( ◄ II ► ) TRACK TWELVE
the leave

( The Body, Part III )

⠀
⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀THAT NIGHT, as he's is sitting at his desk, half vacant and contemplating the assignment in front of him by the glow of candlelight, there comes a soft knock at Thorn's bedroom door.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He knows it's his sister without needing to look up. For years, her preferred method of entry had always been to barge into his room unannounced, so when she doesn't this time—just hangs back in the open doorway—he immediately knows something is up.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn's gaze follows the knocking to his door, which he'd left open. Standing where he knew she would be, framed like the silhouette of an angel beset by light, Regan lowers her still-clenched fist after knocking a final time. Her hand is shaking. Blink, and you would have missed it. Thorn almost does.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh," he mutters, rubbing his eyes, which have gone square over the schoolwork Nancy had left behind. "I didn't hear you come in."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I left my keys at home, so... I had to come through the back door."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Again, he says, "Oh."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He watches as Regan similarly observes him with dispirited eyes. She then glances at the lit candles and papers on his desk. Only then does Thorn register the photos Jonathan took of him and Barb are also there, out in the open for anyone to see.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Remembering his and Nancy's earlier promise to one another, Thorn turns his shoulder to shield much of his desktop from his sister's view. "I, um," he fumbles to speak, "figured candles were better than lightbulbs. I'm sure you're tired of sweeping up shards of glass around the house as much as I am, so..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I see the logic." Regan settles against the doorframe, albeit a bit awkwardly. "I went ahead and bought some new ones while I was out, anyway. In case you change your mind."

⠀⠀⠀⠀They still haven't spoken about last night. Not Jane, not Flash, not the radio, nor anything in the days prior to that. It's... complicated now. There are things he can't tell her; things he wouldn't even know how to begin to explain. He'd gotten lucky with Nancy, Joyce, and potentially even Jonathan: they'd already figured out something weird was going on themselves.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Whatever his own role in all of this might be, however, is still quite the conundrum.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sooo..." Regan continues, her voice an almost pale, practiced version of her own, "I saw your car pass by while I was in town. Am I crazy, or was that Nancy Wheeler I saw sitting in your passenger seat?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What?" he blurts, quickly and stupidly. "I— Yeah, she uh..."—he grabs a paper off his desk to briefly wave it in the air—"stopped by to give me the assignments I missed at school today. I offered to, um, give her a ride home afterward."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"That was sweet of her." He does not miss the conniving look in her eyes. "And you."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He goes deadpan. "It's not like that."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I didn't say anything.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You were thinking it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Sure enough, the corners of her mouth lift a fraction. "She's nice, that girl. Really well-adjusted..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Jesus Christ," Thorn exhales, rolling his eyes. With that eye roll, he turns out of his chair to stand upright, making sure to push and hide the photos away under the papers as he does. "That girl is also my friend," he remarks. "Nancy is..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Your friend."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"That's what I said."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Nothing more?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀His eyes narrow into slits.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Pleased to have gotten a reaction out of him, his older sibling tries but fails to suppress a giggle. "Ooo-kay." She flashes her palms in mock surrender. "Just friends, nothing more. Got it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You're annoying."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Yeah, and a real Casanova you sure turned out to be. I bet you make all the girls and boys swoon."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Did you come in here just torment me," he snickers, "or is there something you actually require?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Not looking at him anymore, Regan uses her fingernails to chip away at the cracked and peeling paint on the doorframe—a result of Thorn having slammed his door so much. He's struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu. He's seen this same thing before, and recently. White tiles. Sterile surfaces. The hospital. Jane's ward... Him standing outside of it. And Regan, nervously picking at paint in the doorway.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's the same scene.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And yet, everything is so different.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Even her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Regan?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Skrrrich. Skrrrich. The sound of nails against wood is teeth grinding. If it were any other person, he might have said something. But there's still a tenderness to his sister, and within himself, a patience, and why, why, why, when they fight so much and talk so little—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Skrrrich.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Rey."

