. . . Let me just say I'm sorry for my almost 9 month hiatus. It's been a difficult time. Things are just starting to ease up some, and with the new release of Stranger Things 2, well, instead of quenching my desire to finish this story like I thought it would, it only fueled it. I guess good storytelling makes me want to tell a good story.
Anyway, I'm back at it for now! I've got a very clear ending in mind, and it's looking very Duffers-esque.
You'll best enjoy this song if you listen to this public Playlist on YT or Spotify (without shuffling)
playlist?list=PLZsmsZMQoT4ug44tAEVd794QxBMATbLv0
or
user/recreationclothes/playlist/5k1F56gvE0jPeDnC9ucCRc
Tell me how the whole playlist thing works out! I've thought about it from the start, but never had the guts to venture that way.
Enjoy! Comments, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks mean the world!
~chorkie
Ten stumbled blindly, numbly through the mess of tree branches and roots, teeth chattering in a sharp rhythm, driving him onward. He pressed forward, bloodied toes snagging on every protruding stem and stone. He was cold, soo cold. He wasn't quite sure how he was managing to keep moving: his entire body felt like a solid block of ice, like his fingers would shatter if he kept breaking his fall with them. The only warm part of his body was the hot, searing pain shooting up his thigh. Blood had drenched his leg, running down it and soaking through the grungy sweatpants, only amplifying the bitter freezing. His lungs heaved, feeling scorched and frostbitten at the same time of each ragged intake of breath. Ten yelped, tumbling to the ground. He lay there awhile, curled up on the leaf strewn forest floor. Boom, boom, boom, thundered his aching head, pulsating like a second heart in his skull. Struggling to lift his head, his eyes lighted on something. He laughed weakly, tears streaming down his frozen face like liquid nitrogen. A building. A small, slightly dilapidated cabin. Warmth. Ten scrambled to his feet, dashing toward it haphazardly. Seizing the doorknob, he wrenched it back and forth. It didn't budge. He darted around to the back of the house. Gripping a stone, he chucked it at one of the windows. It shattered with a crash. Ignoring the shards of glass biting into his hands, he leapt up onto the ledge and hoisted himself over it. He tumbled over the dresser and landed on the floor with a thud.
Vlad hoped Jessie didn't notice how sweaty and clammy his hand felt, or the way he tried not to stiffen every time her arm brushed his as they followed Pickle up the brick path to the Li's front door. Come on, man, he scolded himself. This is the last thing she needs right now. Jessie didn't seem terribly out of the ordinary now, merely sleepy. She planted her forehead on Vlad's shoulder when they came to the porch, and Pickle let out a shouted string of words in Chinese followed by a long retort from behind the door. When it swung open, the three were greeted by a wild head of flaming red hair, and a pretty, thin woman who had unsuccessfully tried to tame it. She grasped Pickle by the shoulders and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
"Mam," Pickle protested.
"Hello to you too, my dear," she replied, examining him shrewdly. "How are ye?" Even after years of knowing her, Vlad and Jessie still had a tough time deciphering what Mrs. Li said through her thick Irish brogue.
"I'm fine, Mam," said Pickle, adopting the same accent. Vlad thought it was kinda funny how easily he did this, switching from Chinese to American English to Irish English unconsciously, adapting to whoever he was speaking with. Granted, Vlad could do the same thing to a much lesser degree. But Russian was only spoken at home, and often in whispers. Their neighbors were well aware they had 'filthy Ruskies' living among them, but the Leonid family tried hard not to emphasize that fact. They did their best to go about their business not causing any trouble to anyone, not causing a ruckus. Of course, that reputation had become somewhat tainted what with Vlad being part of the infamous Guild of Rogues and Misfits.
Mrs. Li turned to Jessie and Vlad, giving them a warm smile. "I suppose ye'll be quite peckish about now. Come in an' have a seat. I've got some supper still on the stove top for ye."
The three ate ravenously, not speaking until each had gone back for seconds. Pickle was sent off to do the dishes, while Jessie and Vlad arranged their sleeping situation in Pickle's room. The fifth bedroom had been added ten years after the rest of the house had been built, only accessible from the garage. Pickle was an only child, but always had at least three aunts or distant relatives from China occupying the original bedrooms. The garage, now only a storage space, was turned into a game room for Pickle's friends, full of board games, a foosball table, and a broken mechanical bull missing its head. No one really knew where that came from.
