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He hasn’t felt anything for a long time except kinda pissed off. He doesn’t begrudge anyone their happy endings -- rather, doesn’t want to -- just can’t stop thinking about his own story and comparing them. His sucks and he’s gotta face it: he’s responsible for a lot of that.
He’s spent so long feeling nothing, wants to feel something. Wants to take the steps towards taking the steps to feeling something. It has to start with change.
He’s standing at the check out line, a pack of Camels dwarfed in his hand. Blank stare at the chocolate bars and other junk lining the counters behind the pimple-faced kid, lost in thought.
Is there anything he wants?
Uh, yeah, actually, he’ll take one of those.
And some of these, a couple of that, and...
----
It’s a crazy story, really. Something out of a novel or TV show. That’s what makes it so good, really puts us on the map.
One kid disappears, another shows up outta nowhere. There’s no evidence left behind save for the concrete giant hulking over the periphery of town, the interior scrubbed clean. Maybe it’s a one time cover-up. The local weirdos can’t stop yammering on about a government conspiracy.
I wish they’d can it.
Hawkins isn’t made for Hollywood drama; high intrigue, smoke and mirrors.
This town isn’t that kind of place.
Hawkins is a good place for beginnings and ends. We work hard to create a community built on trust and cooperation. Most importantly, family comes first. This is a safe place to raise yours til the kids are old enough to jump the nest, flock to colleges across the country.
Don’t you worry about the big city: the glamour wears off soon enough and the kids head on back -- there’s no denying the pull of home.
Everyone comes back to Hawkins.
Everyone.
----
It’s a blur, but then again it always is.
He can’t remember last night, probably better he doesn’t.
Deep inhale at having to face another day. Wordless groan in response to the effort he exerts to peel himself off the couch.
Eyes struggle to open. Eyes struggle to focus.
His couch. OK.
That means there wasn’t anyone over last night. So whatever the hell happened was between him and himself.
He pinches his face, fingers gingerly rubbing dried something -- don’t wanna think about whatever the hell that’s supposed to be -- off his shirt and onto his shitty carpet.
Inventory check: same old aches and pains, good old fist-sized vacuum in his chest, new throbbing headache. Kinda more open to the splitting headache than the rest. Why the fuck is there so many Twinkies everywhere? He doesn’t even eat those (he thinks).
Gotta do something about his head.
Shuffles to the kitchen and he’s surprisingly gentle in placing an ice pack against his face, no smacking it around. Can’t have the others worrying about the big guy that’s supposed to keep the town in check, I guess. Flo over at the precinct treats him like her own son.
Beer bottles are strewn haphazardly around the place: table, floor, cupboard, somehow couch. Latter might explain the crick in his neck. Little blue pills dot the landscape: his friends. He eyeballs them. Taking them would make his head pound worse but skipping them would mean--
Wait.
Something stinks. Jesus, is it him?
He stops assessing and squints into the middle distance, blind to the dust motes caught in the sun streaming through his windows. It would be beautiful if he could see, didn’t willfully blind himself for something out of his control.
Some time passes before he snaps back to attention, conscious of the fact he just woke up and he’s already toeing the edge. His face is tremendous with understanding.
Yeah, he fucking reeks.
-----
So, about the missing kid.
He’s just this little boy, y’know? I guess you don’t know the family but they struggle. A lot.
The mom, Joyce, she’s a single parent, and the oldest, Jonathan, he’s in high school. He has to work to help make ends meet. What kind of sixteen year old’s gotta worry about whether or not there’s food on the table?
I heard they both blamed themselves for the kid’s disappearance, but between you and me, they were kind of partially responsible. I got it from reliable sources that they were both out working when Will went missing. I know, I know — it’s a crazy situation; food or looking after the kid. But hey, something’s gotta give. Will could’ve stayed at a friend’s place. Just saying.
Once it became clear Will was missing, the community really banded together. Other towns wouldn’t have put that kind of effort into finding Will. Like I said, Hawkins is different. In one way or another, we’re all a little screwed up. Hawkins doesn’t leave anyone hanging. No one.
The Police Chief, Hopper, he really pushed the case. Got almost the whole town out poking through the forest looking for traces of Will. Me, I turned my ankle the first night but kept going. There’s no way I wouldn’t help out someone in need.
Hey, don’t look at me like that! I mean Will!
But seeing Hopper out there was what sold me. Not everyone knows it but the guy lost his own kid. Not lost like Will, lost like — yeah, you get me.
He still talks about her sometimes. Talks about her like she’s out there waiting for him.
——-
Hawkins doesn’t boast skyscrapers or mountains. The biggest props blotting out the sky are the trees. It’s such a pure, starting blue it can catch you off guard, hurt your eyes. If everyone in Hawkins were asked their favourite colour, the majority answer would be a simple ‘blue.’
It’s not only the colour of the sky, new beginnings, and limitless possibilities, but also the colour of the frayed cotton band clinging to Hopper’s wrist.
