Chapter Text
1975 Hawkins, Indiana
Hawkins National Laboratory
His knuckles were white.
He absentmindedly rubbed at the aching joints with trembling fingers, his eyes catching the red stains burrowed beneath his nails. It was a sickeningly deep color compared to the pale of his skin. His hands were shaking.
His sky was grey.
It wasn’t the real sky, he knew, he hadn’t seen the real sky since they had taken him. But the cold dark concrete above his head did well enough to replace the soft blue of Hawkins. If he screwed up his eyes enough it would almost look like the rain clouds that gathered above his house in the spring.
He had taken to memorizing the patterns pressed into the stone, mainly out of boredom. Though, he honestly did enjoy that minuscule amount of familiarity, even if it was just this room, this single box of concrete. It was his box of concrete now.
It was all he had, really, the grey and the red and the white of his palms.
He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the unwanted thoughts, soft waves violently splaying in all directions.
It had been too long now to think that they might come for him. At least he thinks so, time is difficult when you don’t have a clock, or when you can’t see the sky.
He desperately clings to what little hope he has left, if any.
He awkwardly stared at a lock of hair that had come to rest just above the curve of his cheek, edges blurred with the proximity.
That’s easier to think about, right?
His hair had gotten longer in the few weeks he’d been here, the ends had begun to curl around his ears, the edges tickling the nape of his neck and the beginnings of his jaw.
He had taken to tugging the greasy strands forward, pulling them low between his eyes before letting them bounce back into place; partly to distract himself, partly because it’s the only thing he could really do while waiting.
He could pace too, if he wanted, and he had for a while, but his feet were bare, and the concrete floor felt like walking on ice. Though the old cot he sat on wasn’t much better. His mom hated it when he paced, anyway.
His hands were still shaking.
It was cold. The kind of cold that sunk far below the surface of your skin, nestling close to your bone marrow like an old friend. The kind that presented itself through steaming breath and stinging ears and noses. The kind that reminded him of dusty old Christmas trees and celebratory dinners.
An uncomfortable sort of tightness squeezes his chest at the thought of home, and he shifts on top of the cot, moving to curl even further into himself, maybe it was an attempt to lighten the odd feeling somehow. He wasn’t really sure.
He twisted his fingers into the long-sleeved shirt the men had given him. It was a dull color, a depressing shade of grey, and while the shirt did come with a matching pair of sweats, both articles of clothing were worn impossibly thin; they did very little to protect his skin from the painful bite of the cold.
There was an equally thin blanket that had been thrown over the cot which he had carefully wrapped across his shoulders, making sure to pull the end down to cover his bare feet. It was uncomfortable.
He glanced down at his hands again.
The grey and the red and the white of his palms.
He sighed and curled impossibly close, shoulders shaking as he desperately held himself together. But, even as he finally settled, there came the sound of locks unlatching and the creak of old hinges, desperately in need of care.
The door opened and a man, a man he had seen before, came forward and stood at the foot of the cot. Stock still, with broad shoulders wrapped in a crisp black suit.
Imposing.
White hair gleamed beneath the florescent lights, and the child on the cot had no choice but to gaze upwards at a thin smile spreading across even thinner lips.
A threat.
“Hello Steven.”
1973 Hawkins, Indiana
Hawkins General Hospital
"What the hell do you mean 'We can't be sure'" his father snarled.
Steve glance up from his lap, away from his twisting knuckles and up towards the kind women with a soft round face. The woman's light red hair looked even softer, but Steve had never liked the color red.
He looked back down at his knees.
"Mr. Harrington please refrain from cursing," the woman sighed, sounding offended at the thought. Steve didn't know why she made such a big deal. It wasn't like he hadn't heard it all before.
"What my husband means to say, is that we just want to know what’s going on," a hand drops over Steve's shoulder, the flawless nails pinching the skin beneath his sweater, "It's beginning to not only affect Steven but Eric and I as well. We're both simply exhausted. "
The women pursed her lips as his mother spoke, daring a glance in his direction. Steve avoided her gaze until she looked away, her eyes skimming back over the papers in her hand. He did not want to be here.
There was a ticking to his left, a large white clock on the wall that was comfortably nestled between two bookshelves, loudly and consistently making known its presence. It was slowly driving him crazy. The room seemingly towered over him, stretching further every time he checked on the ceiling; he felt impossibly small, sitting in the hard leather chair and sandwiched between his parents.
