march, 1986
-
Nightmares are no stranger to Will Byers. They've become a constant over the past few years, one of those things he could never quite shake between all the shit that went down in Hawkins.
Still, this one is different from usual. Usually, he'll wake up in a cold sweat, gasping, but by the time he's fully awake and calmed his racing heart, the dream is hazy, fragmented, as if his brain is trying to keep him from remembering. He'd brought it up to Jonathan, once, and he said it was probably a trauma thing. His brain's way of protecting him, or something like that.
But this one. This one, he remembers every excruciating detail. The worst parts are burned into his retinas, flashing every time he blinks. The Upside Down. A distant storm, clouds of flickering red lightning. And, most confusing, a red landscape he doesn't recognize. Stairs that lead to nowhere. Floating chunks of debris. A grandfather clock, of all things, that chimes, echoing, deafening. The body of a girl, strung up by vines, limbs twisted beyond recognition.
It's so incredibly vivid that, when he wakes up, he's half-convinced he's having an episode, but he hasn't had one of those in over a year, and this place—with its dark spires and blood-red sky and floating rock—is new, and then he's sending himself into a spiraling panic, and-
"Will?" El knocks lightly on his door. Her voice is muffled through the wood. "It is six forty-five. We're going to be late to the airport if you don't get up."
Will's gaze darts around, settles on the painting still propped up on the easel in the corner. He blows out a long, slow breath. Right. The airport. Mike.
"Coming," he calls, "just- give me like, five minutes!"
And then he's rushing around to get everything together, rolling up the painting, and the dream slips to the back of his mind, forgotten.
Will presses his temple against the window, relishing the temporary coolness the glass provides. The van rumbles along the asphalt, and he tries to focus on that. Tries to focus on the way he can feel the vibrations thrumming through the soles of his shoes where they're pressed against the floor, instead of the crackling of the van's blown-out speakers, or the rank scent of weed that lingers even with the windows rolled down.
He closes his eyes, exhales silently. His head hurts, has for about an hour now. What had started as an aching, but manageable pressure has built up to a fierce, sporadic throbbing. It reminds him of the ebb and flow of the ocean—receding, then slamming back into him, piercing and abrupt. God, how he hates the ocean.
He and Jonathan had gone to the beach a handful of times during their first few months in Lenora, but just like he always does, Will had ruined it. It had been their first time bringing El along, and when Jonathan set his camera aside to wade out into the water, Will noticed the way El had hung back, staring at the dark, crashing waves with something like uncertainty. And Will hadn't gone out any further than knee-deep in their previous visits, didn't like that he couldn't see what was under him, around him, in the water. Didn't like how cold it was. But El looked at him, nervous, so he took her hand, guided her out into the waves with an encouraging smile.
And it had been fine. It had been, until the water was lapping at his ribs and something beneath the water brushed against his leg. Something cold and slimy, and he'd frozen up, fear flooding his lungs. El had had to drag him back up to the beach, and it had taken Jonathan fifteen minutes to calm him down enough for them to leave.
Will sighs, cracking open his eyes to stare dully at the beige desert landscape flying by. The brightness of it hurts, and the throbbing in his head returns, a spike of pain that lances through his skull. He's gotten headaches before. They're a fairly regular occurrence, actually, but this one is more persistent, worse than they usually are. Not that that should be particularly surprising. They've been driving for almost two hours now, trying to get to Salt Lake City as quickly as possible. It's been stressful, and it must finally be taking a toll on him as the adrenaline wears off. He's tired too, exhausted, really, but he can't sleep, the whirring thoughts and ache in his head too much.
