Hope. A word so close to home, and as tricky. As much as we wanted Jason's killer caught, and the town, our home, to feel safe again. But with every day that passed, our hopes dimmed more and more. There's that old, cliched saying. "It's darkest before the dawn". But sometimes... there's just darkness.
β And all this time, I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.
β I'm both. I've got layers.
You were doing something nice. It's just that sometimes, when people do nice things for me, I short circuit. Maybe I'm not used to it. Maybe I'm scared. Of getting hurt. Or being rejected... for being myself.
Here's the thing about fear. It's always there. Fear of the unknown. Fear of facing it alone. Fear that those closest to you are the monsters. Fear that as soon as you slay one, there's another monster waiting to take its place. Fear that there's one more boogeyman waiting at the end of the dark hall.
Weekdays, from 08:25 a.m. to 15:01 p.m., we adhere to a strict regimen. Everything in our lives controlled. But then something like the murder of Jason Blossom happens, and you realize there is no such thing as control. There is only chaos. Nevertheless, some of us strive to impose and maintain order in what is, fundamentally, an orderless world. A fact which would very soon be confirmed. In ways none of us could have foreseen.
β Whoa, where the hell are you going?
β WHAT?! You want to give me some advice on my right hook?
β I want you to go back inside and talk to your girl.
β I don't think it's gonna work out. Irreconcilable differences.
β Don't run away from it. Don't run away. You've got something good here. With her, with your friends. Something that... something that we could never give you. Also, man up. After what I just saw in there, she needs you.
What makes a place feel like home? Is it warmth and familiarity? Some idealized, make-believe TV-version of the American dream? Is it love and acceptance? Or is it simple safety? Or it's none of those things. And it's a place where the captain of the football team is murdered. Or maybe it's just a forgotten closet under a well-trod staircase, where it's just you and the mice and the spiders, like an extra in a Wes Craven movie.