"Well," the nurse began, "It sounds like he's having Night Terrors."
"Night terrors?" Scoffed Mr. Harrington, "So the kid's just having nightmares?"
Steve shrunk at his father's tone.
"Oh no," the nurse raised a placating hand as she shook her head, "Night terrors are a type of parasomnia. They are often a bit more... intense than an average nightmare."
The room quiets as the women explains, all three members of the Harrington family watching intently. Each for a different reason.
Steve could probably guess his parents’ feelings on the matter. His father had made perfectly clear his annoyance, often spitting his vitriol, red faced and unappealing; while his mother stayed perfectly poised, watching on with an apathetic twist to her lips.
Steve was just tired.
And terrified.
“Night terrors are most common in children,” the women continued, gesturing loosely toward Steve, as if indicating his age, “and all the symptoms you’ve described: screaming, crying, sweating, thrashing, all while asleep, indicate a bigger issue than just nightmares. Especially if he’s accidentally hurting himself while dreaming, like the bloody nose you mentioned…”
A pause.
Steve’s mother raised her brow, “But…?”
The nurse looked nervous and Steve felt a flutter in his stomach at her hesitation, at her painfully obvious glance in his direction.
”Well,” she began, “uhm-”
“Steven?”
Steve turned towards his mother.
Her eyes were tight as she smiled down at him, a fake flimsy thing, but Steve felt his heart swell under her gaze, under her attention. She even raised a hand to his brow, gently brushing his bangs away from his eyes. He smiled at her.
”Why don’t you go over there for just a minute,” she gestured towards the corner of the room with her eyes and a nod of her head, where a bunch of toys were spread across a small wooden table, “Let the adults talk for a little bit, alright.”
He gladly accepted the escape from the stifling conversation and, even more so, the leather seat.
”Okay,” he muttered softly, slowly lowering himself from the chair and brushing passed his mother’s bent knees. He avoided his father.
“Speak up, Steven.”
Steve nodded at his father’s sharp rebuke, failing to really acknowledge the disappointed sigh that trailed after, the simple bead maze atop the table quickly catching his attention.
But adults never truly consider young ears while speaking, and even though he was sitting only a few feet from the conversation, they continued as if he was no longer in the room.
As far as they were concerned, he wasn’t.
”In most cases,” the nurse began, “children suffering from Night Terrors don’t remember the dreams the next morning. It is a bit frightening when in the moment, but afterwards they usually can continue as normal, besides some exhaustion of course.”
Steve liked bead mazes, twirling the beads between his fingers and gently pushing them along their different paths was far more entertaining than he would’ve thought. He lifted a line of beads by the tail end and watched them fall over the curve of the wire, one by one.
”But from what you’re describing,” a slight lull in the conversation and Steve ignored the feeling of eyes grazing over his back, “with your son not only remembering the Night Terrors but recalling and describing them in detail-“
”Why is this prevalent,” his father asked, and Steve could hear the eyebrow raise, “Can we just get to the point.”
”…Of course Mr. Harrington,” the nurse said, blinking in surprise. “I just thought you’d want to be informed that this may be something el-“
”That’s fine, we don’t really care to know all the medical jargon, just tell us how to fix him.”
Steve dropped his current line of beads, the smooth wood slipping between his fingers with a soft clink. The room was silent for a moment.
The nurse took a deep breath.
“Well, Establishing a regular sleep routine and finding ways to avoid stressful situations are the best ways to reduce the Night Terrors. Most patients do grow out of it, the nightmares often slow down and eventually go away during their adolescent years”
”Are there no medications? That my help him sleep?” His mother asked.
“Melatonin may help him fall asleep,” Steve perked up but his face quickly fell as the nurse waved a hand around, dismissing the idea, “It’s not recommended though, there’s a large possibility that it would only make it worse.”
The Harrington couple stared at the round women for a moment, Mr. Harrington slowly turning a deep shade of red.
“So there’s no treatment?” He snarled, “We aren’t here for your useless advice, so unless you could give us something with some relevance, because we need this issue solved as soon as possible, then we’ll be on our way. We can’t just— wait for him to grow out of it.”
“Medications are rarely used for Night Terrors, especially on children,” she threw her hand out in Steve‘s direction. Steve pushed a group of yellow beads across their wire, shrinking inwards as voices raised. “The best way to help your son is to negate any actions that may lead to making it worse! And to stop adding to his stress! If you would only-“
”Only what?”
