⠀⠀ @journal1st asked — - ⠀ “ how bad is it ᵀᴴᴵˢ time? ” — ⠀⠀ nancy told you to rate things on a scale from 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎. it started at the hospital— after the ground split open but before the very monsters that lurked in hawkins’ shadows began to crawl out, before the ash started to fall and hawkins, ᴰᴬʸ ᴮʸ ᴰᴬʸ, resembled the very hellscape you ran from. a one was a good day; you spoke freely, although not without worry. a day where the patrols went well, everyone returned 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 a scratch. five was a bad day, like when steve and nancy had been out after curfew, radioes unresponsive. static, it was as if all air had been stolen from your lungs, words that normally came naturally to you struggled to ᴱˣᴵᵀ your throat. you choked on them, some horrific feeling rattling around your ribcage that warned you that the outcome of this wouldn’t be in your favour. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, that was good, right? if anything, it reminded you that days weren’t always going to be easy, how easy it was for those you loved to slip between the cracks. you swear you see familiar faces peeking out from behind drawn curtains, or that the officers that patrolled the perimeter of hawkins recognised you— you would have hoped your parents would have heard, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚞𝚜𝚊 on a government lockdown, nobody knowing why. maybe there is a missing poster out there with your name on it, you had wanted to leave hawkins for so long, maybe they assumed you did. you’re not sure what’s worse: a missing persons ᴬᴰ on the side of a milk carton, or the cold harsh reality that they probably aren’t asking, or even looking.
“ ... a three. ” your voice was raw, your throat an itch you couldn’t scratch. patrols had been a mess, thought you had almost lost max again— and it would have been your fault, not paying attention to the danger that could strike at any moment. it had felt too real, as if time had slowed down ᵀᴼ ᴬ ᴴᴬᴸᵀ and you were watching, defenceless, unable to help. but that’s why you were there, why you didn’t let any of the kids go out alone. you turned eighteen and suddenly you were met with more than adulthood, more than 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 and orientation stress. suddenly, lives were trusted in your hands, and at any moment, you would sacrifice yourself for them. over and over again. you didn’t want to burden steve, did he not have enough on his shoulders? ᴸᴵᴷᴱ ᴬᵀᴸᴬˢ, he held up the world for those kids, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. it was you that should be there for him, give him somewhere to rest; he didn’t need your troubles weighing him down. not when hawkins was ᴮᵁᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳ. and nancy, she didn’t deserve it either, but she asked, and she looked at you like she already knew the answer. and so it became a trade: you would take her troubles, and she would take yours. somewhere along the way you were sure it wouldn’t matter, that maybe by then you would be used to the prickling pain behind your eyes, the burning in your lungs. just because you made the agreement does not mean you are 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 truthful- “ it’s fine, nance. i promise. i’m just shaken up, really. you should check on max, she needs you more than i do. ” 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑒, at least you think so. it’s just another night you had to get through, you would sob into your hand and just pray to a god you didn’t believe in that nobody would notice— nancy and steve always did.