——-
Thirty minutes out of the shower and he’s standing in the middle of his kitchen, slack-jawed in front of his empty fridge. There’s a sad little doughnut in the corner, paper plate dark with grease. It’s stale and the icing an indistinguishable colour. What the hell, food’s food. He takes it.
These past few months have put him through the wringer and he looks worse for wear. Twin shadows under his eyes are his new constant companions, replacing his old friends murdered by the Lab. Everywhere he goes, no matter where he goes, he only fucks up life for everyone around him, leaving a trail of bodies. The people of Hawkins keeps congratulating him. His friend Benny’s dead, covered up as a suicide; the kids are traumatized well beyond their years; even he’s having flashbacks again (did they stop?). What’s he still doing here?
Sheer humiliation as he recalls his moment of weakness when he called his ex-wife before running an assumed one-way mission into the Lab. He swipes at his eyes as he recalls the baby crying on the line. How could she move on?
Can’t think about that or he’ll really go down the rabbit hole.
He crumples the paper plate in frustration and his eyes are drawn to the movement, a flash of colour in his drab trailer. A child’s hair tie, dwarfed on his massive wrist: mere cotton and spandex fibres woven together. He never takes it off and, as a result, wear and tear has sunk its teeth into it. He pauses then strokes it gently with his thumb like he’s petting a small animal. His jaw works at nothing at he fights to swallow around the rising lump in his throat.
There were no warning signs.
One day she’s fine, the next she’s in a hospital with tubes poking in and out of her every which way, more machine than human. Hair loss, chemo, weight loss, blood and puke. Her hairband had nothing left to cling to so he looped it around his wrist. She laughed; he cried.
She died in a hospital bed in front of her parents, the doctors unable to resuscitate her, her favourite tiger plush forgotten in a tangle of hospital sheets and emaciated limbs. Their marriage died shortly after, withered up without its source of light.
He wasn’t always like this.
He doesn’t want to think about it but his mind can’t stop replaying the scene. His hands are shaking so bad he can barely light up but he scrapes by, he always does. It’s what he’s been doing for the past four years.
A couple puffs gets him grounded enough to chase two pills with some warm beer. Doctors say not to mix the two. It’s something about blackouts (might have a point there) but how else is he gonna get through the day? It’s called coping, doc.
He can breathe a little easier.
-----
It’s like a magic trick. A boy goes missing, a girl shows up. Two sides of the same coin. Neat trick, huh?
Of course the Lab had something to do with it. For the most part, nobody really cares about it except for the people directly involved. The majority of those are the local kids and Joyce Byers. The only one involved with any sort of clout is the Chief but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s so out of it.
What I mean, really, is that there’s definitely something up with the Lab. But whether or not there’s this giant conspiracy, whether they really did experiments on people and kidnapped their kids, well, I’d say it’s pretty obvious that if that were true, the Lab wouldn’t be around anymore. Hawkins wouldn’t stand for that. Those government guys in suits, they’re there to keep us safe from the real bad guys, y’know?
I did catch a glimpse of the girl myself. She was so thin and looked so scared, didn’t have hair and these huge eyes just like a deer caught in the headlights. Seeing her really made me wonder…
But if everything that happened is really true, if the Lab really is some big bad government facility, what could I have done. Who should I have called, the cops? Have the Chief handle it? You seen how he looks lately?
-----
It’s true what the lady said — he’s still out there looking for his little girl.
He plods through the woods at a steady pace, one eye on the Lab. Sons of bitches installed cameras recently and he’s got to fight an overwhelming urge to flip them off. He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, brushes up against the snacks stuffed deep into the left one. It feels like he’s out here looking for a fucking family dog. He wants to laugh; he wants to cry. He wants to frisbee the plastic wrapped Eggo far away into the distance, never to be seen from again.
That thought throws him off — the girl went missing after he gave her his flannel to warm up. He stops, stunned. Not only is this kid running around somewhere without any food, shoes, or warm clothes, she (inadvertently) took off with his favourite flannel. Great.
A flash of movement sends a shiver of electricity up his spine and he whirls towards it. His eyes are dark, predatory. Didn’t bring his gun on this trip.
Nothing’s there. He doesn’t buy it. He works his hands in and out of fists.
“Hey.”
Nothing.
“Hey!”
A chipmunk streaks from the undergrowth, alarmed by the sudden shout.
He looks up to the sky for patience, looks down to the forest floor for a log to take a seat. This day’s been crap and he could use the rest from all the other days that have also been crap, one after another in his big ol pile of shit life.
He fishes out a map from his right pocket, smoothes it out on his knee. It’s a close-up of the woods with a grid neatly lined on top with pencil. He scribbles some notes in the margins (not here, not here) and crosses off another portion of a grid. Still no sign of her. He’s trying to plan his next course of action but doesn’t feel so good: head full of cotton and bobbing vision.