His mother’s voice had sliced straight through the growing tension. The tone alone had Steve frozen, finger’s trembling; he found himself glad that he could not see her face. The ticking of the clock got louder.
“Get up Steven, we’re leaving.”
Steve stood and turned away from the bead maze, his last line of beads falling, each with incredibly loud, soft clinks. His mother was already standing, as was his father.
The nurse was breathing heavily.
A part of Steve wanted to reach towards the nurse, to lift a small hand and pat at her shoulder (more her elbow, he wasn’t quite tall enough to reach her shoulder). He did not think she deserved his parents’ distain. She was only trying to help, really, and Steve thought she was nice.
But his mother’s eyes burnt at his side and he turned away.
He avoided looking at his parents and made his was across the room. Quietly as he could, he came to stand at his mother’s side. The perfectly manicured nails were pinching into his shoulder again, his mother steering him towards the exit and away from the large wooden desk and uncomfortable leather chairs and large ticking clock and increasingly tall ceiling.
And while he couldn’t speak to the kind nurse, Steve did turn before the doors closed, eyes catching the face of the soft round women with even softer red hair.
He waved.
The drive home was silent, and was only interrupted by a fast stop at the general store.
Both Steve and his father sat in the car while his mother made quick work, coming in and out of the store in record time. She clutched a plastic bag in her hand.
What was important enough to stop at the general store? Both his parents avoided the place like it was of the devil; even after admitting it was the easiest option for shopping. They said it was trashy.
“Not for people like us.” They would say.
But now, finally at home, his mother dipped her hand into the bag from the store not for the Harringtons and produced a small container, purple in color. Steve would’ve read the label if he could. But he couldn’t, so he just prodded at it from where it sat on the kitchen counter.
”Didn’t that woman say that would make it worse?” His father spat at the container.
”We might as well try all options,” his mother replied, heels clacking on the tile. “If it doesn’t work we’ll take him to that specialist the doctors mentioned, the one in Chicago.”
His father sighed.
That night, after a much too large dose of melatonin, Steve woke his parents.
Screaming and screaming till his throat burned.
The man from Chicago sounded very similar to the women from Hawkins.
”Medication should be avoided, it’s best to just give him time and to support him as much as you can.” He had said with a smile.
Steve’s parents did not like the answers they had gotten, evident by his father’s fist shaking the dashboard after they left the man’s office.
They tried after that, ignoring his screams and cries during the night and leaving him well alone during the day. To avoid stress they said, but Steve kind of just wanted his mom to hold him for a moment. He thought that maybe that was what he needed, that, like all the stories he had heard, it was the cure to the stupid nightmares.
He didn’t dare ask though.
All in all, the Harringtons lasted for all of three weeks before Steve’s father once again lost his temper.
They went to another doctor.
The frail old lady from Indianapolis suggested a different route, one filled with plenty of medication Steve couldn’t even try to understand, let alone pronounce properly.
He did not like how the pills made him feel.
He took them though, each and every day, because the woman had said they would help. They didn’t, really. The medicine made Steve feel sick and angry all the time, which only added to the ever growing tired that always surrounded him, making him heavy, like his limbs weighed as much as his dads fancy new baseball bat. The one Steve couldn’t lift even if he was allowed to touch it.
But that showed no results, even after months. So his parent’s carted him back to Hawkins, where he met a different kind of specialist.
Steve did not like Mr. Carter.
His parents had never pushed him to talk about his dreams, never having the time or space of mind to actually care, so when Mr. Carter sat Steve down in his big empty office every week and gently pressed Steve to open up about the nightmares…
Well, Steve wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“Mom doesn’t want me to talk about it.” He whispered.
Which is true, she said it makes her uncomfortable.
”Well,” Mr. Carter started, “that’s why she‘s not with us right now. Anything you say will stay between us, I promise.”
Steve didn’t like talking about it either.
The man leaned forward and smiled at if him as if they were very good friends. But Steve could only focus on the way the light reflected off the man’s balding head. He had intense blue eyes too, revealing eyes that made Steve feel far too seen. In that moment, Steve wanted his mother back in the room.
”How ‘bout we start a bit easier, okay?” Mr. Carter said, “Why don’t you tell me about how the dreams make you feel?”
Steve was quiet.
Mr. Carter sighed irritably.
