to read the school paper more. promising nancy she’s got the clear head and the clear eyes to see what’s happening in the world and call it out truthfully. admiring nancy’s dedication to not being just some girl. 

going to family video and getting into an almost heated discussion with robin over the ranking of brat pack movies before deciding st. elmo’s fire is superior. or maybe it’s the outsiders. is it the outsiders? probably. steve is making cartoon blinking noises.

chrissy being endlessly amused and in awe of robin, her solid sense of self. soon showing up to band concerts with a single pompom to wave in silence as a show of support.

something about will drawing chrissy in, even if he’s near silent, until she pulls him aside and asks what he’s feeling, if it’s anything like what she felt. getting to sit down together and explain all the leftover fear and dread to someone who might actually understand how heavy and how inevitable it feels. 

chrissy teaching max leg strengthening exercises.

driving to max’s house and either existing in post-vecna silence from the pain of living through it or doggedly pushing through and either cussing at their bodies’ weaknesses together or chrissy taking max’s hand and urging them both across the yard to the clothesline and back, then to the dog and back. and then to eddie’s house and back. 

chrissy asking eddie if there’s anything that can be done about his uncle’s trailer.

bringing wayne a new mug and flowers, desperately sorry he had to see her twisted the way she had been on his floor. 

every time she goes to see eddie bringing a hat or a mug for his uncle.

chrissy trying to ask what everyone’s favorite song is, but when it gets too hard to say and stings to remember, she asks about favorite albums. 

going to record stores and digging through bargain bins and whatever she can find that makes her think of the hawkins heroes. 

chrissy going to the picnic table clearing with a trash bag and determinedly cleaning up the tiny little space as if it will somehow cleanse it. 

chrissy being benched from cheer but still showing up to every game, now able to cheer for her squad even more than simply the players on the court. the girls become much less than just simple squad-mates and much more like friends.

chrissy telling mike and will she’s admired how close their friendship has been over the years. 

chrissy asking all four of the freshman boys how long they’ve liked d&d and what got them started. 

just once getting to have a conversation with argyle and hanging on every word that comes out of his mouth with a huge smile on her face, completely entranced and entertained. 

chrissy visiting fred and patrick’s graves to clean and decorate them. she didn’t know fred but from a distance and knew patrick on a friendly surface level, but she knows the horrors they experienced before they died. that’s enough. 

chrissy going to the hideout on tuesdays, not just to see eddie play, but to see corroded coffin. to hear the band members eddie is so proud of playing their hearts out. to actually learn their names and talk to them all and get to know them. she doesn’t scream or whoop or holler during their set but remembers particularly sharp riffs and rhythms to compliment later. asking about song names and lyrics and inspirations.

chrissy telling all of her female friends daily that they’re beautiful, slowly, eventually abandoning references to appearance altogether and telling them they’re amazing and smart or clever instead. what she might have liked to hear, unladen with subtext. 

the party having lunch picnics on the school lawn. 

creating summer game plans together and apart.

library dates.

desperately trying to reclaim any sense of normalcy within hawkins. 

a million years later but it never felt more right 🧡 the biggest, BIGGEST thank you to sky for this gorgeous piece with my favorite troubled trio!

A commissioned sketch for @greenscrunchy of Steve, Chrissy, and Eddie looking very concerned! I always love an opportunity to draw the babies- thank you so much for commissioning me!!

they should never put this in the kitchen, chrissy thought through her hazy bubble cloud of wine cooler and winter break-fueled good mood. it was almost a languid sort of cheer that had hit her this late in the evening; she rarely stayed this late at parties but the smiles in every direction passively persuaded her to let the night drag on further and further until everyone would inevitably become a half-drunk and sleepy mess of laughter and jokes that never quite landed yet sounded hilarious regardless. but she’d forgotten about the trademark seasonal trap the party host had hung in a kitchen entryway, beyond which the siren song of a sofa crooned chrissy’s name. ....right - she’d been meaning to watch out for the mistletoe earlier. and missed her cue to glance up before nearly sliding past nancy right under it — until she noticed nancy’s movement grind to a halt, too. stupid little plant thing.

before her already alcohol-pinked cheeks could bloom any darker, chrissy giggled with all the air she had left in her lungs. oh, this would be easy, actually. no problems here.

                          ❝ oops, i guess! merry christmas break, nancy. ❞  there was no needing to think her plan through twice before swinging an arm about nancy’s shoulders and giving her a smack square on the cheek. perfect.  ❝ that counts, right? since we’re under here, i think we should make the rules. ❞  

                    —     a      🌿     for    @rebelcliche​

 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙀𝘿𝘿𝙄𝙀 𝙈𝙐𝙉𝙎𝙊𝙉                           (hellmartyr​)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃, was what eddie would’ve said if his brain hadn’t flatlined. jaw rusted ajar by shock, his vengeance upended into an anemic stare. questions that were more sensation than language stacked themselves on his teeth, his tongue, leeching the dusty moisture from the back of his throat. his head wasn’t completely empty. there was something resembling a thought for a brief, crudely puerile moment when eddie’s suede eyes widened because chrissy cunningham remembered him. even in his state of oozing wounds, matted hair, and a complexion not unlike an autopsy.