Vlad and Jessie shrugged their backpacks onto the floor of their friend's bedroom and dragged the stowed sleeping bags from the closet, spreading them out. Once in their pajamas and Pickle finished his chores, they gathered in the garage, playing blackjack with change and drinking Coke. Pickle and Vlad kept a close eye on Jessie, who, after a few sodas and winning rounds of poker, started to return to her normal rambunctious, foul mouthed ways.
"Eat shit, dickwads," she chortled, having hit blackjack and taking the large mess of pennies and nickels that clinked pleasantly as she slid them across the table into her own pile. The boys shared a quick grin. Pickle, who played House, had lost miserably mostly to Jessie, but Vlad too had gyped him of at least three dollars.
"My money," he moaned pathetically, honestly just glad Jessie was okay. He didn't mind losing a few bucks. He still had fifteen or so dollars in his bank, unless Aunt Sun Qi had raided it. . .
Vlad let out a long, content sigh, taking a swig from his near empty soda can. "Good game," he said, lounging back onto the ugly, mustard colored couch.
"Damn right," said Jessie with a snaggletooth grin as she surveyed her loot.
Pickle got up, rushing past them quickly toward his room. Vlad snickered at his awkward gait. "Bite me," he hollered back. Jessie smirked. Pickle returned with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in hand. "Wanna smoke?" he asked, sticking one between his lips and flicking the lighter.
"Sure," said Vlad, taking one for himself and handing one to Jessie, who muttered thanks. "Light us up, Pickle boy." He watched the tip of the cigarette glow for a second as he inhaled the intoxicating fumes, puffing them out in a practiced way. The three of them appeared to be in deep contemplation, their young faces placid. Once the general chatter had lowered to a minimum, the three headed to Pickle's room and settled down for the night. Pickle lay awhile on his side, staring at the back of Vlad's head in front of him. The steady, quiet snoring from behind him told him Jessie was already asleep, but Vlad's breathing wasn't quite deep enough for him to be the same.
"Vlad," he whispered. "Are you asleep?"
"Not anymore," he growled softly. "What do you want?"
Pickle was silent for a few moments. "Vlad, it's been two years since, you know, John Paul . . . he's been. . ."
"Say it," hissed Vlad irritably, angling toward him. "John Paul is dead."
Pickle gulped. "Yeah. Since he died. And Jessie. . . she's still acting like it was a few months ago, ya know?" The shorter boy sighed.
"I know. And I don't know what we can do about it. But dammit, we gotta do something."
"She needs to see a shrink."
"Like she'd even talk to a shrink. But you're right. She does. No way can Deb and Uncle Buck afford that, though." The two laid in the dark silence, only broken by Jessie's soft snoring. Pickle grunted in frustration.
"I fucking hate this."
"You and me both, pal."
The first thing that caught Deb off guard was the music. Sunshine of Your Love, by Cream. John Paul's favorite song. The second thing was the fact that sprawled out on the floor was a young boy, dressed in tattered, oversized clothes, tears cutting harsh lines in his dirt and blood smeared face. He scrambled backward into the desk with a thunk. Shattered glass cut into the palms of his grimy hands. Startling blue eyes shot open wide with terror, darting around for an escape. Blood cracked on his pale face and in his nearly black, buzz cut hair, like crimson paint.
"Oh my gosh," Deb breathed, lowering the shotgun. Slowly, she knelt and placed it on the ground, raising her hands in a placating gesture. He flinched, and trained his wild gaze on her warily, chest heaving. Deb advanced toward him. The thin body curled up, covering his head and whimpering panickedly. "No no no, shhh. You're okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. You're fine." A single, luminous eye peeked out from under a bony arm, confused and hysterical. Deb smiled gently. "I want to help you. But I need to ask you a few questions, okay?" The blue met her brown fearfully. The teen cleared her throat. "Alright. I'll start. I'm Deb. Deb Hammond."
The boy muttered something inaudible.