“I know this might be scary, but I need you to try, Steven. I just want to he-“
”Scared.” Steve interrupted before the man could lose his temper. Mr. Carter gestured for him to continue, “And sick, I uh- I guess.”
”Alright, that’s good Steven, thank you for answering.”
This room had a clock too. Steve was beginning to heavily dislike the ticking sounds.
”Do you think you know why you feel that way?” Steve shrugged and Mr. Carter smiled reassuringly, softly. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, Steven.”
”I don’t— I don’t know? I don’t like them.”
This sentence was followed by a huff of frustration and a set of small folded arms, seeing as Steve couldn’t seem to find the right words. He just knew that he didn’t like the dreams at all.
He just knew that sometimes…
Sometimes when he really concentrated—
“How about this!” Mr. Carter exclaimed, jumping up from the soft looking chair he had taken as his. Steve jumped at the sudden movements.
”Um..”
”Let’s find a way for you to tell me how we’re feeling, okay?” The man walked to a desk that was behind the couch, the one Steve was sitting on, and opened one of the many drawers.
Mr. Carter swiftly returned with a small notepad and a box of children’s crayons, placing them on the small table between his soft chair and Steve’s big couch. A coffee table, Steve thinks.
Mr. Carter smiled. “If you’re having trouble with your words you can always use these to draw instead.” He gestured towards the utensils. ”How’s that sound?”
Steve glanced at the box of crayons curiously, a tilt of his head. Very rarely was he allowed to draw or color. His parents had always wanted him to focus on other things, like being fast and well-spoken or always standing with his shoulders square.
Steve never got to draw.
“Are you sure?” He asked watching the man across from him.
“Of course, Steven.” He smiled again, “As long as it helps.”
Steve smiled back hesitantly, nodding his head in understanding, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Mr. Carter confirmed.
Steve did not touch the crayons for the rest of that visit. Or the one after. Or the next. Or the next.
But they were always there, like clockwork, sitting as a splash of color in the otherwise depressingly grey room.
For months Steve visited the drab room to be questioned by the balding man with too blue eyes and a very wide smile.
Steve didn’t like the large grey couch or the soft blue chair. He didn’t like the old bookshelves or the tiny window he had to crane his neck to see out of. He didn’t like the sad paint and the even sadder trim. And he did not like Mr. Carter.
But still he went, because there was a chance, no matter how small, that it could make the nightmares go away. He prayed that it would make them go away.
They didn’t though.
Mr. Carter sighed and dropped his notepad into his lap to rub at the space between his eyes. Steve stared at the crayons on the table. “Please Steven,” The man begged and the two of them stared at one another for a moment; Steve felt a twinge of guilt.
“How about— let’s just…”
Mr. Carter leaned from his soft chair and plucked the crayons from the table and, instead of putting them back in their drawer and sending him home like Steve thought he would, Mr. Carter did something he hadn’t done before.
He put the crayons in Steve’s hand.
”Try.” He implored, leaning just a bit too close and smiling. “Just draw while we talk! It doesn’t have to be anything specific and, uh, we can try something new if this doesn’t work, okay?”
Steve took the crayons carefully, nodding as he drew them to his chest.
Mr. Carter smiles one of his wide smiles, “So, I heard you’re starting first grade soon? Are you excited?”
Steve shook his head.
”Oh.” Mr. Carter looked put out, like someone had just told him that his favorite color was trash. Steve fought down a smile, it was fitting for Mr. Carter to enjoy school. No one cool enjoys school. “Well, that’s no fun! Why don’t you like it?”
Steve shrugged his shoulders as he opened the box of crayons, “It doesn’t make any sense.” He says, “Teachers make things so stupid.” He announced, dumping the crayons into his lap with a flourish and ignoring Mr. Carter’s wince. “They make everything so… so—“
”Overcomplicated?”
”Yeah,” Steve muttered, wiping his palm against his nose with a sniff. “It’s just dumb.”
And so they talked like they always did, meaningless back and forth while Mr. Carter desperately and hopelessly tried to figure Steve’s brain out.
Steve would like to know as soon as he did so.
Time passed, the drawings staying innocent for the most part, though the amount and quality increased over time and Steve found himself enjoying the time he had with Mr. Carter and his crayons.
The small notepad had been changed out early, making way for a much larger yellow notebook just for Steve, usually covered in simple doodles detailing what they had talked about, like little stick figures walking dogs or scenes of the park at Steve’s new school. Or sometimes Steve would just let his hand drift awkwardly across the page just so he didn’t have to sit still, which usually ended in a whole page devoured by colored wax.