⠀⠀⠀⠀She gives pause at the nickname. Even relaxes a bit. Regan, with her raven hair dyed pink at the ends—a stark contrast to her ripped jeans and leather jacket—looks about as disconnected from reality as Thorn feels.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sorry, I—" Another pause, followed by a sigh. "Remember how we've been meaning to talk? How we always say we should, but we never do?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn nods. No use in playing dumb.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Well, can we... talk?" she asks. "No bullshit. No interruptions. No excuses anymore."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He does not hesitate this time. "Sure."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Blowing out the candles behind him first, he follows his sister as she leads him through the hallway and out into the living room. The smell of cigarette smoke forever lingers, but it isn't fresh. Jane must not be home yet. Huh. He'd assumed she'd gone out with Regan.

⠀⠀⠀⠀With that thought, he asks, "Where's Jane?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Regan makes no attempt to answer. She leisurely makes her way to one of the pleather sofas in the room without saying a word, and sits down.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Being the stubborn little brother he is, Thorn does not immediately join her. "Why couldn't we just talk in my room?" he asks.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At this, she spares him a glance. "For one, your room smells like paraffin and Old Spice. And for two, you might get mad and wig out on me. You don't wanna break anything worthwhile in there, do you?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Get mad... why, exactly?" he wonders. When she doesn't answer, but merely stares at him, he squares his jaw in suspicion. "Is everything okay?" Finally, he takes a seat on that sofa opposite her. "Are you okay?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I could ask you the same thing." She remarks, matter of factly. "You see, we'd already know these things if we actually talked to each other."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Talk. That's all anyone wants to do these days. Talking, he can do. Being honest with himself, he's good at. Giving advice, people only think he's great at. But doing all three? Not at once, no.

⠀⠀⠀⠀So try.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Alright..." Thorn relents. "Who talks first? Me? You? Casper the Friendly Ghost over there?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Let's both go at the same time. Say what we have to say; get everything out in the air."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Like we used to as kids? The very thing that took us fifty times to realize never works?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You still are a kid."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Any other day, the comment would have annoyed him. But something about her... Her body language, the way she's been carrying herself like she's been tiptoeing around a field of landlines, the sudden "love" she claimed to hold for Flash Morgan... Altogether, it tells a story. Thorn just isn't sure what yet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀One thing is obvious: he sure as hell won't get the answer out of her any other time. And so he plays along. "Okay," he says. "I'll humor you a little. We say whatever we have to say on the count of... what? Three? Ten?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Er, three? I guess?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Alright. One."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Two..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's all culminating to this moment; a near week's worth of secrets and lies. And what better way to admit he's sacred than in some silly, on-the-spot gut-spill where they talk over the other, certain to make no sense at all?

⠀⠀⠀⠀His turn again. "Thre—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"We're leaving Hawkins."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Whatever he was going to tell her immediately dies on his tongue. Whoooosh!, there all of his thoughts go, too, straight out the window.

