"i just want to keep calling your name until you come back home."
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how does one ever stop the guilt? do you just continue your life in a vicious cycle of deliberations?
wondering what could've happened if you stayed home that nigh...
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The world felt hazy to Alison.
She didn't remember making it to the couch, but when the world around her became clear again, that was where she found herself. She supposed someone had led her there when her legs gave out.
She wasn't sure.
She wasn't sure who was cutting off who's circulation more, but the only thing she knew for absolute certain was that Jonathan was sitting beside her with his hand tucked into hers tightly.
Voices were speaking rapidly, multiple and all at once, but Alison could only see Hopper's lips moving as he attempted to communicate with her mother.
Her mother, who hadn't stopped staring at the wall above her children's heads, which apparently had each letter of the alphabet painted onto the wallpaper (something that hadn't been there when she left early that morning), probably wasn't paying any mind to a single thing Hopper had said. Alison couldn't fault her that. All she could focus on for more than three seconds at a time was the feeling of Jonathan's nails digging into her palm.
The world felt hazy.
Every inhale she took, each shaky exhale hurt. So much.
Her throat ached as she pressed her lips together and forced her tears back. Her head dropped onto Jonathan's shoulder. For a moment, he didn't move until he slowly rested his head against hers. She pretended not to notice the tremor in his shoulders.
"Our working theory, right now, is that Will...crashed his bike, he...made his way over to the quarry and, uh...accidentally fell in." Alison hated how gentle Hopper sounded. It made everything more real. Painful, "The earth must've given way."
"Joyce?" His hand grazed her shoulder, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Alison glanced up through her wet lashes to watch her mother finally turn her attention away from the wall and onto Hopper. Her eyes were wild and frantic as she stared up at the man who towered over her.
"No." Joyce's tone was firm, but her lip quivered as she continued to stare at Hopper, "Whoever you found...is not my boy. It's not Will."
Alison closed her eyes tightly. She wasn't ignorant of the way Jonathan tensed at the words.
Hopper shifted, "Joyce..."
"No, y-you don't understand. I-I-I talked to him a half hour ago." She stammered. Alison frowned, still keeping her eyes closed, listening to the sound of her mother moving about the living room and the telltale sign of the bulbs of Christmas light clinking together, "He was...he was here! He was–he was talking with these."
"Talking?" Hopper sounded more than sceptical.
"Uh-huh, one blink for yes, two for no." Joyce's voice broke, and Alison could hear the lights clacking as they fell to the carpet, "And...and, uh...and then I made this so he could talk to me. 'Cause he was hiding – from that – that thing."
