Latest Posts by greenscrunchy - Page 7

take some sage and pass it around, fam.

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? ❞ 

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ    𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕀𝔼,                              (bakcr​)

it sounds like an apple - can i bite it?

* .  ♡ “ you can NOT bite it, chrissy. ” they were like little kids. she was surprised none of them had figured out its touch screen yet. @greenscrunchy​.

you’d say that to this face?   

                    ❝ then why does it have a name like that? it’s very misleading. ❞

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!!!

 — To the Young Who Want to Die, Gwendolyn Brooks  

[ text ID: Graves grow no green that you can use. / Remember, green’s your color. / You are Spring. ]

new photo of chrissy in her cheerleading outfit on my tiktok & tumblr gets these

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ   𝔻𝔸𝔽𝔽𝕆𝔻𝕀𝕃   𝔽𝕆𝔾𝔼𝕃,                                 (fogels​)

*      𝘩𝑜𝑤  𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛  𝑤𝑎𝑠  𝑚𝑦  𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑦    /        @greenscrunchy​​   ,                  —                     𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾   𝖺𝗋𝖾   𝗍𝗐𝗈   𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌   𝗍𝗈   𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒   𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾  .      

𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂  𝙳𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙱𝙴𝚂𝚃  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙰𝙽  𝚃𝙾  𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻  𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂  𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴  𝙱𝙰𝙱𝚈𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  .     shackled  to  a  stranger  with  a  walkman  threateningly  waved  in  your  face  should  you  blink  a  tad  too  long  .   daffodil  knows  she  wouldn’t  be  chrissy’s  first  choice to  spend  time  with  .

or  maybe  she  would  be  .   it  turns  out  the  little  high - flyer  has  a  precious smile  and  a  laugh  like  lemon  squares  :   good  .  

❝         𝑦𝑒𝑎𝘩  ,   𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑏𝑜𝑡𝘩  𝑜𝑓  𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠  𝑎𝑟𝑒  𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦  ,         ❞        daffodil  smiles  at  her  ,   nodding  towards  the  strawberry  ice  cream  generously portioned  into  chrissy’s  bowl  .          ❝         ah  !   come  on  ,   that’s  part  of  the  healing  process ,  too  .         ❞

the uneasy twisting in chrissy’s stomach has made its way to her hands, where chipped varnish-laden nails dig into soft vinyl daisy print. a kind of tablecloth pattern ripped from a field swaying in the wind somewhere. so bright and cheerful to match the pink ice cream gradually beginning a melting slump front of her face. this doesn’t feel fair. (she’s thought that once or twice this week and wondered why every time. what did she do to deserve this? what didn’t she do?)

                                    ❝ you’re being very patient with me. you don’t have to be. ❞  it’s natural as anything to hedge. easy to distract from the swimming bowl of temptation, shiny spoon lure sticking out and chrissy is a little fish who’d like to know what’s truly good for her for once. daf is kind but not easily misled; there might not be any getting out of this one. best to dive in and think about consequences later. …..maybe she’ll think more sharply with a little sugar in her system. there’s dairy too – so, protein! yes, yes, if she thinks hard enough she can write off all the sweet danger the ice cream is masking under strawberry swirls. 

then again, hasn’t her entire rubric for danger been rewritten over the past several days? you know what? screw it. for now. what’s good for her might actually be to take the kindness daf is offering so freely, imposition or not. 

                                     ❝ i’d like if it was that way, though i’m not sure wanting to snap when i’m nervous is very pretty. ❞  speaking around a spoon is absolutely abhorrent manners, she knows, but talking helps distract from the guilt. one spoonful at a time.  ❝ you seem to be taking the whole….monster thing in stride. that’s amazing. ❞

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ   𝔼𝕃𝔼ℕ𝕆ℝ𝔼   𝕎ℍ𝕀𝕋𝔼,                                       (bakcr​)

*  ―      settling dust.   |  accepting.

            “ come on… wake up. please… please wake up… “ 🙃

* .  ♡ she should have gone home. should have tried to make her way BACK to home ages ago. maybe none of this would have happened. maybe she would have been able to wake up, in her bed, in her time. but of course - life was a bitch and none of that happened. ellie knew that there was SOME trauma in her life, but she didn’t think that it was enough to gain the attention of vecna. that fucking clock chiming was enough to give her MORE trauma and she wondered if that was WHY it was there in the first place. but then, all of a sudden - it had stopped. no more chimes, no more bad dreams, it was silent. until her paranoia and night terrors kicked in again. and this was the 80s, working through something was hard.

