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chapter eight spit swears
The thing about Alex is that all of her cages are mental. She has potential, but it's buried underneath the layers and layers of rage that have built up over the years. It's just wasted now. Her parents label her as a lost cause by the time she turns seven. She's a supposed prodigy—or at least that's what they used to say she was, back when she was younger before she burned out and before that spark of potential was fanned into a flame of anger (because gifted kids become angry teens). She supposes this is why she likes theories so much, why she likes to collect facts like one would collect playing cards, and why she plays with the thought of the ever-expanding multiverse theory so often.
And so, the facts run through her head once more. Kids do not wander the woods alone in the pouring rain, kids are not named after numbers, and kids don't move things with their minds. There is no explanation for Eleven, a girl, who not until recently, was discovered to carry the entire world in the palms of her hands. There is no evidence that suggests that Eleven was the one who slammed the door shut. No evidence except for the trail of blood that leaks from her nose and even that can be chalked up to a mere coincidence. But Alex knows that she's just lying to herself so she doesn't have to face the harsh reality before them.
Alex used to think that her anger gave her all the power in the world. People cower at the twitch of her nose. The world crumbled under the weight of her clenched fists. She parted crowds, was it too far-fetched to think that she could part oceans too? But this girl, Eleven, could probably move mountains if she really tried. She holds the entire world in the palms of her hands and all they can do is sit and watch to see what she does. Alex's anger is an ant compared to the calamity of the girl's power.
Her father referred to her as a sleeping tiger once. He had said, when he thought that Alex wasn't listening (but she always was), you don't want to wake the tiger. It had felt more like a taunt back then, but now it feels more like a threat. But Alex thinks that Eleven is something bigger than just a tiger. Whatever she is, Alex doesn't want to wake her.
The dining room table is uncharacteristically silent. But at least it's still warm. Not that the warmth helps Alex today. She stares down at the surface of the table, stained and marred with notches in the finished wood—so much unlike their own dining room table. Steve and Alex never use theirs. Forks clink against the pristine plates occasionally, but the only one who seems to be eating is Alex because she doesn't know the next time she'll be able to enjoy a homecooked meal that isn't eggs and toast and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
"Something wrong with the meatloaf?" Karen finally prods, breaking the silence that washes over them.
Dustin, who has been twirling his fork startles. "Oh, no, I had two bologna sandwiches for lunch...I don't know why."
