"You say you have to be awake every weekday morning," she says with a sigh, holding the receiver close to her mouth. "Why are you not sleeping?"
"Because I'm talking with you! It's just school, besides it's almost the end of the school year. And you have to say "over" when you're done." A sigh comes through the line, echoing into the bare metal interior. "I bet you don't even know how late it is. Over."
"School is good for your brain health. Why would it end?" Filly reaches into her lap, plucking another Cheeto out of the bag. It has a puffy yet crunchy texture that she greatly enjoys, a gift from the young Byers brother. He never arrives empty-handed. "Also, it is nighttime. Over."
"Well, it's not good for my mental health. Everyone there is a wastoid. Over."
"I do not see the difference," she huffs, but secretly she'd love to hear what the difference is. Dustin is a smart boy, however, so it may no longer be a secret to him. "You do not know how important your sleep is until it is stolen from you. Over."
The cheesy snack is no longer appetizing. The teen has a sour taste in her mouth. The topic of dreams was never so hard for her. Dr. Brenner had kept her so exhausted that she couldn't dream. He would wake her at odd hours or keep the lights on, ensuring that she was unable to relax. When she would be so drained as to fall asleep despite all that, there was no fantastical escape waiting for her there.
There was nothing. Emptiness.
What awaited her in her dreams was far worse now.
"Whatever you say, Filly. Listen, I gotta go now. The guys and I are gonna meet up at the arcade pretty soon." Dustin's shrill voice crackles when she bumps the antenna on the bus window. "You're sure you don't want to come? Over."
"You know what I will say. Goodnight, Dustin." Filly flips down the antenna and switches it off before he can make a dispute.
"Filly..." he calls, his feet bare in the lush grass save for his one white sock. His coat is pitch, but one twinkling star breaks the void at the center of his forehead. His rounded muzzle snuffs greedily at what he's found. The meal should satisfy his companion well enough, for she cannot thrive on his favored foliage. "You have to try this."
She wears a velvet dress. It melds into the knoll the same as she, fluttering up and following her when she rises. "What have you, Black Beauty?"
In her dreams, she is well-spoken and well-fed. Her hair is long and its dark hues match Beauty's coat perfectly. She has no need for manuals or atlases because the world is at her fingertips. Filly's fantasy plays out in her head, reinvigorating her hope while allowing her to rest. In her dreams, she was never imprisoned in that wretched place.
"Something delicious. You'll love it," he whinnies.
This is no longer Filly's fantasy. Beneath the beast, four broken bodies lie in a lake of their own blood. The increasingly bloody mouth of her favorite horse has pushed so far into Lucas's ribcage that it splits in two. The horrid stench of Mike's visible cerebellum fills the meadow, maggots inching their way around his open skull. His head gives the impression of an egg that has hatched as if it was under so much pressure that it simply burst apart. They lie back to back, both bodies bisected at the hips
Will's fragile form floats in the air, held aloft just a touch by the spike running through his frozen heart. Black rot eats at the wound, the dead feeding the living as he is consumed by the fungus from within. His silky bangs splay across his forehead, tacked in place by scabbing blood, his mouth permanently gaped in terror.
Dustin is missing more bones than ever, every single tooth pulled out of his sweet head left scattered around his crown. His eyes are mercifully shut, but there's a sagginess to them that begs to differ. Oozing from every orifice is a slushy of gray flesh mixed with coagulating ichor.
The girl finds his cobalt blue gaze. His eyeballs are caught in the cleavage of the grass, cushioned around the occipital nerve to stare skywards. A hoof steps atop one, Beauty juicing the orb of its nutrients unknowingly while he grazes.
Beauty's blunt teeth gnash fractured bone and puree muscle tissue.
"What's wrong, Filly? You've never had a problem with raw meat before."
"Filly."
"No, no! Let me go!" There are hands on her shoulders. An intruder is in her space, having snuck up on her while she dreamt. "I can't go back!"
"Filly!" Fluffed, brown tresses oscillate above, caused by her frantic thrashing. The strength of his grip on her wrists is enough to almost bruise. Her fitful slumber had been interrupted by the boy that saved her life. "You're okay!"
Filly deflates, the frightened tension of her body slipping away. "Steve... I apologize. Have I injured you?" He releases her, making room for her to sit up on the furthest back bench seat.
"Have you... You're 60 pounds soaking wet, Fil." The nickname is one he gave her that she spoke to no one else. Her curious gaze softens his cool browns. Steve brushes the hair at the nape of his neck, still on one knee in front of the seat. "Stop that. When you say it, it isn't funny. I know you're being serious."
"I am sor-"
There's something about her that tears the truth from his lips without his permission. "People keep saying shit at me..." He stands, slinging his book bag over his shoulder. "Bertie's just kidding when he asks. You're not."