⠀⠀⠀⠀All he says is, "You're kidding."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The seriousness in her eyes tells him she isn't.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He feels suddenly nauseous. Blindsided. Even betrayed. An actual, physical kind of sickness takes shape in his gut, forcing him to sit back. The only part of him that appears functional is his heart, and even that's beating like he'd run a goddamn mile.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her expression, her wordlessness, her eyes. All very patient. All very serious. But not very telling.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She doesn't say anything. Just lets him take the hit; lets her words sink in. In case he explodes. In case he gets mad and breaks something. What's she saying, though, it doesn't all the way resonate with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Shocked. It's a shock.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Why?" Thorn's voice strains with the question. "I don't understand. Where is this even coming from?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Thorn..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Leave Hawkins? I don't—" He shakes his head. "You can't be serious right now."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh, but I am." Regan changes before him, her earlier gentleness turning grim. "Come on, baby brother—even you've been talking about getting the hell out of dodge ever since we got here. "Once I turn eighteen, I'm gone." Remember that? Those were your words."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I just wanted to get Jane off my back!" He retorts. But his statement is only half true. He did want to leave Hawkins. He wanted New York. But that was before everything happened. That was before... "I can't just... leave, Regan. Not now. I have friends here; people I care about! People who actually care about me!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I know, Thorn. I know. Which is why I'm giving you a choice..." Her face softens, but she won't look him in the eye anymore. "You can leave with me. You and I can grab our stuff, walk out that door right now, and never look back. Or... you can stay. With Jay, or Auggie, or with goddamn Steve Harrington for all I care! As long as you're safe, and far away from—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀She falters. Chokes up a little. When she swallows, a lump visibly catches in her throat.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Gravely—and with much effort on his part—Thorn asks, "Regan... where is Jane?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀She stares at her hands in her lap. "I left her there. I took her back, and I just... left her there."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What are you—?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"The hospital," Regan clarifies. "That's where I was all day. Mom had another medical scare this morning while you were asleep, and she—" The quiet snicker under her breath is humorless. "Well. You know how she gets. She hates treatment; hates the chemo. I practically had to drag her there. By the time nurses were loading her onto a stretcher and poking her with IVs, I realized something. I realized... that I don't care anymore. And neither does she. I don't think she wants to die; not really... But I think she marvels over the possibility of what her death might do to me. And in the meantime, what her being alive does to you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"God, I'm just— so sorry. She made a promise to take care of you, and she failed you. I failed you. I stood by for years as she tormented you, took her anger out on you, and I did nothing. Nothing. But no more. I'm done defending her. I believed I owed it to her, but I know now that I don't owe her shit. And neither do you."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Rey—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You've been nothing but good to her," she cries, "even when she didn't deserve it. Even when I—!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Stop talking like that," rebukes Thorn. "Stop. None of that was your fault. She may not be my mother, but for God's sake, Rey, you're still my sister."

⠀⠀⠀⠀That last part catches her off guard, like she hadn't expected him to say that. Despite her welling tears, she smiles—a bright, pretty thing equivalent to a star. "So you'll come with me?" she asks. "We'll leave town together, tonight?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You can't seriously expect me to choose right now?" He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Either I go with you, or I stay for my friends? That's like asking me to shoot my left leg or my right!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm not expecting anything, Thorn. I know you. When you're given two options, you either want nothing to do with either, or you stubbornly find a way to do both. But... I'm still hoping you'll make a choice."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Then no," he retorts, feeling sick having just said it. "I can't just up and leave right now." There are things I have to do first; mysteries I have to solve. "Wait, yes. No! You can't just— Damnit!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's getting heated now, wigging out just like Regan feared he would. Somehow, white-knuckled and silently cursing, he manages to keep cool enough to stay seated. He isn't even angry at her, specifically. There's just so much to be angry about.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Once a teenager herself, Regan had been dispassionate at the time. Ungovernable. Some would even say miserable. But right now, even just seeing her look like she might cry is gut-wrenching.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She doesn't cry, though. Like him, she just sits back against the sofa and frowns. "I'm sorry I'm asking so much of you. It's coming out of left field, and you're upset. But there's... something else. Another reason. Something... more."

