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Déjà Vu.
Déjà Vu was a feeling that most individuals had out of the blue. The familiarity of a situation that they swore they had been through before tingled against the human sense like a bird's feather on a foot. They tickled. It happened very quickly, the sensation. An odd overwhelming feeling that shook you to your core then as quickly as it started . . . it stopped.
Experts thought that Déjà Vu was just something tied to your recent memories. Experts like those people in the laboratory, that tested on little kids, believed this theory wholeheartedly. But a little boy—a miracle—found the sense to be oddly supernatural.
Subject Twelve had been familiar with Déjà Vu.
It was a feeling he gotten a lot whenever he came close to the future—the future he had seen in his small but terrifying predictions—a future he'd wish he could forget and forgive. But he couldn't. And that's what terrorized him the most.
No matter how much he tried to pretend he never got the feeling of that tingly feeling down his back—or along his arms—the feeling of Déjà Vu always found a way towards him.
It was a feeling he went through now as Mike suddenly hopped up from his seat on the bleachers next to Eleven—or El—Twelve's sister. Immediately Twelve got that feeling—the emotion of worry invaded his senses and he could tell that it was coming from Mike specifically.
Twelve, who was sat next to Lucas with his head on the boy's shoulder, tried to stay awake while he sat comfortably. After what he had seen the in bath, or what was left of Barbara Holland, he couldn't stop shaking for a moment. Twelve had never, never, seen a dead body became so mangled and . . . decayed before. This . . . it all was too much for him. He hated seeing dead people, or just blood in general, and wished after the events of this. To never see them again. Though he never thought or said this out loud. He kept his weaknesses, like these, locked in a box where no one could touch them.
But luckily, after Joyce had left, Lucas was there to comfort him. His hand rested on the subject's back until he stopped shaking so violently—and even then he still had his arm around his shoulders. Pulling him in closer so he wouldn't be scared anymore.
Lucas's posture was hunched as the Wheeler boy walked out the doors but he suddenly straightened up when he noticed that Twelve had started to become uncomfortable it seemed. Or at least, he seemed uncomfortable by the way he started to squirm a bit. "You okay?" The Sinclair boy asked the smaller boy who shook his head.
"Really . . . tired." Twelve spoke in mumbles that Lucas almost barely recognized. He'd never seen the boy this tired before, it was truly . . . concerning how grey his skin was and the bags that suddenly formed. Or how cold he was despite the giant towel wrapped around his torso.