"Tim?" she asked. "Did you say Tim?" He hesitated, then shook his head. Cautiously, he stretched out his arm, revealing a set of small black marks, contrasting against his fair skin. '010', they read. "What the- why do you have a tattoo?" An uneasy feeling settled in Deb's gut. Something about this was really off. The boy pointed to the numbers, then brought his hand to his chest. The teen's eyebrows rose. "You're Ten?" A small bob of the shaved head. Deb took a step closer, but Ten shrank away. She felt a pang behind her ribs. Fishy or not, this boy needed her help. "You're probably pretty hungry, huh?" Another emphatic nod. "If you follow me, I can get you some food," she offered. Cautiously, she got to her feet. Ten stood, following after her into the kitchen. "Have a seat." Deb pulled out a chair from under the table, which he gingerly lowered himself into, looking exhausted from their short walk. The crystal blue watched her every move like a bird ready to fly away at the slightest sign of danger. Looking doubtfully in the fridge, Deb groaned at the lack of groceries within. Finally, she grabbed the milk carton from inside the door and the nearly empty cereal box off the counter, pouring two bowls. She slipped a spoon into each, setting one in front of Ten and taking a seat across from him. He scowled at the strange metal object in his hand, confused. His head tilted to the side, and he gave Deb a questioning look.
"That's a spoon," she explained. "You hold it in your hand like this, then you dip it in." She brought a spoonful of milk and Lucky Charms to her mouth, and a light of understanding dawned on him. Ten's eyes sparked like a ring of electricity in his irises when the cereal passed his lips, and he started to shovel it down, seeming to forget everything but he bowl before him. "You like Lucky Charms, huh?" Deb chuckled, and Ten started, like he hadn't heard the sound before. The corners of his lips lifted a touch.
"A smile looks good on you." He cocked his head and continued munching, eyebrows raised. "You know, smile?" An exaggerated grin crossed her face, and a shy smile crept onto the grimy face, lighting up his pale features like the sun breaking through a cloud cover. Ten drained the rest of his bowl, leaving a white mustache on his upper lip. Grabbing a napkin, Deb went to dab at it like she would have done for Jessie. The boy flinched and turned away, that cornered animalistic fear darkening his countenance again. This boy needed more help than Deb could offer; she was coming to that realization.
"Where are you from?" she inquired. The young, haunted face turned to hers.
"Bad place," he whispered, and a shiver ran up Deb's spine. She swallowed.
"Do you have parents somewhere?"
Ten shook his head. "Gone." He stated this in a matter-of-factly, in a way that suggested he had long accepted this, and was not very much bothered by it. The growing feeling of unease in Deb's stomach swelled. Everything about this situation was off, wrong. As much as her heart ached to help him, she was sure there was more to him than met the eye. I'm not even sure it's my place to handle this, she mused.
"How about aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?" Confusion. He didn't know those words. Deb scratched her neck. "Look, ah, Ten, I think I need to call some other people into this, like social services, or the police, okay? There'll be doctors to patch you up, and-" A look of total alarm crossed the boy's face.
"No," he insisted quietly.
Deb hesitated. Weighing her options.
"Alright. I won't," she lied, avoiding Ten's gaze. She got up from the table and fixed another bowl of Lucky Charms for him, her resolve hardening. Even if the boy didn't want it to happen, Deb knew there was no way she could do this on her own. She had to call someone. With Ten occupied, she left the room and crept carefully to the phone at the end of the hall. Casting a furtive glance behind her, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1, the tone ringing in her ears. She hung up before dispatch could answer. Her brow furrowed. What was she thinking? Shaking her head, Deb dialed again, immediately hanging up once more. She growled in frustration, bringing her hand to the receiver again, but found herself unable to. Her arm would simply move no further. Deb willed herself to reach, a bead of sweat breaking across her forehead in concentration. She spun around with a gasp. There stood Ten, a look of haggard anger and betrayal twisting his gaunt features. Blood trickled from his nose, staining his lip crimson.
"No," he said, his hoarse voice trembling. He drew the back of his hand across his face, smearing the blood like red paint.