⠀⠀⠀⠀In that moment, he's transported back to when he'd said the same thing to Nancy, and she, back to him. "There's always more," he sighs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He looks down. His eyes follow the fidgeting movement of his sister's hands, which now rest on her stomach. Another flash of déjà vu. Regan, always nervous. Regan, drinking and then not drinking. Regan, sick while at Steve's place—and supposedly only after having a mere drop of alcohol. When did this behaviour first start? Thorn can't remember. Christ. He should have been paying more attention.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh, my God..." Thorn gapes. Finally, it hits him. "You're pregnant."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only then does she start to cry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's beside her within moments, squeezing in beside her on the sofa and wrapping her in a hug. Any anger he'd felt flushes out of him, whirling away like water down a drain.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm sorry," Regan half says, half sobs into his shoulder. "I'm so s–sorry."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sorry?" Rubbing her back, Thorn gives a small, dismissive laugh. "The hell're you sorry for?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I sh–should have told you sooner."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You tried to. That's why you've been meaning to talk to me, isn't it?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Yes, b–but—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"But nothing. I blew you off. I should be the one apologizing, not you."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"But Reggie..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Reggie?" He pulls back a fraction to look at her face. "Who the hell is Reggie?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀The genuine confusion she must see reflected back at her—horror, even—makes Regan sober up a bit. "Oh, right..." she sniffles, "you don't know. Um... Reggie is Flash's real name."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"The fucker's name is Reginald?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Although this makes the girl chuckle a bit, she pushes him off of her and swats at his leg, anyway.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"He's... the father, then?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Regan wipes her tears. "Lucky me, huh?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Not at all, no.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I hate him," remarks Thorn, being honest. "I really, really hate him. But if you want to figure this out with him—really do love him, I mean—I'll just... have to get over it." He presses his mouth together in an attempt to smile. "For the baby, y'know?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀She looks strangely proud of him then. "You're sweet." She similarly provides a smile, but it's short lived. "But you don't have to worry about that. I realized... well, I've realised a lot of things recently. One of them being he isn't exactly father material."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Does he know?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"No."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Then... why did you forgive him?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I was scared. I thought—" She shakes her head. "I imagined raising a kid alone, and I just couldn't see it. I... tried to drink it away. But I stopped that pretty quick. Then, when I saw you stand up to mom—to Jane—last night, it occurred to me it's not hers, or Reggie's support I care about."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What are you—?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm saying you're my family, Thorn. Just you." Another glance down. "And now you, I suppose..." she whispers to the little thing inside her tummy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn blinks, struck suddenly dumb. "So, just realized... I'm going to be an uncle?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her expression goes all mushy then, and she reaches out to tenderly stroke his cheek. Unlike he had with Jane, he does not flinch. Never has.

⠀⠀⠀⠀That's when he knows he could never forgive himself if he let her leave Hawkins alone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Okay," starts Thorn, "I'll—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Regan gives a little peep of surprise as the telephone begins to blare at them from the dining room, where Thorn had last left it. It rings in that urgent way all phones do, beckoning for one of them to pick up the call. But neither ever does.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only when it stops ringing does Thorn speak again. "I'll come with you."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"We'll go," he readily clarifies. "If that's what you want, we'll go. Back to New York. To Boston, California, anywhere you want—we'll go."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Annoyingly, the phone sounds off again. With it comes but a moments flicker of the dining room light, which Regan must have already replaced.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her gaze remains on her brother. "You changed your mind," she murmurs, guilt crossing her features. "I could see that you wanted to stay. I— God. I should have told you about... about the baby first. Now I feel like you're only agreeing because—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Stop talking like that," he tells her again. The phone stops ringing. Another light shudders. "Let's at least think this over. We don't have to decide tonight. Just... stick around a while. Maybe we won't—"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Rrrrrring!

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Goddamn," grumbles Regan, rubbing her temples. "Can you answer that? If mom died and that's her lawyer calling, I don't want to know."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn obliges, stands up, and is at the receiver within seconds. "Hello?" he answers the phone, pressing it between one ear and a shoulder. "Shit. Auggie? Yeah, yeah, I—" The clock. He looks at the clock on the wall, still broken and frozen on the time 5:12. "Shit, I wasn't paying attention. I know I'm late, I just— No, I'm not naked! I showered already, shut up. Just cover for me until get there. Tell your dad I'm... recovering from a car crash!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Cringing, he slams the phone down onto the receiver before Auggie can give him hell. He'll pay for that later, no doubt about it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Um,"—he stands there awkwardly, gaze falling toward his sister in the other room—"I'm kind of late for work, but if you need me to—?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"No, no, you should go," Regan insists. "Really. We can sort this all out later."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Are you sure?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀She nods. "Reggie and I are over, Jane's in hospital... We have time to think. Maybe we won't even have to leave until the new year."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her assurance comes as a relief. If they're really serious about going—leaving Hawkins behind; starting a new life somewhere, somehow—then maybe Thorn will have time to say goodbye. To Jay and to Auggie, his best friends in the world. To Joyce and to Hopper, the only two people connecting him to his parents. Steve, Mike, Dustin, Lucas, even Jonathan. Nancy...