Steve kinda thought that was funny.
Mr. Carter did not.
For a while, Steve thought that maybe he was getting better, the dreams had slowed down, and while they weren’t completely gone, his recent sleep was the best Steve had gotten since this whole thing started.
But Steve was wrong, and very very unlucky.
”Steven?”
He ignored the soft spoken word, keeping his eyes glued to the small square window. It was snowing now. How long has he been coming to Mr. Carter’s office? Nearly a year? He wasn’t quite sure, really, it was all blurring together like the watercolor paints from his class.
His arms wrapped tightly around his knees, and he remembered with some great distance that Mr. Carter didn’t like shoes on the big grey couch.
Oh well.
”Steven?”
Steve knew he was a sight, his mother had actually yelped in fright when she saw him, whispering things about appearances as she wiped the blood from beneath his nose away. So the concern in the man’s voice wasn’t completely lost on him. But Steve couldn’t think too much right now.
“Steven?” He saw Mr. Carter tilt from the corner of his eye, the man obviously trying to catch his gaze. “Rough night?”
Steve snorted.
It had been one of his reoccurring dreams, one that he hated the most.
One that he detested.
Steve glanced back towards the soft blue chair and caught the eyes of Mr. Carter. The man raised his eyebrows in a placating manner and Steve turned back to the window.
Then he blinks and for a moment he wasn’t sitting in Mr. Carter’s sad office.
The halls of the school were familiar, abandoned and echoing from their emptiness, bouncing off the walls almost like the ripples in the red beneath his feet, illuminated only by the flickering lights above; he’s always alone in the beginning, walking around, with raised heels and tense shoulders for reasons he can never really remember.
But then the screaming starts and Steve isn’t alone anymore.
He opened his eyes.
”I don’t like to wear socks when I sleep.” Steve blurts, his gaze pinned to the window, to the snow falling in slow motion.
Mr. Carter straightens in his soft seat and stays quiet.
“When I dream I’m always wearing what I go to sleep in.” He continued, blinking hard as he thought up the words. He couldn’t. So he just said, “I don’t like wearing socks to sleep.”
Mr. Carter nodded slowly like Steve’s word vomit made sense, which Steve found both ridiculous and confusing, which is how these conversations usually go.
Then the man slide the notebook closer to Steve from where it sat on the coffee table and Steve’s heart began to race. He had been avoiding that notebook this entire visit.
It’s hard to explain the feeling that gripped Steve’s chest in that moment, the heart stopping, breath stealing kind of feeling that left him dizzy. All Steve knew, was that in that moment, he would do anything to be anywhere else. Not Mr. Carter’s sad office.
He was going to be sick.
”I’m missing school,” He suddenly and harshly whispered, terrified out of his mind by the small yellow notebook sitting innocently in front of him, he desperately needed a topic change, an escape, “Um… really really sorry Mr. Carter but I gotta—“
”Steve.”
Steve froze.
“Your mother and father dropped you off here. You’ve been excused from school for this very appointment. Plus, you’ve never really cared about school.” Mr. Carter smiled, peeling through Steve’s excuses all too quickly, leaving Steve feeling entirely too hot and too cold all at once. “Please let me help you.”
It sounded real. Genuine.
Steve thought back to the kind nurse with a soft face and even softer red hair. She had only wanted to help too. She had been kind.
Hadn’t she?
”I need you to trust me, okay?”
Sharp blue eyes stared into exhausted hazel and Steve, hopelessly ignoring the twisting in his stomach, nodded and picked the notebook up off the table.
“Okay,” He whispered.
”Okay.” Mr. Carter confirmed.
Steve flipped to an unblemished page and took a deep breath, nightmares flashing behind his eyes every time he blinked.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself with a shaky exhale.
By the time he was done drawing, the red crayon was a stump of wax and paper. Placing the notebook back down onto the coffee table was difficult, even after he closed the pages to gain a few extra seconds before Mr. Carter inevitably saw his latest drawing.
The man in question was already palming at the notebook, his eyes never leaving Steve’s, not even for a moment. But Steve didn’t shout or yell. He didn’t lurch forward to yank the book from patient hands. He didn’t panic.
Outwardly.
But then the book was in the adult’s hands and he was opening it and Steve opened his mouth to yell at him to stop wait!