                                                              so when she and @greenscrunchy​ got closer, she knew that at least SOMEONE would understand what she was going through. it had been a really bad night terror - one where she would scream bloody murder and people would think there actually WAS a murder. ellie could feel hands gripping onto her shoulders, shaking her slightly - nails digging into her skin. she was on the cusp of consciousness, but it was taking a longer time than normal for her to wake up. almost a solid ten seconds later, did ellie’s eyes snap open. her breathing heavy, like she had just run a marathon without stopping - a sob and a cry. ellie sits up and falls onto chrissy - arms wrapping around the slender girl, who had been hovering over her - trying to wake her up for the past ten minutes. “ i’m sorry - ” the brunette kept repeating. “ i’m sorry, i’m sorry. ” she doesn’t want the trauma of vecna to come back, but sometimes her nightmares wouldn’t let her escape. “ chrissy … ” she groaned. “ fuck. ”

                                      ❝ don’t do this, not now. ellie…. ❞  the motions blurred feverish, superheated by chrissy’s depths of alarm and thunderous eagerness not to find out what happened when a girl out of time faded from one that wasn’t her own. if ellie were to be snatched by another something from a nightmare dimension… if at this very moment, in another place, ellie was screaming for help while chrissy cluelessly tried to give it without making a mite of difference, the cheerleader would never forgive herself. she’d never forgive herself, she’d never  ――

                                      ❝ oh, thank god, ❞  gasped sharply in tandem with ellie’s own jolted resurrection. chrissy flung her arms around all of her shaking friend available to reach. one set of fingers tangled with another as if to weave a net strong enough for the both of them to collapse on and keep steady.   ❝ it’s okay. i’ve got you. it’s alright. hey, breathe with me? ❞   this of course required chrissy to herself model some form of controlled lung motion – easier said than done. but years of cheer and airborne spills prepared her for this. it’s all about staying calm. staying focused. knowing where you were in space and how to contort to land safely. right now they were in the park, prickled by emeraldine grass around a picnic table, on a saturday in the beginning of may. all small things, but so weighty in the moment.

chrissy hated to admit it, but ellie was right. fuck was right.   ❝ don’t be sorry. those things in your head aren’t your fault. i just hoped… ❞  the urge to fidget seemed better redirected toward hauling the both of them squarely upright and leaning against the bench.  ❝ …that you wouldn’t get sucked somewhere no one could find you. or that you couldn’t come home from. ❞ 

( had this been how it felt to watch her float, to break? )

she’s a ten but she absolutely loathes gone with the wind.

maythememebewithyou​:

White Christmas (1954 film) 

“My dear partner, when what’s left of you gets around to what’s left to be gotten, what’s left to be gotten won’t be worth getting, whatever it is you’ve got left.”

“Pushing, pushing…”

“What is this, the best two out of three?”

“We’re practically strangers.”

“When I figure out what that means I’ll come up with a crushing reply.”

“____, if you’re ever under a falling building, and somebody runs up and offers to pick you up and carry you to safety, don’t think, don’t pause, don’t hesitate for a moment, just spit in his eye.”

“That’s ridiculous, even if it made any sense at all.”

“I think it’s impossible, ridiculous, and insane! And I wish I’d thought of it first.”

“How do you do?”

“Don’t just stand there – how do I get off?”

“You ought to be horsewhipped. First you, and then you, and then you again.”

“Please, don’t quote me the price when I haven’t got the time.”

“Well, it’s not good, but it’s a reason.”

“Mutual, I’m sure.”

“Oh, that’s very funny. Ho, ho, ho.”

“I’m not the marrying kind. I’m not the engaging kind, either!”

“We ate, and then he ate. We slept, and then he slept.”

“Are things really that bad?”

“Troops ready for inspection, sir!”

“Oh, no. You wouldn’t do this to me…”

“I don’t know what you see in this long drink of charged water but honestly, after you get to know him, he’s almost endurable.”

“It’s probably just a small internal muscular hemorrhage, sir.”

“Well, you’re not exactly Superman, but you’re awfully available.”

“That’s right, ideal. That’s exactly the word we used, too: ideal. We looked at this big ski lodge and we said ‘Isn’t it ideal, absolutely ideal,’ didn’t we.”

“That’s not the way back to headquarters.”

“Wouldn’t do what?”

“Don’t you think we ought to…kiss or something?”

“Looks like it’s absolutely necessary.”

“I’ve got a feeling I’m not gonna like it…”

“Let’s just say we’re doing it for an old pal in the army.”

“Look who’s talking about guilt!”

“I want you to get married. I want you to have nine children. And if you only spend five minutes a day with each kid, that’s forty-five minutes, and I’d at least have time to go out and get a massage or something.”

