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chapter twelve blueprint for a breakthrough
Alexwould trade all of her tomorrows for just one yesterday. Just one do-over to make everything right.
In times of unimaginable grief, people will offer you their sympathies. Alex doesn't want the outstretched hands that people offer her in this time of grief. She is in a breaking things kind of mood. She wants to pummel the drywall of her house until there is nothing left but dust and a gaping chasm where the wall once stood because she wants to feel something, even if that something is the sting of a broken hand. But she has to remind herself that she's supposed to be okay. Alex isn't fragile. Alex does not need to be treated like a pretty little china doll sitting on an antique shelf. She spends second and third period in Kyra the Counselor's office because the sympathetic stares become too much and she snaps her pencil in half during history and storms out of the classroom and Mr. Clarke suggests that she seeks Kyra.
Alex lays on the azure couch pushed up against the wall of the small, cramped counseling office with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her leg bounces rhythmically because it's the only thing that has the capability of calming her right now. The mug of hot chocolate that Kyra had made her (from her 'special occasions' stash) sits untouched at the food of the couch. Alex stares up at the ugly off-white popcorn ceiling, playing connect-the-dots with the rough surface. Maybe the weight from the guilt of feeling nothing will become so heavy that she sinks into the depths of the couch.
"How are you feeling?" Kyra finally asks gently. Up until this point, she has been uncharacteristically silent during her visit, sitting patiently with one leg crossed over the other in the brown armchair that sits across from the couch with a clipboard in hand. You cannot get the counselor without the clipboard.
Alex hesitates. There's a wheel of words plastered to the wall just behind Kyra. She says it's to help them identify and categorize their feelings better, but Alex doesn't feel any of the things listed on the wall. Alex doesn't feel. When she comes home the previous night, her face is numb from the cold, but they're still dry. She doesn't crack when she tells Steve about the body that they pull from the Quarry. She doesn't crack as she stares at Will's book which sits on her nightstand (it's in her backpack now, she feels better with it near her). Steve's arms around her feel more like a heavy, smothering weight on top of her than a notion of comfort. And maybe, there is something wrong with her—something more than just the anger—because, at this point, she should be crying. At this point, it should set in, like a bullet tearing into her chest, that Will Byers is dead and gone. And it's supposed to hurt, it's supposed to sting like a bitch and you'll wish that you were dead, but time will heal the wounds. But Alex remains stubbornly numb.