Her lips thin, a consternated frown disrupting her gentle features. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel... inadequate."
One of the first things he noticed is that she wears her heart on her sleeve. Her emotions will run so close to the surface at times that she looks choked for air, as though she may drop at any second. It can be frightening.
It's also endearing, that she worries about him and that she doesn't hide it. She asks him everything so genuinely, carefully, sweetly. She encourages him so diligently, insistently, unhesitatingly. It's something he's been missing lately. Nancy will instead let him stagnate, tell him he'd done "good enough." Steve doesn't want to be good enough.
"You, you don't. But I didn't come to chat about that." He shifts and Filly notices the box behind him finally, the dull cardboard covered with scars from taping and cutting and retaping. It bulges with the might of the prize it keeps hidden. "My parents wanted me to get rid of some stuff, make room for other things. I thought it would be better if I, uh, donated it?"
There's something about him that turns her frown around, quirking the corners of her lips into a smile. His laid-back way of interacting with her gives her hope. He speaks to her so easily, casually, unhurriedly. Yet he questions her playfully, teasingly, probingly. He lets her lead away from topics that hit too close to home, but he never stops trying to break her out of her shell. It's a simple thing that is also precious.
"I truly appreciate it, Steve."
He is a lone island and she is the typhoon. When the storm is over, the island remains. He grins, cooking up one side of his mouth slowly. "You haven't even seen what's in the box."
She shakes her head though she reaches for the package. "I am happy to be thought of enough to receive a gift."
"Don't expect too much. In fact, open it after I leave."
"You are going so soon?"
"Yeah, it's a school day." Steve pulls back his sleeve, checking his wristwatch for the time. "Oh, I gotta go. Nancy's still waiting for me to pick her up. Hey, I'll see you later!" His hand, waving with stretched fingers, is the last of him she sees for a while.
She's usually back home on time. The sliver of powder white is high in the sky, signaling to the lateness of the hour. She slops carefully through the trees, the ground cover green and moist in the heat of the summer night.
Spring and summer are the hardest hunting seasons for her.
She isn't fond of taking more younglings from their mothers. She can't bring herself to kill them both by taking the mother, in most cases.
The bluejay hatched her eggs that Spring. The tadpoles swarm freely in torpid puddles this summer. The cottontail's offspring keep their skins long enough to gain their first white coat this winter.
Wanting to be home with her fresh kill, she can only pine for it upon closer inspection of the bus. From the tree line, she watches the occupants of her yard. They are strangers and yet they are more than that.
They are potential threats.
Three older teens stagger dangerously by a wrecked car. The sharp edge of a dented door catches a pant leg. "Shit, man. Just bought these..." The first almost tumbles down in his stupor, overcorrecting and smashing his nose into the metal door. She can see the cartilage moving from its place and separating from the bone.
"Dylan! Bro, you good?" The second helps him regain his footing, chuckling in spite of himself.
"Oh, my god. I wish I had my dad's camera right now," says the third, uncaring of their plight.
She switches the sight off, returning to her plans. Food.
The air is warm. The forest is inviting. Her hope is with me.
Filly retreats into the woods, seeking a little wooden house she recalls hidden between the trees. She had not been there since before she moved in, so to speak.
The teen girl can at least recognize when she should retreat. The light flannel swallows her, but it provides a layer between the mosquitoes and her succulent flesh. Filly had put on several pounds, the high-calorie offerings of the party swelling her face to a healthy roundness.
The lake reflects her visage, a rippling rendition of the dark-haired girl. There were new freckles on her cheeks. They'd entirely disappeared during her years of captivity. She barely remembers them from before. Dark tendrils drip off her scalp, hair dull but somewhat clean. Its volume increases in the summer months, forming a thick nest on the apexes of her shoulders. Clear blue eyes meet their match on the surface.
Filly breaks the image, cupping her hands and lifting the liquid to her lips. It quenches her, replenishing what the climate had taken in sweat. Feeling restored, the frail girl clutches tight her dinner, the heads of the snakes knocking together in her haste. Three of them had slinked into her crude trap and had become her prey, smooth green bodies slithering against one another in the buried basket. A proto-funnel attached to the opening made them unable to flee.
Now they are tied at the tails, flopping limply with each of her steps.
"Hey!" To say it was unexpected is an understatement. Had she grown complacent in these woods? "You shouldn't be- Filly?"
The gruff yell becomes uncertain, a curious pitch taking hold. The young lady was fuller, less gaunt now. He knows he can't have been the only one leaving grub at her door. She's changed, now donning a blue plaid flannel under a generous-sized pair of overalls. Her sneakers have gone from stained white to earthen brown in the sludge.