⠀⠀⠀⠀There goes that light again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Okay," Thorn murmurs, already moving toward the hallway to his room. "I have to grab my keys and get dressed. If Auggie calls again, I'm not home."

⠀⠀⠀⠀He's quick about it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Panicking internally, yet somehow coolly going through the motions of getting ready, he's back in the living room again within minutes, where he finds Regan is no longer there. He panics all over again—for a horrific moment, he thinks she has disappeared—until he hears movement behind him and whirls around to the sight of her tiptoeing out of the kitchen.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Suddenly she's shoving a thermos of warm liquid toward him. "Take this," she says.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He raises a brow. "Coffee?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Yeah, no." Her chuckle is soft, still tainted with a little bit of heartache. "I think weeding you off caffeine altogether would do you a great deal. It's hot cocoa."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh." He blinks. The last time she'd made hot cocoa for him had been—what—when he was maybe thirteen? Geez. "You didn't have to do that."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Don't act so shocked." Before he can attempt to refute her claim (let alone move), Regan reaches out and tousles his hair, sufficiently messing up what he'd only just brushed. "I'll see you later, yeah? In the meantime, try not to crash your car for real out there."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Already on his way to the door, thermos in one hand and keys in the other, Thorn turns one last time to look at his sister. "Yeah,"—still with those keys in hand, he gives a two-fingered salute—"no promises."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Bursting out into the night, the stars are the first thing to greet him. For once, they aren't very comforting. Each pinprick of light reminds him an awful lot of that glow in the photos Nancy had shown of him. That was only one of several problems to think about. And now Regan, and this baby? Leaving Hawkins?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Still reeling, Thorn practically clambers into his car, tosses the thermos aside, and shoves one key into the ignition. Wrong key. He tries another. At last, the engine revs up, sputtering on a half-empty tank of fuel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He sits there.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And he sits there.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Damnit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He can't leave. Not now. Sorry, Auggie. She oughta think he's a terrible friend. But—damn it all to Hell!—Thorn refuses to keep being a terrible brother.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Holding the steering wheel, he slumps over it with a long sigh, head between his arms. His big idiot forehead connects with the car horn on the way down, blaring big and loud and likely waking up everyone in the goddamn neighborhood. Still, he doesn't move.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Stupid!

⠀⠀⠀⠀What am I thinking?

⠀⠀⠀⠀I can't just leave her alone when—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Something flashes through the darkness of his closed eyelids; a small light. Opening his eyes confirms this. There, still dangling from his keys in the ignition, is his lightsaber keychain, glowing blue and brighter than ever before. Odd. After the electrocution it had given him, he was sure it had broken.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The light flickers. And that's when the blood curdling screams begin.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At break-neck speed, Thorn turns toward the source, fearing whatever he may find there. The Holman residence—his house—is lit up like the fucking Fourth of July. Every light inside pulsates on and off like fireworks, receding and reappearing, and each a blink faster than the last. Wherever a lightbulb isn't, the electrical wiring instead crackles and sparks.

⠀⠀⠀⠀More screams. A loud bang. The sound of furniture being tossed and of glass shattering. And amidst it all, his sister.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn doesn't realize he's already shot out of the car and running until he trips on the last step of the front porch. With a heavy thud, he (thankfully) lands with his body against the front door, whereupon he's fumbling to open the doorknob with trembling hands.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Regan!" he calls out for her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But it's no use—she must have locked the door behind him after he left. And so he starts pounding on it with his fists instead.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"REGAN!" Her name heaves out of him, louder than anything. But he might as well be calling into the wind. "Open up, Regan! Damnit!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀His only response is a snarl—this ghastly, demented thing like a hungry, ravaged beast—and then a shout: inaudible, but still within earshot, and coming from the far end of the house.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Instinct kicks in. Processing everything in fragments, he abandons the front door and sprints to the left of the porch, vaulting over the railing at the end with surprising skill. He's good at running. Cops and thugs, he can run from. But running toward a dangerous uncertainty?