      eddie was still playing catch up when chrissy’s arms interlocked around his torso. an instinctive arm swam around her, shocked by how close to nothing she felt against him. his protection amended itself into a firmer circle as her lament tumbled like tears down the chewed remains of his shirt.

      you’re not dead, his thawing tongue willed itself to say, not yet. as if on cue, an alien wail shattered the unnatural peace. pale surprise overshadowed by a sudden sharpness of narrowed eyes and iron-soaked resolve. the hard line of his lips bent at a grim angle at the shadows in the encroaching mist.

      an encouraging pat warned the girl of his intentions. ❝ come on, let’s get you inside. ❞ shuffling awkwardly, eddie eased chrissy into the station, gingerly rotating their position so that if any spawn of the upside down chose that moment to strike, it’d be forced to go through ed before it ever got a chance to even look at her.

      the door closed behind them with a bloated thunk. there were better odds finding the holy grail stashed in powell’s desk than a surface not covered in disemboweled rot. fearing he’d drop her, eddie settled chrissy in a chair that looked like a cramped piece of shit even without the upside down tinge. as eddie slipped his jacket around the despondent girl, he took the opportunity to take in the horror she’d been through.

      how was it possible for her to be even smaller than he remembered? her skin, a glass menagerie tinted by faded shades of livor mortis. and her eyes, maybe it was a trick of light straining through heavy motes. maybe it was because the last time eddie saw them was the last time anyone did. but eddie swore the twinkle that outshone gymnasium lights was still there. with ghost behind it, barricading the way between him and the girl hiding.

      any furniture not strapped to the ground by vines was dragged and deposited roughly against the door. eddie worked as quickly as his tremoring muscles allowed, always craning his neck to keep an eye on the object of his disbelief, replaying their one way exchange.

      was he real? he didn’t feel real, but he sure as shit felt alive. and — if you squinted — so did chrissy.

      panting from the strain of his task, the young man crouched in front of her, swallowing a dry knot of tension as he stumbled on what to say. because what the fuck do you say to someone murdered from the inside out? ❝ i’m, uh, i’m glad to see you too. ❞ despite the blood on his lower lip and the hellscape in the window, eddie smiled.

      realizing he was holding his breath, eddie flickered from side-to-side for a way to make her a little more comfortable. fastened to his back with medical tape was an outdoor first aid kit eddie scavenged from the drugstore. he was forced to clear out most of its contents, spoiled by the taint that permeated the upside down’s mimicry, leaving him with gauze, several bandages, and a tube of off-brand neosporin that passed the sniff test with skeptical colors. he needed to be careful retrieving its contents. a circular bite wound on his lower back was still runny, exploding with mauve-y pus if he touched it.

      placing the kit on a coaster of debris, eddie skittered to reclaim the treasonous ration from before. he returned, his joints ached as lowered himself again to meekly offer the can of campbell’s schlock to her.

      ❝ it’s safe to eat. i promise. just don’t look at it. ❞

forever ago, sometime during sophomore year, chrissy remembered an experiment she’d done in biology. for two months straight mr. stratner’s class had been drilling the ups and downs and insides and out of the human body and it had been a bumbling, awkward mess no matter what he did. but one wednesday, they’d turned to discussion of the heart. wonder of wonders, mr. stratner had lugged out one of the massive boomboxes from the a/v closet and plopped it on his desk wearing a well earned smirk. what followed was an experiment that turned out to be...fun. 

for almost 45 minutes the entire class experimented with the way music and sound affected the speed of a heartbeat. chrissy and her whole table bent over stopwatches, fingers on pulses and pencils flying. their smiles grew as 4/4 and 6/8 time signatures almost magically bloomed in the tattoo of their heartrates, responding to the music. thoughtful, melancholic strains of chopin eased their pulses to a tranquil putter while tchaikovsky and his cannons sent it sky high. a-ha, the doobie brothers, christopher cross, john waite, starship, spyro gyra, wynton marsalis, all with different rhythms but the same result; parallel rhythms. synchronicity. 

in the spiderweb-fragile moments between embracing what was left of eddie’s mirage, him grasping her back, and the eventual ripping of shrieks from somewhere too close by, there was silence. sweet, strange, then sour. the music of absence. emptiness. and chrissy’s heart paused to match that nothing rhythm. synchronicity in death, where nothing could truly exist. it was everything, everywhere. an ugly, inevitable peace. he’d promised my suffering would end. 

like a vhs struggling over a kink in its tape and then suddenly righting itself to rewind much too fast, time sped itself up again. the un-pause was quick but violent. only a blink and chrissy had been hastily rotated then ushered inside the police station. large hands were still firm over her arms, so she wasn’t going to fall, but she might as well have lost all sense of direction and balance. until a chair was under her. or she was on a chair. had the chair come to her or the other way around?