Her eyes are the most surprising feature, however, her pupils as pinpricks of dark in a sea of frigid ice. It's a stark contrast to the fire red fingers sneaking around her sclera, making them look ruddy from afar, urging him to get closer. He sees her skin tug around the enlarged veins at each of her temples.
"Mr. Chief. Please don't sneak up on me," Filly breathes, readjusting her hold on the serpents. She closes her eyes and when they open, they are as they've always been. She had looked like she would toss them at his head for a moment. "I am not used to... people anymore."
"That why you're out here?" Hopper says around the cigarette clamped in his teeth. "No people to bug ya'?"
Her reply is instant. "How do you know this?"
He takes another drag before answering, stamping on the embers with the heel of his boot.
"These kids started making a ruckus in the junkyard, heard some reports on the radio about complaints from residents of Loch Nora." Hopper examines the teen appraisingly. "You've gotten better. At talking, I mean. You're sharp, kiddo."
Filly reasons that he means it as a compliment. She hopes he's actually calling her smart. Was there another meaning she didn't know?
"Why are you... so gracious to me?"
Hopper adds "gracious" to his internal list of words of the day for Eleven. He thinks if he can just get Filly to agree to his rules, to stay hidden with Eleven, she could be with her sister at his cabin. Safe and not at the mercy of junkies or the elements while she sleeps in that old wreckage of a vehicle.
"Listen, this area isn't safe for you. It's not safe for anyone to come around my cabin." He belts a sigh, ready to attempt this plan that is failed from the start. "It's only safe for those that live there. No outsiders." It isn't the first time he'd tried. She was a stubborn young teen, digging her heels in and refusing to live with any adult he suggested.
"Cabin..." Filly is far off, reminiscing while her onyx hair is lifted in the short breeze. "I know this place. The wooden house with the porch."
He brings his chin down, the brim of his hat tipping low. "How?" Hopper nearly winces at his own tone of voice, regretting the harshness.
"I have been there. It was empty at the time." She fingers the end of her sleeve lightly, silent for a beat. "I will not change my mind. If they are gone, then I shall return home. You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Chief. I will not approach your den again. Farewell."
She becomes indistinguishable from the trees, fading away like a memory.
She wakes, this time quietly. The night terror had been less trying than the last. Filly was fortunate she awakened before it could meet her low standards for them.
The soft comforter from Steve had become one of her favorite things quickly as there is not a long list to climb. The thick, down cover is heavy and perfect for stretching out on top of. The multitude of sweaters she had found in his donation was staggering, enough to cover her body in them when it was cold enough.
The pillows in the box had become the stuffing for her nest, cool blues painting the back of the bus in her image. It had become more livable through the thoughtfulness of her newfound friends.
Will's old, unused coloring books are filed in a small container on a tray table, brought to her by Lucas for placing things on.
Mike had left charming messages in sharpie all over her walls, smiling faces dotted next to phrases picked out of the conversations they'd had. Various misunderstandings are tattoed onto the metal until someone cleans them. Filly will let them remain until the end of time.
Dustin's offerings are almost always foodstuffs and related gear. His nearly-discarded outdoor grill is tucked in between two seats, a constant blessing when faced with things like the frying pan he shoved into her arms along with it.
Her poncho rests on a small hook. Jonathan had installed it on the back wall, a thoughtful yet inexpensive gift, the two metal prongs giving her peace and security in a strange way.
Filly finally has a place to hang her coat after the weariness of her day. It's an odd point of pride for her.
She vows never to forsake their kindness. She has more now than she ever had in that dressed-up prison. It's not only material things that make a home.
From outside, three staccato knocks hang in the air before a fourth and fifth tap out. Hopper has been here more than anyone this year after their chance meeting, inundating her with weapons and hunting tricks.
The best things were the knives. Those, Filly understood how to use. Each one is weighted differently; the collection is a smorgasbord of differently-shaped blades.
Hopper had first instructed her as to the safest method of operation, then shown her to flake away at wooden limbs in order to create.
She was stunned at the power of the blade in her hand. It could take lives, yes, but it could also create new forms from the formless. She had made spoons, spears, and spikes until she could no longer feel the splinters in her hands.
The knock had been Hopper's idea. He did not want Filly to bite his head off, after all. "Mr. Chief?" She wonders what he's doing here so early, the sun just starting its ascent in the sky. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing I need." The everpresent camel cigarette hangs from his lower lip, bouncing as he speaks. "Brought ya some breakfast. They were giving it away at the station."
"Oh. Thank you, sir." She takes from him the green Tupperware container, releasing the aromatic smell by removing its top. "Was there anything else?" Filly asks, noticing the way he shuffles at her door unsurely.
"I put up a sign. Says "no trespassing." It should help you stay clear of the unsavory types."
He doesn't stay for an answer.
