Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Seventy-Five. Manic Monday

SEVENTY-FIVE
— manic monday

      HER SKIN IS PALE AND HER EYELIDS ARE HEAVY WHEN SHE GETS THE PHONE CALL.

She's been nothing but a mess of endless contemplation and raw-bitten fingernails for the past twenty-four hours. Lucy has paced her living room — fuck, her entire cabin — a solid forty times in an absolutely useless attempt to get her thoughts straight. It's like her entire being has been reduced to nothing but a giant disgusting ball of anxiety. And this time, for the first time ever, she's pretty sure she's not the only one feeling it — the entire town of Hawkins is teetering on the brink of destruction while she teeters on the brink of a breakdown. The news has been filled with nothing but death lately, so much death, murder after fucking murder, and it's starting to look a little suspicious. Fred Benson was killed in the trailer park, yesterday. Two homicides in less than two days.

      It's already been established that something is deeply wrong. Between Chrissy's death and now Fred's, and the fact that this mystery emo in her home claimed he saw a murder victims bones go kaboom . . .  this is all so far from normal. It's even far from Hawkins normal which, by the way, isn't normal under any circumstance. This is just really, really weird.

      And it's clearly no mystery that Lucy has been, to put it simply, unwell. She's been sprinting full fucking speed away from her problems lately, eluding and desperately dodging every heart-aching memory that's been threatening to burden her. Obviously, she hasn't been the best at this . . . avoidance, because she's gone completely AWOL and is choosing to pretend she's not even a real person. Now, though? Things are happening fast. Too fast, so fast, so fast that it brings out that panic inducing rush in the confines of her chest. She can't escape by sleeping until five PM, she can't rot in bed and press her knees close to her chest, she can't aimlessly stare at the television set until she knocks out. Lucy is thrown full force into reality, and it's a harsh slap in the face.

        But why is her mind on fire, exactly? It's a sad fucking question with an unfortunately simple fucking answer — she knows she should have told the Party about what happened to Chrissy.

      Since eighty-three, everyone has kind-of had an unspoken bond, an unspoken pact when it comes to the Upside Down and all that bullshit that makes her stomach churn. When something like this comes up, when something deeply wrong to this extent appears in Hawkins, they tell each other. They get involved. They solve the problem. So, Jesse appeared out of thin fucking air, apparently, and she's holding him in her grasp like a secret. She's kept her mouth shut on this Chrissy Cunningham floating, bone cracking situation, and she's let the whole thing go unbeknownst to the group she has a fucking trauma bond with. Lucy feels incredibly selfish.

        So she's been contemplating. She's been thinking nonstop, she's been thinking so much it feels like her brain is going to pour out of her goddamn ears. Call them. Tell them. Help them. Help everyone. Call them. Something is wrong. This is wrong. Don't be selfish. Call them. You need to call them. Tell them. For the love of fucking God, TELL THEM. Her own mind is screaming at her to please, for once, don't be a coward — just be the one who initiates the Hawkins rescue mission and saves everyone. Don't just sit back and watch more innocent people die.

       Until she realizes . . . even if she does call, even if she does make it known that Chrissy and (probably) Fred's deaths are supernatural in a way, what are they gonna do? What is SHE gonna do? It's all a mystery. It makes her chest hurt.