two.

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
                          
CHAPTER TWO:
BILLY HARGROVE AND THE HALLOWEEN BASH
                          
[ TRICK OR TREAT, FREAK PART I ]
                          
❖ ❖ ❖
                          
            When Thomas burst into the school's bathroom and lunged for the sink, breathing heavily, gagging, almost vomiting, there was somebody already populating the bathroom. They sat up on the window-ledge next to the round, swirly-glassed window, a cigarette gripped between their teeth and lips, puffing curling snakes of grey smoke that left an acrid taste on his already heavy tongue and filled the bathroom with the stench of nicotine. Thomas paid him no notice, clawing for the sink and then clutching at the porcelain with clammy hands once he found it. 
                          
          Breathe. Eyes scrunched shut, refusing to even give his reflection a glance in the mirror above the grimy school sink, he willed himself with utter desperation to breathe. Just breathe.
                          
           But he couldn't breathe. His chest was constricting around his lungs and ribs, clenching and then unclenching in random spasms as he fought for air. His shoulders heaved and his throat rasped loudly through the quiet bathroom, sucking in a combination of musty cigarette smoke and oxygen. 
                          
          All the things he hated most, all the things he feared, manifested in such a vivid type of detail that he had no choice but to believe they were real. Memories haunted his dreams, hid themselves within loud noises, within Fourth of July fireworks, within certain smells and sights — but never static. Never radios. Never something real and something dangerous. His abilities didn't play tricks on him. His abilities didn't scare him. 
                          
         His heart was pounding now, all because of his own endless thoughts. He thought and thought and thought, like he always did, until he was thinking about how he was supposed to think, and he knew then that he was certainly out of his mind, and that only made his heart pound faster than ever. Blood was rushing to his head; he swayed slightly, clutching at the porcelain, eyes flicking rapidly.
                          
          His tattoo was poking out from beneath his long sleeves. He made no effort to hide it. 
                          
           And — well . . . Well . . . Well, it was all just stupid — really it was! — because it was all those months ago, almost a year, and it was all finally over and had been for an eternity and he was fine now because he'd kind of come to terms with it and it was a gift — it was a freaking gift, yes, of course it was! — but that static made him feel like it was happening again, like some kind of devil had returned to Hawkins, like somebody was trying to finish the circuit between himself and The Dark Place — dear God, don't think about the dark place! — and, in all honesty, he didn't really know if he was having a panic attack because he'd never had one of those before but he just really couldn't breathe and he also couldn't stop the rustle of static from ringing in his ears and dear God, if this was what a panic attack felt like, panic attacks were awful and —