“Let’s face it, ____, you’re a lonely, miserable man.”

“She’s always felt that she’s mother hen and I’m her little chick. She’ll never leave the roost until I’m taken care of.”

“____, you know that, and I know that, but ____ doesn’t know that. At least he won’t for about an hour and a half.”

“I just dropped by to thank you for saving my life.”

“I guess I’ve always been a silly school girl…you know the bit, the lady fair and the knight on the white horse.”

“Well, it was a life worth saving.”

“What’d you have for lunch today?”

“Well, break your arm, or your ankle, or your neck, but don’t break anything valuable, huh?”

“We’ve established that the lodge is ideal.”

“Well, then you’re happy for the wrong reasons, and that’s the same as being lonely and miserable, except it’s worse.”

“You know, in some ways, you’re far superior to my cocker spaniel.”

“Oh, my word, if I wasn’t such a mean old biddy, I’d break right down and cry.”

“Vermont should be beautiful this time of year: all that snow.”

“Let me tell you something, it’s kinda dangerous, putting those knights up on white horses. Likely to slip off, you know.”

“Well, I guess that’s the end of that.”

“It sounds very… Vermonty!”

“Why is everybody so concerned about my eating habits? Why don’t people just leave me alone?”

“I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna hate it.”

“How much is ‘wow’?”

“Last night, she couldn’t sleep. Today, she won’t eat… she’s in love.”

“Since you saved my life, you decided you have a right to run it.”

“It’s right between ‘ouch’ and ‘boing.’“

“Well, I like that! Without so much as a ‘kiss my foot’ or ‘have an apple!’”

“We like to take care of our friends.”

“I’m more of the ‘I don’t mind pushing my best friend into it but I’m scared stiff when I get anywhere to close to it myself’ kind.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s always that she’s been kind of a mother hen.”

“We wanted the mother hen to leave the roost so that the little chick could… oh, I guess we laid an egg.”

one particular i adore about chrissy is that she’s so deeply not into profanity - not necessarily because she feels shame, but because the very sound of curse words is grating. it’s ugly to her 9/10 times spoken and heard.

there is a little baptist guilt in there thanks to a childhood of being dragged to church on sundays and her mother’s ever present televangelists on the tv, but it takes a back seat to the sound of curses.

yet with eddie or the party…..it’s still ugly, she still doesn’t like it, but with them it’s a sign of something honest and genuine. eddie especially. she gets the impression that the more he swears, the more he means what he says.

of course the freshman doing it so often is a little jarring, but she will make exceptions for them. they’re just so cute when they’re excited.

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. 

there’s so much wrong with this place. everything, actually. 

as if the void dimension’s very existence wasn’t crime enough, chrissy stumbled down a hill covered in vines that appeared locked in a neverending battle with themselves, writhing and thrashing until too exhausted to continue. the ground crawled, the sky grumbled. unearthly animal voices chittered nearby every time chrissy so much as scuffed her sneakers too loudly. 

if her nerves weren’t completely shot by the time she escaped, they’d be numb enough to fool her into thinking they were useless. 

like the sky itself was ill, it regularly spat out streams of bloodstained lightning to wash the stale air in a rainbow of bruised indigo across sickly green, mocking her own bruised body - or complementing it. every sound echoed only to disappear moments afterward. even the echoes seemed doomed to die mere yards from their origin.

time burnt away meaninglessly the further chrissy walked on....and on.....and on until  —  yes, finally, main street snuck into view. hawkins always seemed so small from behind a set of wheels. just another pint-sized half awake middle american town that only stirred on weekends and holidays, where people still used the word “newfangled” and the church bell still told the time better than anyone’s watch. family businesses rarely closed because the family seldom moved. home was familiar. home was predictable, safe. 

chrissy had never been more sure of anything in her life when she stared down at the rotten facsimile of hawkins and reminded herself it was the farthest thing from safe. 

what she ought to have done was make a beeline for the police station. that would have been the wisest, smartest thing. but at the sight of the mayor’s office a few blocks away, a wall of exhaustion hit chrissy harder than a freight train. all that walking after an impromptu resurrection did nothing for her stamina and the thought of rest was enough to make her want to burst into tears. enough for her to creep up the office steps and gently pry open the door. inside was silent as a graveyard and twice as dark. dust motes floated in in the air, swirling into eddies while she tiptoed down the central hallway. going up the stairwell was tantamount to courting disaster - even keeping her back to it felt risky. then the smallest stroke of luck materialized in a plush (if musty) chaise lounge tucked away in an office. with some difficulty chrissy managed to drag it all the way back to the front doors and scoot it against the wall adjacent. this way, nothing could get in or out without her knowing. the best she could ask for at the moment. all that was left was to lay down, find an angle that didn’t exacerbate the shooting pain in her shoulder, and attempt to sleep. 