❝ ah - oh!  ❞  an unexpected face appeared out of nowhere. except it was just eddie, pale white, with muddy gray streaks. like the moon behind clouds. that was fine. five minutes ago she’d have wanted any friendly face at all and if - if only - leaping lizards why wouldn’t her heart rate go down? her breath was coming too fast and shallow, which didn’t calm the sloshing inside her head. all her presence of mind, melted. 

but....breathing. that was something only an alive person could do. eddie was breathing. he was. exhaled air was gusting around her ears as he adjusted something over her. unaware, shaking hands searched it out almost sans chrissy’s awareness or permission. looking down once her fingertips hit canvas, she registered a savaged jacket. 

then he was gone. a volley of thuds and clatters rent the air behind her, but the strawberry blonde didn’t turn to look for causes. instead, she shivered beneath a pile of army surplus as eddie barricaded every possible ingress point in the room, judging by the many slams and grunts in her peripherals. she’d help, but...what help would she really be? 

minutes crawled past. chrissy became one with the chair. behind her, legs of tables turned to splinters and desks became walls in lieu of any real barricade. the sound of metal denting peppered the air now and again, matched by the horrible squeaks of file cabinets digging into the floor with a last gasp of obstinance. 

nothing in hawkins ever did fold easily. 

and there eddie was again, this time at eye level and heaving like he’d forgotten about air during his rushed renovations. this wasn’t a dead man after all, she considered at long last, staring into the last real pair of eyes she’d seen before falling headlong into that...creature’s clutches. friendly then, friendly now. maybe more now because he was smiling. or giving his all in the effort. chrissy tried to offer him the same, although she had very little idea of what her face was doing. honestly, she might have started crying instead. it was hard to tell. maybe both. 

❝ th  —  ❞  her throat rebelled, spiraling her into a brief coughing fit. salt water kept getting in her mouth as she clumsily gulped down air. smiling and crying, then.  ❝ sorry. ❞  but he was skittering raccoonishly out of reach then back again, now proffering a raggedy can of goop. chrissy couldn’t exactly smell through her unattractively running nose, but she could imagine. her gut entire writhed and shrank away from the sight, petrified, but she commanded her shaking hands to reach for it anyway. inside looked like an extension of the vomitous wreath cloaking this nightmare land in every direction. the outside benignly announced “campbell’s”.

❝ thanks. i, um, don’t think i’m hungry, but thanks?  ❞  still, she clung to the aluminum as an anchor. unwanted as its contents might be, the gift she still understood.   ❝ so  —  you’re actually alive. right? you are? if you are, then i am.❞  teeth absently tugged at peeling skin across her lips, where another drop of salt water crept into the soft, red valleys and stung.  ❝ where are we? i don’t understand. what happened or how i got here. how did you get here?  ❞  one long, fierce swallow around a gordian knot inside her throat halted all progress, but not for long. even if she had to whisper to pry the words free. 

❝ is there a way to get out? ❞

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ 𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕀𝔼                                  (bakcr​)

* .  ♡ “ i don’t know. ” she snorts. a grin on her face. “ you’d have to ask steve jobs… ”

                       ❝ are you sure things aren’t weirder when you’re from? ❞ 

Sweater weather. Happy September 1st

𝔼ℂℍ𝕆'𝕊 𝕄𝕀𝕏𝕋𝔸ℙ𝔼  X  𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝒸𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓈𝓎   ( @galaxycrxss​ )

i never thought i'd lose my place, i never thought it'd slip away ( guarded - flor )  /  hear me when i say i’m leaving winter for the spring ( don’t want to go - nigel good )  /  echoes inside - dugo  /  i’ve been through hell and back ( learn to let go - kesha )  /  1984 - the northern lights  

hi friends! first of all, thank you for being here and interested in this little chrissy blog. second [spoilers], across the fandom the prevailing aus for chrissy seem to take place during the events of season 4. that is not the case for this portrayal’s main verse. chrissy remains dead for the entirety of the season, only reviving when robin/nancy/steve blast vecna. first killed, first revived.

as vecna emulates the lich of the same name from dnd lore and has noticeably displayed the bodies of chrissy, fred, and patrick in his mind space for max to stumble upon, which, coupled with the line “they’re not gone, eleven. they’re still with me,” provides some implication that the consciousnesses (or souls) of vecna’s victims still exist somewhere inside vecna or in a place of his choosing. this is only emphasized by his stealing of their eyes upon killing them, since “eyes are the windows to the soul”. especially powerful liches possess phylacteries, aka a protective central storage of power for their soul to draw upon when they need to regenerate. the three victims’ souls may very well have been stored in vecna’s “phylactery” mind space - his family’s deconstructed house - for that purpose. when vecna is attacked he is weakened to the point of potentially letting souls slip from his grasp. in a similar fashion that max can enter and exit, chrissy is released from the immediate bondage of vecna’s “phylactery” and able to slip through the cracks. although, unlike max, she isn’t released into the real world but the realm that vecna dwells in: the upside down. until she can find her way out, it’s there that she stays. in the real world, her buried body dissolves and her casket, when exhumed, is discovered to be empty.

long story short, all this can be found on my verses page and this drabble explaining how chrissy woke up. all this is to give chrissy her own unique story that both gives her a chance at agency, a solo story of survival, and manages to keep the timeline of s4 unchanged. thanks so much for reading!!!