Stitch

Will struggles to breathe; the angry stares of his friends and family burn into him. Will feels like he's burning alive. He always liked it cold. Will’s legs give out, and he falls to his knees at El’s feet.

There are so many bodies, so much blood all around him. And it’s all Will's fault. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Will sobs desperately.

El shakes her head. “Not good enough. They are still dead. And you are not.”

Will’s eyes flick around the group hovering around him. To his Mom, with her lips snarled up in contempt, to his brother, unmoved, not even bothering to look him in the eye, and to Mike, who looks at him with nothing but disgust in his eyes. At the back of the crowd, Will spots someone, someone who doesn’t look familiar. A face shrouded in darkness by a rimmed hat. Then El thrusts out her hand towards Will, and she screams.

Will wakes up screaming, too.

Seven months after Hawkins split in four, Will's nightmares are getting worse. More intense, and more real. Will's just trying to do what he does best—hide it. He's tired of feeling like a burden. He should be able to handle this himself. They're just ordinary bad dreams. Aren't they?

Will doesn’t like getting angry at people. He’s been on the other end of it enough times in his life to know he never wants to be that kind of person. So whenever Will gets frustrated, he tends to bottle it up until he can work through it or it explodes all over the place. It's like there’s this monster inside of him that no matter how hard he tries to starve it, won’t stop snapping up into his throat trying to get out. Like, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, deep down inside, he really is that kind of angry person who made his early childhood hell. Why do you hate me?