Delirium

Chapter Fourteen: Worse

With Joan Jett and The Blackhearts, she began on the list. She washed dishes, swept the entire house, mopped it up, cleaned out the food pantry and wiped down the shelves, cleaned the countertop and table, then moved into the living room to vacuum and organize the vinyl on the music shelf. The last was of her own will. She hated a disorganized shelf. She wanted to know where every album was in case she had to quickly pull it out.

She didn't know what emergency would call for such quick handiwork, but she wanted to be prepared.

She sat on the freshly vacuumed carpet as she decided whether to organize her vinyl alphabetically or by genre. While she was stuck deciding, there was a knock on the door. She jerked around to stare at the non-moving door. Her eyes narrowed skeptically as she pushed herself up and walked to open the door.

Steve stood on the other side, grinning as he shivered in his spot. Liv got sudden flashbacks of seeing the same grin moments before a Demogorgon devoured his head.

She tried to shove the image way down where it wouldn't be able to hurt her. She didn't want to think about the nightmare when he was there in the flesh. In the lively flesh.

"You came." She opened the door wider for him. He kicked the dirt from his shoes before stepping inside. She closed the door quickly to trap the cold outside. "I didn't think you would."

He stripped his jacket and set it on the coat rack by the front door. "I told you I would." He ran his hand back through his hair to smooth it down.

"Yeah, but I told you I had detention and chores so I would be busy."

He shrugged and looked around her house. "Looks clean to me."

She eyed the vinyl she had spread out over the floor. "Yes, clean," she drawled as she moved back to her spot on the carpet. Steve sat on the couch by her and flung his arm on the back of the couch. "Should I organize these alphabetically? Or by genre? Or by genre then alphabetically?" She looked at Steve as she held up Corey Hart and Pat Benatar. Both were wildly different albums that had no business being placed together.

Steve looked from the albums to her. "Are you neurotic?"

She dropped her hands to her lap, bringing the vinyl with her. "No, I just like things organized, it helps me. Now..."

"By genre, then alphabetically," he decided.

She grinned as she, too, thought that was the best course of action. She turned to the shelf and began to sort every album by genre: pop, alternative, country- which were far and few between- rock, metal, love song, blues, indie, and soundtracks. Once they were separated, she alphabetized them before setting them back on the shelf.

"Did you sleep last night?" He asked after she yawned for a third time.

She hummed and placed Def Leppard beside Bon Jovi. "Not really," she admitted. "Nightmares." It was becoming such a simple answer she thought it lacked meaning. It was like when she and Dustin would say a word over and over again until it didn't even seem real.

Nightmares.

Nightmares.

Night mares.

Ni ght M are s.

"Are they still bad?"

She blinked and saw Steve fall, dead, to her feet without a head. "They're getting creative," she answered instead. "Things that never happened are happening. It's like my mind is taking the worst possible scenarios of what could have been and is playing them all for my personal viewing."

Steve winced. "It was bad for me the first time around."

She stalled, with Van Halen's album about to be placed beside U2. "Really?"