"Oh my gosh," Deb breathed, frozen, bow now of her own volition. Ten's eyelids started to flutter, and he swayed dangerously. Deb rushed to him just in time to catch his limp body. Lifting his painfully light frame into her arms, she laid him on the grungy couch and propped his feet up onto the armrest. Deb was drowning in the sea of her own shock, anger, and guilt. Shock because holy hell, he's fucking psychic, anger because, dammit, Hammond, you had to go and fuck things up, didn't you, and guilt because he was so terrified and thin it made her hurt.
Ten's eyes drifted open and up at Deb hazily, then filled with fear and mistrust.
What had adults done to this poor boy that he was so terrified at the prospect of being discovered by one? Even if it meant exposing his psychic fucking powers?
And now, every thin, delicate strand of trust that had formed between them was snapped by Deb's carelessness. Her betrayal had made sure of that.
Aw, fucking hell, what had she done?
"I'm sorry, whispered Deb, reaching to stroke his knit forehead. He didn't have the strength to flinch. "I-I shouldn't have done that." Ten sniffled quietly, wet tumbling over his cheeks, cutting a clear line on his dirt and bloodstained face.
"Please, don't bring them," he pleaded, grabbing her wrist feebly.
"I won't bring them, I swear. I want to help you; but I need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that?"
"What is trust?" Ten asked softly. At that moment, her heart cracked in two, she was sure of it.
She swallowed. Gosh, how do you explain trust? "Trust is . . . knowing that I'll do everything I can to help you and keep you safe from those bad people, and that I would never try to hurt you. Do you think you can do that? Trust me?"
Ten's blue stared right through Deb's warm brown eyes, reaching into her soul gently, probing.
"I . . . trust you." His voice sounded very small and very afraid. But confident, too.
The tentative warmth growing inside of Deb sprouted into a small smile. "Let's get you cleaned up," she announced, getting to her feet. Ten managed to do the same, albeit a little shaky. Deb offered him her hand. He uncertainly slipped his long, thin hand into hers, leaning on her on the way to the small bathroom. Rolling up her sleeves, Deb knelt by the bathtub and turned the spigot, adjusting between temperature tests. Once she deemed it right, she wiggled the plug into place. She turned and saw Ten looking at tub warily, then glancing at Deb as if to say, do I really have to do this?
"Here, uh, Ten, once the water has filled it, you'll need to uh, take your clothes off-"
The dark haired boy pulled the baggy, three-sizes-too-big tee shirt over his head and dropped the ratty sweatpants in a single, smooth motion. Deb's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. "Or now works fine too," she muttered. It wasn't like she'd never seen a boy naked. She occasionally took the odd babysitting job. She'd even had a little brother, for crying out loud- but the sudden, unabashed move had caught her off guard.
Her wide eyes narrowed, "Oh my gosh," she breathed. Ten's naked body was covered in various cuts and numerous bruises; adult-sized, hand-shaped bruises. Deb's blood started to boil. She wanted to make whatever bastard that did this pay. "Somebody hurt you, didn't they? That's why you ran away," she queried in a low voice. The boy nodded somberly, face grave and too full of pain for Deb to bear. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the blurriness in her vision, and set to the task at hand. "Here, get in the tub," she ordered kindly. He obeyed, passing her to do so.
"What the hell is that?" she demanded, startling Ten. He spun around, alarmed at her urgent tone. "On the back on your neck." A long hand reached back to cup the round, quarter-sized inhibitor at the base of his skull. The haunted look clouded his features.
"Bad," he whispered hoarsely. "Hurts when I do bad."
"Do you want me to try to get it off?"
Ten shook his head vigorously, clamping his hand over the thing protectively, the other hand moving across his throat in a slicing motion. Deb tried hard not to shudder.
"It'll . . . kill you?" The boy nodded. Deb swallowed. "Can it go in water?" Ten bobbed his head again, lowering himself into the tub and hissing through clenched teeth when the water touched that nasty wound on his thigh.