⠀⠀⠀⠀As it turns out, he's good at that, too.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Through precarious overgrowth of weeds and brush, Thorn makes swift work in cutting through the back of the property, shouting for his sister with every pant. He's faintly aware of the next door neighbor's dog barking. Hearing this—or perhaps the screams—their owner turns on a light.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thorn almost trips again, this time over nothing, when he hears from inside his house the BANG! of— Jesus fucking Christ, was that a gun?!

⠀⠀⠀⠀When he finally reaches the backyard, squinting into the kitchen through a little window on the back door, he witnesses two blurry figures dart out toward the living room. He can just make them out in the flickering light: one, short and shadow-like, with a trail of hair flowing behind them; and the second, bigger and taller, with anatomically impossible limbs for arms.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"REGAN!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀He thinks he screams. Fails to register his tears. The back door is locked tight, same as the other. Regan must have locked it behind her after she came home.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Feeling useless, Thorn starts pounding his fists against the door again—practically uses it as a punching bag—until they become sticky with something he sees before he ever feels. A quick glimpse tells him it's his own blood. From pounding. from reopening old knuckle wounds, he doesn't care.

⠀⠀⠀⠀All he can think about is that gun.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Shit. Fuck! Regan!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Does his sister have the gun?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Does an intruder?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh, fuck it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He punches the little window. Stupid idea (He never claimed to be smart!). The glass doesn't break right away, but a finger does. He chokes back a cry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He doesn't stop for anything. This time, it occurs to him to use an elbow. It takes him a few tries, but the window finally shatters inward, breaking into glittering shards. Remnants of glass slice into his arm as he reaches in and feels around blindly for the lock. No time to think about it now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Bingo. He unlocks the door and all but yanks it open, hearing it slam into something behind him outside, but never seeing it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀What he does see is horrible.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Blood. What smells like it, anyway. The dark, tar-like substance is slicked over the living room in patches, including where he and Regan had been standing just five minutes prior. One of the two sofas has been flipped over, the other torn with the distinct mark of four-pronged claws. The television set, tossed; the lamp in the corner, broken; a curtain or two, shredded. The sight is cataclysmic. It makes Thorn want to barf.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The lights have altogether stopped, plunging he and the home into darkness. There's a stillness to the air, too—a quiet. With a brand new, gut-wrenching horror settling within his stomach, Thorn realizes he can't hear Regan anymore.

⠀⠀⠀⠀So he does barf. It isn't pretty. Frantically—stumbling his way through the dark—he starts scouring the house for his sister, desperately calling out to her over and over. He tells her it's okay to come out; that she can stop hiding now; that he's here.

⠀⠀⠀⠀I'm here. The fuzzy memory of his conversation with Will replays in his mind. Where are you?

⠀⠀⠀⠀After some time of stumbling around and finding nothing, he starts to hear the world again. Outside, the neighborhood is awake, and somewhere in the not-so-far-off distance, the wailing of sirens draw near. It isn't until they're right outside on the street that Thorn—now back where he started in the living room—collapses onto his knees in front of a shell casing from whomever had fired that (notably missing) gun.

⠀⠀⠀⠀When the door finally bursts open and the flashlights find him, Thorn is hunched over like he's about to say a prayer. But he has no god to pray to. Yet again, he's all alone. And once again, he's become that same scared, forsaken ten-year-old who watched his parents die; is now seeing Regan die all the same.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Judgement Day.

⠀⠀⠀⠀In the artificial white light he mistakes for the afterlife, the last thing Thorn sees before he's dragged away is a monstrous, fleshy hole on the ceiling closing in on itself like a black hole.

⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
___________________

( ミ☆ ) A/N.
mind you i originally published this chapter way before the later seasons implied (and later confirmed) that the atmosphere in the upside down literally changed will at a biological level and gave him (*insert S5 spoilers*) so... if you take anything away from regan's "leave of absence" here, let it be a "eh... we'll see where the road takes us" (not in a duffer brothers plot hole way)

⠀
⠀
( word count: 4,822 )

Publishing Dates:
[ Original: Jan 23rd, 2018 ]
[ Revamp: Jan, 2026 ]