pain lingered no matter how she arranged her limbs, but sleep... sleep crept up on her without warning. the world fell into darkness so quickly that when chrissy awoke it was with a twitch of terror. she couldn’t remember toeing the familiar, milky line between consciousness and the void.

everything looked exactly the same as when she’d arrived. 

had hours passed? had days?

without any shift in light and no sound from the church bell or town center clock, chrissy might as well have been in the same place forever. such a thought blasted shivers into her every extremity. time to move along. this place gave her every species of the creeps ever invented. 

the next two blocks to the police station were small potatoes compared to her haunted trek from the creel house. her body still ached with every bend in her stride. rest had done nothing for her pain, only giving her sufficient energy to push through. well, that was something, wasn’t it? 

despite the flickering hope the notion of weapons provided, that light was dashed by the rattle of very secure locks on every door chrissy tried. she slammed her good shoulder into all of them; none did so much as tremble in their frames. the windows were barred even if she could find a rock to smash the glass. in the end, all she had were her frantic fists and shouts of panic that she knew, chrissy knew, were more foolhardy than anything else. any number of the nightmares lurking in shadows that she never spotted could hear her and come rushing out, discovering the easiest prey to ever wander in their vicinity. her yelps were careless and scratched like sandpaper over the tender meat of her throat, but she couldn’t seem to stop. she’d come all this way for nothing otherwise. this couldn’t be for nothing. she couldn’t let it stop here.

                               ❝  hello?? please, is somebody in there? i need help, please. hello?? ❞  if only faithful chief hopper was still alive, he’d have come running. maybe chief powell would, too. anyone, anyone.  ❝  it’s chrissy, chrissy cunningham. please, i don’t know what’s happening anymore. help, HELP!!!  ❞  

                             a note to @hellmartyr​ 

black.

black for miles. a single speck of it for eternity and no more than the size of an atom.

white - but just a flash. 

as soon as it disappeared, she found herself remembering it, holding the memory steady in her mind’s eye like a precious gem. white in a stitch. the gleaming curve of a coffee mug. pristine starched polyester blend. ceiling.

the inside of her eyes.

red.

it’s everywhere, it’s coming to choke her and she’s screaming, she’s screaming, she’s  ————

breathing.

the air was unnaturally thick and the moment it touched her throat she felt the pull of her abdomen, the revolt of her lungs. what she vomited out was all but discernible and only fractionally thicker than the very air that choked her.  

ropey growths were receding from splayed out limbs, almost hissing in their eagerness to withdraw and disappear. quicker than a startled snake, the vines were there and gone. but by then there was no time to notice that nothing remained to keep her upright. before she knew it, the charcoal ground was racing toward her at breakneck speed. 

the thud of her knees and meat of her palms colliding against the solid surface below rang agonizingly through dead air, knocking any hopeful gasps clean from her lungs. on all sides, the wash of blood-tinged rage surrounded chrissy in a bubble of fear. something like a gunshot tore through claggy air to rattle her eardrums to the point of pain. whatever she had fallen upon shook to the rhythm of each shot.

all chrissy could do was count one pang after another that rippled through her muscles. she could unmistakably sense herself gagging between every breath, but nothing came out. 

more shots. 

heat. strong, aggressive heat, like someone had thrown a lit match into spilt gasoline.

a roar, brimming with not just shock and pain, but fury. chrissy’s whole body shook fearfully, though it didn’t get much time to do much of it. after what seemed like only a few seconds of half-consciousness, the world once again emptied to void.

forever passed, all in a sliver of a second. 

then she split her lids to a deep shade of navy. 

opening her eyes fully right away seemed a feat too ambitious. chrissy cunningham (that was her name, wasn’t it?) trembled on what she could only hope was brittle grass. fingers hungry for something recognizable wove unsteadily through strands dryer than even the hawkins football field in summer. one mississippi, two mississippi, you can do this. four mississippi, five mississippi, you can do this, come on. you’re supposed to be tougher than a few bumps. 

the tail end of the thought sounded suspiciously like her mother and that shouldn’t have been the voice that propelled her to all fours, but it did. height did not agree with her stomach at first, nor did her fluttering muscles react with enthusiasm to being strained. every movement shot lightning through through her limbs, forcing chrissy to grit her teeth against the discomfort.

part of the storm above her had gotten itself stuck inside her body. the dead girl swore she could hear identical thunder hiding in her head behind clouds of confusion.

