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He’d hum around the tiny kitchen, soft music playing in the background, frogs singing in the wet heat outside the trailer, talking to Scoob as he cooked.
It hurt her, to watch him, but it was better than forcing him to live a life tethered to a reality the rest of them hated.
“Gee Scoob, don’t eat that,” he’d cajole, gently pulling at a tattered kitchen towel, flipping it up over his shoulder so it was out of reach.
“Hey Velm, how do you like your eggs?” and he’d peer happily over his shoulder, fluffy brown curls tangled in the steam from the stove.
She never had the heart, to tell him, but she visited as often as she could. The rest didn’t. Daphne said it hurt her, and there were always tears in her eyes when she did.
Fred was just never around, off chasing down his next big bust, waiting for his career to boom.
So it was her, caring for him every weekend, making sure he ate and showered.
The park was nice. It was filled with old ratty trailers, but the people were kind. They looked after him when she couldn’t.
He’d always have a new puzzle when she arrived, excitedly rambling about hints in the newspaper, how their next big enemy must be a masked crossword villain.
She’d exclaim and laugh, helping him spell out the words, and properly name the evildoer, finding something funny and fitting.
And when she left she’d make sure to wrap him up in his old weathered cardigan, which still had pieces of dog hair caught in the knit.
She spent far too many nights crying after she settled him down. She’d thought it would fade with time.
He was always happy, humming on the tiny porch, hands absently working a fraying cuff. He’d mutter little jokes to Scoob, chuckling and closing his eyes, rocking back and forth, back and forth.
-
A freak accident, they’d called it, a wild bear rampaging, or maybe a mountain lion. Lock up your dogs they’d said.
He’d been reported dead before they even got there, shredded and dismembered.
The news covered it, for a few weeks, then it faded off with all the other sob stories and catchy police reports. Dead dog here, missing cat there, it wasn’t anything new, no one batted an eye. Life went on for the residents of little Crystal Cove.
But it had irreparably destroyed four peoples lives, and while the world moved on, pushing forward into the future, they’d stood and grieved.
Some of them grieved too long.
The news report covered the spectacle, interviewing the trio. They’d said the usual “we’ll miss him” and “I don’t know what life will be like without him”, covering up red puffy eyes for the bright cameras, putting on tired wobbly smiles.
But one of them had refused to speak to the reporters, anyone for that matter.
He’d locked himself up in his dingy van, barely eating, and ran until he couldn’t turn back.
A week in a prying reporter had broken in to what he’d thought was an abandoned van, only to find a skinny unconscious man, barely hanging onto life.
They’d taken him to the hospital after that, a few in fact. He didn’t talk much, and his eyes were empty.
They’d dressed and fed him, talking about anything they could think of, holding his cold hands and searching for someone still inside, hidden behind that dead blank stare.
And then slowly, he had started to recover. He never fully returned, but he smiled faintly, and sometimes he’d laugh, looking off into an unknowable world. Learning to walk on weak unsteady legs, and holding a spoon with shaky, but determined fingers.
The news had covered that too, another beautiful small town miracle they’d said, a true sign that anything is possible if you set your heart to it.
But now it was just Velma left.
The truth was too hard for everyone, so they’d preferred to distance themselves, hiding behind work or school, always promising that next weekend they’d be there.
He was happy, he now confidently laughed, talking in slow paces, but thinking again in his own right.
And she was as happy as she could be.
She was never leaving this small town, not with him like that. She abandoned that dream years ago.
Daphne did, and Fred. As soon as they could spin it, apologies hot on their breath.
Fred never even looked back. A big journalist, ridding fame on flashing lights and red carpets, sometimes Daphne even showed up on his arm.
But Velma was content here. She couldn’t imagine it any other way. She wasn’t built for the world out there. And neither was Shaggy.
-
He surfaced and it felt like his world was shattering, shaking and crumbling, and all he could hear was someone screaming. The voice was raw and aching, and it just wouldn’t stop.
Finally he ran out of air, only soft whimpers filling the small dark space.
His body was thin and broken, forced to use its energy, fighting to stay conscious.
And then it was black, slamming down like concrete walls.
Someone was shaking him, the dark snagging dark hooks into his skin and pulling him back under before he could wake up.
Bright light pushed and loud voices pulled, dulled by echoing hallways and tears.
Doctors were asking him questions, sliding him pills and water.
Everything moved too fast after that. Like time slid by him in a blur.
He was home, and everyone was there, hovering around him in rapid little snippets. Holding his hands, crying, begging, feeding him soup on trembling spoons.
He was back in a hospital, poked and prodded by well meaning nurses.
People hummed around in familier tracks, coming and going like bees, leaving him a solitary statue to watch and age.
It felt like forever, his skin a home he’d forgotten the address to, desperately lost and searching for help.
And then, finally, out of nowhere, he took a breath in, just a small one, shock and relief tugging at abandoned face muscles. He was here.
The world was still untouchable, not quite something he remembered how to reach, how to feel.
But he had his body back.
His movements were slow and painful, muscle having atrophied and weakened, but the smiles and encouragement of everyone around him seemed like a treasure he couldn’t lose. He was terrified of them slipping away again, leaving him to the pitch black room. The space that held him a stationery watcher in the streams of time.
Time slipped again, but not as harshly, more like the daze of a tired day.
And then, all of a sudden, he was home.
Velma was signing in the kitchen, wrapped in one of his old cardigans.
He could feel, touch and taste, sensation so sweet it overwhelmed him. The air smelled like dust and old cigarettes, fresh grass, and damp soil.
And salt. Something smelled like salt.
Damp spots dripped onto his worn grey pants, leaving little circular stains.
He stared at them with such focus, slowly reaching to touch, to feel worn faded fabric, slightly wet and cold.
The porch creaked and a slight gasp startled him.
“Shag? What’s wrong, you’re crying.”
And then his breath was hitching and little wet sobs were filling the humid evening air.
His cracked voice broke the crickets like a harsh saw, pinched and uneven.
“Where’s Scooby?”