But adults never really listen to kids. Not really.
Mr. Carter’s blue eyes went wide as he stared down at Steve’s picture, all the blood draining from his face, his mouth falling agape. He looked about as sick as Steve felt.
A part of Steve wanted to do a little dance he had seen in a cartoon, wanted to wave his hands in the air and sing ‘Tada!’ just to get rid of the stifling air and the flipping of his stomach.
He had a feeling Mr. Carter wouldn’t find it funny.
The other part wanted to curl into a ball and stay that way forever.
He couldn’t do that either.
”Is this…” Mr. Carter’s voice shook a bit as he spoke, he wasn’t looking up from the picture, “Is this one of your dreams? Steven?”
Steve stared at the curve of Mr. Carter’s knee and willed himself not to throw up his fluttering nerves. Avoiding the man’s eyes, he opened his mouth to explain.
But Steve Harrington never was good with words.
”I hate the feeling of blood soaking into my socks.” He says instead. “It makes me sick.”
Mr. Carter vomits into the trash bin by the door.
Steve never goes back to the sad office with the colorful crayons after that. His parent’s never tell him why but Steve can guess.
He never liked Mr. Carter anyway.
Steve was pretty sure he was gonna be put up for adoption. Tommy had said so when Steve told him about the talks with Mr. Carter.
Tommy said Steve was probably crazy and that no parents wanted a crazy kid.
Steve didn’t feel crazy.
But maybe he was the only one who thought that.
”You saw the notebook!” His father yelled, waving it through the air, causing pages to come loose and float to the ground. Steve’s eyes followed the trail of one of his favorite drawings, a portrait of Mr. Carter with a truly heinous expression patched onto his face. Steve had thought it was funny.
His father threw the notebook over Steve’s head where it crashed violently into the staircase. “Just nightmares my ass! He’s just a damn— He’s deranged”
Steve flinched.
Steve’s mother watched from the other side of the living room with a glass balanced in her hand. She spun it in a slow circle, the deep red liquid sloshing at the rims a bit.
Steve and his mother watched for a moment as his father paced around the room, shaking in his anger.
”You know I hate when people pace.” His mother began, her face prim and blank, apathy suited her. “Sit down Eric, and quit making a fool of yourself.”
His father quit walking in circles to turn and point an accusing finger into her face. Now only Steve was watching, perched from where he stood at the foot of the stairs.
”You,” his father growled, “are the one who brought this entire idea up.”
She slapped his hand out of her face. “I’m working on it, now calm down.”
His father shook his head is disbelief and anger.
He ran as hot as Steve’s mother ran cold. It was a scary thing, living with the both of them. And Steve, well, Steve ran as hot and as cold as both of them combined. He knew that of course, it had gotten him in trouble a few times, but it was just who he was.
So really, what came next should’ve been expected.
He father stormed off, probably to sit and stew in his office, but as he passed Steve, muttering hateful words to himself, Steve caught a single word.
Crazy.
And well, Steve did have his father’s temper.
“I am not crazy.” Steve whispered.
His father stopped dead in his tracks, “Speak up, Steven.”
There was a threat in his voice, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care and turned to face his fathers back saying, loudly this time, “I am not crazy.”
Steve’s father never hit him.
You see, when Steve’s father had been young his own father had beat him at any possible chance, leaving no room for arguments or opinions besides his own. That’s what Steve had been told, at least.
So Eric Harrington had never raised a hand to Steve.
But the bruising grip on Steve’s arm as he was dragged down the hallway sure felt real. As did the sound of the bath being filled with freezing cold water.
Steve was picked up off the floor with ease and plunged into the ice cold.
For a moment Steve thought that this was all in his head (This has happened before, right?) and froze in horror.
But pretty soon his lungs burnt as hot as his father’s red face hovering above him, blurred and distorted by the water, and Steve started to panic.
His father wasn’t letting him up.
He could barely hear the splashing water over his heart beat as he struggled, desperately searching, gripping for anything to get some traction, anything to pull him up from beneath the water.
His father’s tie hung limply from around his neck.
Steve wrapped two small palms around the offered lifeline and pulled.
He broke the surface with a strangled gasp, ignoring the water sloshing over the rim of the tub in multitudes. The faucet was still going.
He fought against his father’s much larger, much stronger hands with trembling limbs. He was shaking so much he could barely breathe.
His father paused as his mother yelled something from the family room, telling them to “Keep it down, the neighbors might be listening.”
