Blue Lips

4

     Eddie sat on the kitchen table, holding a carton of juice, while Liz frantically dug through the cabinets, looking for something, anything that might help them against Dr. Death. Of course, Eddie knew that she wasn't going to find anything that would work any better than anything that they already had, or that he had already suggested. His pajamas were sticking to his skin now, because of the sweat from holding onto her body while he was convinced that she was dying, and the humidity that came with August in Hawkins; and he just wanted to take a shower. Dustin and Steve, and whoever else had been told about their plans, would be there in less than two hours, and he felt like he'd been hit by a bus. She'd been digging for about half an hour, handing him random things and asking if they would help. So far, he'd said no to an orange peeler, a nutcracker, a grater, a cast iron skillet, a kitchen knife set, and a 12-piece-set of corn-cob handles. She sat down on the floor, leaning against the refrigerator, propping her elbows up on her knees and resting her forehead in her hands. "This is hopeless," she breathed, shaking her head, "this is hopeless and ridiculous, and we're all in danger. He's never gonna stop, Ed, and at this point, I don't even know if we can stop him, or kill him. We're so screwed," She leaned her head back until it went thud against the fridge door.

     Eddie sat, listening to her ramble, occasionally taking a swig straight out of the juice carton. It wasn't that he was purposely being dismissive of everything that she was saying, or even trying to ignore her. He was just... exhausted. He was exhausted, and tired of hearing her frantically trying to figure it all out. He knew that there was no point, that it was never going to make sense. Not until she knew the full truth, and that was a long story that he wasn't even sure if he had straight, or fully understood. He blinked a few times, still staring out the window. He hadn't said a single word since they'd seen Dr. Death outside their window. He'd felt no need to speak. The damn thing had been inside their house, not to mention the fact that he'd hijacked her mind for the better part of four hours. He was sick of it. Sick of the fact that he was never going to escape it, sick of the fact that it was never going to end, sick of all of it. Seriously, how many times could the world end? How many times could it come this close to imploding, only to be thwarted by a group of worse-the-wear kids and their group of unwitting babysitters?

     He finally sighed, pushing himself to the edge of the table and standing up. "I think he was just messing with your head," he said flatly, setting the now-empty juice carton into the trash can, and turning towards the stairs, "I think he wants you to know that he really was here, and I think that he's going to torture us until he gets whatever it is that he wants." He started up the stairs, without another word. He was sick of it, and he just didn't want to think about it for ten minutes. He just wanted to have a normal life, and this was about as far from that as it could get. He walked into the bathroom and started the shower, rubbing his face. He heard the stairs creak as she followed him up, and heard her sigh as she sat on the bed. "I'm just scared," he heard her say through the door. "I know," he said softly in response, starting into the shower. He heard her rummaging through the dresser - or maybe the desk - and pulled the shower closed. "I think that Dustin and Steve will be here soon," he said to her, getting his hair wet, and reaching for the shampoo, "maybe they'll have an idea. Dustin's usually pretty quick with this stuff. He's a smart kid." There was no response from her, so he assumed that she was probably upset with him for not having said anything for the past two hours. Girls were funny like that, if you say the wrong thing, you're on their list. If you don't say anything, you're still on the list. He finished washing up and rinsing off, and reached for his towel, turning off the water. He dried the mirror with his towel, looking at himself in the reflection. I should probably shave, now, he thought, since I have no idea when we'll be back to normal. He lathered shaving cream onto his face and gently pulled the razor across his cheeks and chin, being extra careful around his jaw and lips, so that he wouldn't accidentally knick himself. He was gazing at his reflection, trying to decide what was off, about it, picking at a scab on his chin from a pimple that he had picked at until it bled. He squinted at the mirror, again, staring at every inch of his face. Something was off, but what? Then it hit him, as his face started to pink back up, that his lips were blue, and his skin was pale. He took a step back, wiping the mirror again. Everything was normal. He decided not to tell Liz about anything that he had just seen, and towel-dried his hair before wrapping the towel around his waist. "Sweetheart," He said, opening the bathroom door, "did you hear any of what I just said?" He took a step into the bedroom, turning his head to see her sitting cross-legged on the bed, scribbling into a notebook. She looked up and nodded, returning to her notebook.