Halley's comet | Steve Harrington

xiii. get out of my house

One flicker. Halley nearly laughed. He was okay. He was alive. He was alive, and they were going to find him and he was going to be okay.

Joyce didn't seem to have the same idea, almost as soon as the lights switched, she was asking another question, "are you safe?"

Two flickers. the giddy feeling in her stomach turned sour.

Hands shaking almost as much as Halley's now, Joyce clutched the lights closer to herself. "I need to know where you are, Honey. Where..." she lost her words, biting her lip as she tried to steady herself. Halley picked up where she had left off.

"Where are you? Can you," she grabbed the lights, picturing it was her kid brother's hand, "can you tell us where you are? Please kiddo. I just need to know where you are. Just tell me where you are. Please Will. I can't..." her voice fell flat as she caught her mother's eyes. They were thinking the same thing. These weren't yes or no questions, Will couldn't answer them in a flicker or two.

"There's—" Joyce took a shaky breath, looking at the lights, then her only daughter, "there's paint in the shed." The air was stiff around them, and as Halley stood, she worried her legs would snap like led.

Stumbling through the house as if she was on autopilot, she came to the side door in the kitchen, almost tripping over Chester as they both pushed to get out.

The sky was a ominous grey, furthering the horrific squeeze of Halley's stomach as she came to the old shed.

Her fingers tingled as she pushed open the door. Joyce had told her Hopper's speculation: That Will had tried to fight something off right where she stood. The idea of her brother all alone, trying to defend himself against whatever was out there. The idea only pushed her forward, fueling her desire to rip the shed apart piece by piece to find the goddamn paint.

Face contorting as she picked up an old rifle, she remembered the first time she had picked up the weapon, almost immediately being berated by her so-called father.

No more than eleven years old, she tried to join one of the big 'manly' hunting trips Lonnie had been wanting to take Jonathan on for forever. Looking back, the disinterest in his voice was more than noticeable, and it was painfully obvious how much he wanted his only daughter to leave him alone.

Of course, preteen Halley wasn't about to take no for an answer, and proceeded to hang off her father's arm hoping for only a pinch of attention her brothers received what seemed to be so unconditionally.

Early morning with the sun still rising, she had bounded up behind Jonathan, looking expectantly at Lonnie. He ignored her. She asked about coming along; talking about how she would be quieter than humanly possible. He ignored her still. She picked up the rifle— said something about wanting him to teach her how to use it— she didn't remember exactly. But she did remember the force he used to snatch the gun back, sending her stumbling forward, and the glare he sent down to her.

The words he spoke still echoed in her head whenever she was around the rifle. "A girl isn't fit for a gun. Go back inside and help your mother with tonight's dinner before you hurt someone."

Sure, it was one of the more tame things he had said to her, but she was old enough at the time to understand that he was pushing her away. The lack of interest to spend any time at all with her, hurt more than the physical pain that came in random eruptions throughout her early life.

She put the gun back down. There were far more important things to focus on than her shitty childhood.

Sitting behind a bucket filled with child sized gardening tools were two, probably expired, cans of black paint. Halley tucked one under her arm and grabbed the other, along with a rusted paintbrush.