Steve was freezing.
His hands slipped from around the ruined tie and he was shoved back into the water.
That night, after Steve had been half dragged, half walked back to his room, he still shivered from the cold of the bathtub and the weight of his father’s hands.
But Steve’s father never hit him.
1975 Hawkins, Indiana
Hawkins National Laboratory
Steve glanced at himself in the window, fighting off a fresh wave of deja-vu.
Sitting between his parents in a quiet room with a very, very loud clock, Steve found himself grateful that the chairs weren’t made of leather.
The walls were a perfect white, and there were no soft blue seats or big grey couches to be seen, only hard plastic chairs that matched the walls and the doors and the desks and the tiles and the trims around the windows.
Everything was white, really.
The man sitting across from them, on the other side of the desk, was even wearing a soft white coat like the ones Steve had seen in some movies.
“Let’s see what we can do for you,” The man’s smile squished his eyes, “My name is Doctor Owens, and I’ve heard you’ve been having some troubles, young man.”
He was talking to Steve.
“Oh, um.” Steve said softly, “Yeah.”
The doctor nodded his head and flipped through the file on his desk, the one Steve had seen passed through all the people they had spoken to.
”Yes, well.” The doctor began, “it seems like you’ve found the right people then!”
“So you can fix this?” Steve’s father asked.
The doctor furrowed his brows, “I don’t think ‘fix’ is the right word, but we certainly can help.” He glanced back down at the file. “So, nightmares, violent ones.”
Steve nods at the not question and the man tsks.
“Well we can’t have that, now can we! Sounds like quite the issue,” He laughed, eyes scanning the layers of paper. “The file also mentions nosebleeds? Can you elaborate on that, please?”
This question was directed to his parents.
“Well, when he’s…” his mother grimaces as if reliving terrible memories, which Steve finds doesn’t quite fit her face right. “When he’s having nightmares he tends to toss and turn, quite a bit, and we think that he’s hit his nose a few times. Simple really.”
”And there were no breaks? Or bruising?”
”No,” his mother says, “I don’t see how this is related?”
”Ah no,” the man waved a hand, “It’s not. I’m just clearing some things up, really, trying to keep things clean here in the file.” He taps at the flimsy thing. “We like things organized here”
He smiles.
”I’ll get you set up with our child psychologist. He’s a very busy man but he’s more than willing to meet with Steven here as often as possible.”
”How often will he need to meet up for the appointments?” His father asks, “You see, my wife and I both need to travel for work and we might not be here for weeks at a time. We thought to hire a nanny but we would like to keep Steven’s… issues as private as possible. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course Mr. Harrington,” Doctor Owens nods his head seriously. “We’ll need to understand exactly what Steven’s going through, so some of the treatments might take weeks, possibly months to gather the proper amount of data.” He pauses and seems to mull over his words, Steve’s stomach tightens uncomfortably. “So it’s completely possible, if necessary, for you to leave him in the care of the facility while you’re gone.”
The clock ticks loudly and Steve immediately shakes his head.
Doctor Owens raises a hand, “Only if there are no other options, Steven.”
”Will there be any extra cost? If we were to leave him in your care?”
Steve feels his stomach drop at his mothers question. She couldn’t be considering it. Like actually considering it.
”Only a small commitment fee,” Doctor Owens gives a jolly laugh. “But that won’t be an issue for you, I feel.”
With a nod, Steve’s father agrees. “Not an issue at all.”
Steve’s horror grows.
”Mom,” he whispers, tugging gently on her sleeve, “Mom please, you can’t, I don’t wanna be alone—“
But adults never listen to children.
”Oh hush, Steven,” She says and Steve feels his fingers slip from her silk blouse as she purposefully shifts in her seat, “This will help you sleep. You’ll finally sleep.”
”Don’t worry, Steven,” the man with the white coat says, “Doctor Brenner isn’t anyone to be afraid of.”
Steve looks up at his eyes, at his round face and trustworthy smile.
And doesn’t believe him.
Three weeks later Steve is dropped off in front of the large white building, a check for the extra fee pressing into his palm, his parents leaving for England, and the weight of a stranger’s hand heavy on his shoulder as they drive away.
He glances up at the man besides him and sees white hair blending into the white of the snow blurring around them. Thin lips smile down.
”Welcome back, Steven. I’m Doctor Brenner.”
Steve’s lip trembles.
”Hi”