Billy Hargrove might rule the corridors of Hawkins High as the bully. Yet, behind closed doors at home, he's the victim, tormented by his own father. His mother abandoned him, so he has no defender against his abuser.
But at school, Steve Harrington...
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Ash-like spores fall down from the dark sky above, filling the air with a putrid, unbearable stench. Max sits in a corner, her back pressed against a brick wall eaten away by mould.
'Pain,' Henry Creel's voice slices through the atmosphere. 'Suffering.'
Max jolts, lifting her head. Her eyes dart through the dark to find the source-Henry Creel. But she can't see him. She presses her knees to her chest.
'Anguish, doubt, fear. All of it, yes.' His voice quivers with ecstasy, as if he draws pleasure from such concepts. 'I can sense its grips on you.'
'Go away,' Max says, like a child trying to dispel a ghost.
'It's not me you have to fear.'
She grows tight-lipped. 'I said goaway!'
'It's the world,' he speaks over her. 'It's the corrupt world you were born into. It's the corrupt world that you were raised in as if it was safe. Have you ever looked at the sky, Maxine?'
'Don't call me that,' she hisses.
'Have you ever looked? Answerme!' His voice becomes thicker, more demanding.
She can feel it clawing its way into her, prying her ears open, and scratching against the tunnels of her ears. She resists him as much as possible.
'You have,' he answers himself. 'I can tell that you can see right through it, too, don't you? It's as if the clouds are painted on. The sky itself ... ah, how long has it been since I've seen it ... pale blue, light blue, at times azure, sometimes burning with the light of the sun. Where else do you see such lights, such colours, if not for a movie pulling the strings of one's heart? Everything is painted on.'
'Stop!' she screams, digging her nails into her knees. 'Stop it! I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear you.'
Henry Creel becomes silent for a moment until ... his laughter fills all of the Upside Down. It's a sick and twisted laughter. 'That is what you like to do, isn't it? No,' he corrects himself. 'No ... no ... no. Not just you. It's everyone. Every human, every insignificant pest does this. They run away from the truth, unable to face it. Comfort is the cancer of humans. You find comfort, my darling, in believing your little lies?'