Deb helped him wash, scrubbing and lathering him with soap for what felt like forever. At first, he shied away from her touch, but eventually the warm, comforting bath soothed him into a drowsy state. It took a long while to get the dirt out of his pores and to wash away the encrusted blood from his face. By the time he was truly clean, the bathtub had been drained and refilled twice. Deb went to fetch Ten some clothes. Stepping into John Paul's room, her mind flooded with memories. John Paul wearing his boy scouts uniform. John Paul doing the dishes on Christmas morning, in his ugly sweater. John Paul's cheek against hers, soft and sweet. Her stomach panged sharply. Blinking the tears away, she grabbed a pair of Starwars PJs her brother had been starting to grow out of, and a pair of underwear. She hurried out as quickly as possible, returning to Ten sitting buck naked on the toilet seat, waiting patiently. Before dressing him, Deb dumped out the first aid supplies and tended to the various cuts and scrapes, the worst of all being the deep wound on his thigh. Puncture, maybe shrapnel, Deb guessed. She decided to leave that for last.
Now that the grime had been washed away, the girl saw just how bruised he was. A greenish blotch covered the left side of his face, and the same eye had a discolored, purplish swelling below it. Dark hand shapes marked his wrists and arms. Deb sighed, wanting very badly to somehow, make everything right. But that was impossible.
With the greatest care possible, Deb cleaned out the open injuries, dabbing at them with hydrogen peroxide and bandaging the ones that needed it. Lastly, dreading the task, she came to his thigh, looking at him sympathetically.
"This is gonna sting like heck," she warned him, holding up the peroxide over the wound. "Ready?" Ten nodded tersely and set his teeth, grinding them together when the sharp pain shot through his leg, fizzing like an overly carbonated drink. He'd felt worse. Far worse. His leg might have twitched a little, but he could handle the pain. Tenderly, Deb wrapped a few layers of breathable gauze around his thigh. Ten yawned widely. Deb helped him into the warm fleece pajamas and led him into hers and Jessie's room. He practically crawled into the bed, letting Deb pull the covers up to his armpits. The blue eyes fluttered open and closed, but his ear was intent on the tune coming from the box on the dresser.
"I'm changing, arranging
I'm changing
I'm changing everything
Everything around me
The world is
A bad place
A bad place
A terrible place to live
Oh, but I don't want to die
Oh, my sorrows
Sad tomorrows
Take me back to my own home
Oh, my crying (Oh, my crying)
Feel I'm dying, dying
Take me back to my own home"
Ten had never heard this before. It turned his blood to liquid longing, flooding his body with a pining for an unidentifiable something, an everything that he had missed. "What is it called?" he asked, staring up at the now quiet box. Deb frowned, not understanding. "The sound."
"Music," she replied.
"Is there more . . . music?"
"Yeah. Sure. I'll put more on," said Deb, opening up the cassette player and flipping the tape. "So you like Marmalade?" Ten cocked his head, not understanding. "The people who made this music." The boy shrugged sleepily.
"That one is. . ." he paused, searching for the right word. ". . . beautiful." Deb nodded, smiling a little.
"Yeah. It is." Ten yawned. Deb turned to leave, reaching for the light switch.
"No," came the urgent plea. "Please, don't go." Seeing the terrified look on Ten's face, Deb took a deep breath and nodded, dropping onto the second bed next to him, rearranging the comforters and fluffing her limp pillow. "Goodnight, Ten," she whispered to the boy, who was already fast asleep. She clicked the light off and followed him.
A loud wail filled the air, jarring Ten awake. He bolted upright, head thundering like a bass drum was being pounded over and over inside his skull. He moaned a little, clamping his eyelids together to shut out the blinding daggers of light shining through the open compartment door. Panic swelled in his throat. His eyes flew open. Carlo. His gaze fell upon the coroner, passed out face down on the boarded floor. Ten let his eyes drift close again, only to snap them open once more. Dark pools of half dried blood surrounded the prone figure. The boy rushed to his side, then stopped halfway. The blood had soaked through Carlo's shirt and spilled onto the ground, staining everything a deep, reddish burgundy.
"Carlo," said Ten urgently, shaking him briefly, then recoiling with a gasp. Carlo was stiff and still. Ten's breathing became quick and shallow. His head boomed relentlessly. With a grunt, he struggled to roll him over onto his back. Ten choked. The man's face was frozen in a blank expression, void of anything resembling the Carlo Ten knew. That was Carlo's face, but it wasn't Carlo's face. Hands fumbling, Ten reached for his neck, pressing his fingers to the jugular vein. Nothing but cold, tensed flesh. His breath came sharp and ragged.
"No, Carlo!"