confusion that did not abate when she at last managed to stand to her full height. 

everywhere, in every direction, wasteland. a half-hearted impression of hawkins. derelict rocket playground in view across the street and with woods to every side, chrissy gulped almost without realizing. that could only put her at one place in hawkins.

the murder house.

turn around, chrissy. you were dead a minute ago. just turn around. 

after another eternity of of shaky stalling, chrissy completed a heel rotation. and screamed. shock knocked her back a few stumbling feet until she’d collapsed on her back again, all of her hard work to get upright undone.

it wasn’t only the murder house. 

interrupting her view of what used to be a glamorous home were four trees that absolutely were not present in the real hawkins. two on each side of the creel’s front door, now smashed almost entirely off its hinges. at the bottom of the stairs spread a charred circle of earth burnt bald. smoke still faintly drifted from the spot as if chrissy was only just barely too late to arrive for all the action. adding insult to injury, the sight of the house was far from the worst part.

the tree closest to her boasted a hollow eerily in the shape of a small human body. a knowledge chrissy had no place for rustled in her chest, sinking to the base of her spine: if she stood again and spread her arms across the trunk, she would fit inside that hollow with an accuracy that belied a supernatural force almost too horrendous to consider for a moment longer. wood yawned in a frozen howl, sending her eyes frantically skipping to the next tree. and the next. where the bodies of fred benson and patrick mckinney hung as warped trophies to sadism and the kind of eternal grudge encountered only in fiction. 

this tableau was the farthest thing from fiction if the pounding in her head was any proof. here were preserved testaments that fear remained the ultimate weapon.

a girl’s helpless sobs rent the air. because that was all chrissy was: a helpless, weak, lost girl. nothing was making sense. chrissy collapsed against the pedestal that would have held her broken body akimbo had something  —  someone?  —  not broken apart his hold on the last of her very soul. a miracle, maybe. was that possible? even as she wearily succumbed to a tsunami of tears, a rebellious flare of hope ignited at the sight of the fourth, empty tree. patrick and fred hadn’t managed to run free, but someone else had. like her.

with that thought, she gasped for a square breath, determined to pull together enough to leave this horrible place. one proper step at a time.

much easier said than done. 

every step seemed to shoot fire directly through her bones to inflame her joints, the cause utterly mysterious until she looked down. the sight sent shaking hands flying to her cardigan to whip it off and investigate more thoroughly. elbows. shoulders. wrists. knees. ankles. hips. all of them bruised so deeply that her body seemed to halfway disappear into the sickly mauve landscape. the skin under her eyes, too, felt tender and puffed. when her hand withdrew from prodding them the tips were covered in rusty flakes. she flicked them away and they listlessly drifted away like ash. blood, long since dried.

a wet sigh slipped from lips edging closer to dried, mangled flesh than anything that could be mistaken for something alive. she really had been dead, hadn’t she? or something too close to death. chrissy certainly felt weary enough to have startled from a slumber she’d never been meant to wake from. and here she was, painfully awake and alive in a place fit for nothing but dead, quiet things. a living nightmare. 

somewhere she would rather die than remain in for much longer. again. 

well... freedom was no closer the longer she huddled here in terror. 

weak breaths came in quick succession as chrissy cunningham put her back to the ghost of the hawkins murder house, limped down the steps, scurried past the playground, and let the main road wind ahead of her and lead her anyplace else. 

hopefully home.

𝐚    𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥   𝐢𝐧   𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭.   this is GREENSCRUNCHY :  an independent, highly selective, plot-based  𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐦   sourced from netflix’s  stranger things season 4.  ¡suıʞʍɐɥ oʇ ǝɯoɔlǝʍ

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 : disordered eating, mental illness, unreality, mental manipulation, psychological / physical / parental abuse, bodily injury, recreational drug usage, suicidal ideation, psychological horror, gore, body horror, and lots of death. PLEASE proceed at your own risk and take care of yourselves. 🧡  

                                    carrd.  playlist.  mixtape.  starter call.  memes. 

KEEP YOUR CHIN UP & YOUR HEAD HIGH:  //  girls on the run | girl up | national organization for women | equality now | women employed | she’s the first | girls who code | writegirl | help women in mexico put an end to femicide | femicide in mexico carrd | malala fund | girls for a change | step up | polaris project | learning for justice | foodcorps | freedom united | support ukraine (us) | support ukraine (au) | pious projects | GAZA FUNDS //

also on the squad: godsdeal  (max mayfield)    bloodycheckers  (mixed-media alice liddell) 

important canon notes below: 

first of all, thank you for being here and interested in this little chrissy blog. second, 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!!!