Two options: settle in for a quick rest or keep moving and eat something in the hopes he’ll get some energy. As far as he knows, her life is on the life. He stands up and stumbles, catching himself on a tree. He looks around. There’s one every few feet.
Fuck it, Eggo time.
——-
Listen, I’m flattered you took out the time to talk to me. Really! I guess I just don’t really understand why you won’t ask anyone directly involved if you want the bigger picture. I wasn’t trying to start anything just now, y’know?
Like I said, everyone in the town looks after each other. Just surprised you haven’t noticed how run down some of the folks around here are after everything. They’re, we -- we’re just scared. If everything really did happen, then, then why? God, sorry, I’ve held this in for so long. Why us? We’re a small, tight-knit community. A lot of us are running from something, coming back home after the world out there beats us down.
I used to eat at Benny’s once a week and I can’t even drive by there anymore… Jesus, Benny. Didn’t even know him well!
The Chief, y’know, he was close. What I said before, well, I meant it. He’s been through too much; I think his grip on reality’s slipping. It’s like… God, it’s like, his kid isn’t out there. She’s dead. No amount of looking or “atoning” or whatever the hell he does is going to change it. If you ask me, he needs someone to find him, not the other way around. Stop giving me that look, I swear, I’m just a concerned citizen.
Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome for your time. I’m sorry I kinda blew it at the end. It’s been real stressful ‘round here, but it’s still home.
What did you want me to look at?
What, a syringe? Haven’t seen one of those for a while. I don’t know what anyone told you but I don’t do that stuff anymore. No comment, as they say.
Hey, what--
What are you doing? Get your hands off me!
Get your hands off me!!
-----
He comes to where he blacked out: a pile of organic debris at the base of the log his ass was previously occupying. He’s lucky there weren’t any rocks close to the surface under the fallen leafs, an overabundance of them due to the season.
His mouth is dry but he still manages to croak out a hearty, “dammit.”
In response, the forest sends a single leaf spirals lazily through the air, its trajectory halted by the crown of his head. He grumbles. Small inhale through his mouth, snort through his nose to dislodge any soil. Gross. Low groan as rolls himself onto his side, into a sitting position.
Inventory check: same old aches and pains, face smarts (did he fall flat on it? Man...), hungry. He stretches his hands open and shut, popping joints and assessing various small scrapes and scratches.
Beat up hands. OK.
That means he was lucid enough that he put his arms out to break his fall. So why the hell does his face hurt? He touches it gingerly.
No blood. That’s good.
Looks at his hands. Some blood. Might get infected, not so good. Gotta clean that when he’s back home. Thankfully he didn’t smear blood on the map, which is really good because--
Hold on a second.
He paws at his pockets absently. The map.
Where’s the map? He took the map out of his pocket. He fell holding the map.
No map.
Oh shit.
He can’t believe it. He was supposed to be getting everything back on track. He’s spinning around, looking everywhere, heaving in disbelief, when he sees her. He’s not entirely sure he’s completely lucid yet.
He stares.
She’s filthy and haggard, somehow skinnier than before, if that’s even possible. She must be freezing. She’s absolutely swimming in his flannel shirt. It used to be the same blue as his daughter’s hair tie.
He feels a flicker of emotion for the first time in a long, long time. Something cracking open in the center of his chest. It takes all he has not to run to her and scoop her up, tuck her into his jacket and deliver her safely into her waiting mother’s arms. But there is no mother. There is no father, save the creep at the Lab, if he’s even alive. She’s just like him; they both have no one.
(Except she has superpowers to fight the Russians or something like that. Jesus don’t think about that shit; she’s just a kid.)
She’s staring too, the map that was reduced to a scrap of paper in Hopper’s hands particularly unwieldy for her. Her eyes are wide with understanding. She knows Hopper’s a friendly but she’s skittish, used to abuse by the men in her life.
Her soft voice splits the forest air, “Not here.” She’s reading the notes left on the map.
Hopper has one hand on his chest, trying to handle whatever thing is snaking through it, his other dangling limply by his side. He’s still coming back to life after blacking out, brain is in a fog. He tries to answer but finds he can’t, licks his lips and tries again. “Yeah,” he blinks as she raises her head to meet his eyes. No, not his eyes, something behind him. “I was looking for you…,” he trails off to see what snagged her attention.
A half-eaten Eggo is mashed into a paper-thin wafer where Hopper was lying about 10 minutes ago. He looks back at her and she meets his gaze. She looks so, so sad. That fucking Eggo.
“Looking?”
He swallows hard, thinking of how hellish his life has been for the past four years. “Searching. You were missing and I am,” Hopper’s voice cracks and he looks away, breathes in deeply in an attempt to regain control, “was trying to find you.” He looks back up at her to drive the point home, face finally betraying everything he’s felt, maybe ever in his entire life: “You were gone.”
“Not gone.”
He waits for her to continue, face reorganized into a blank mask.
She’s at his side and crumples the map into his sweaty palm.
“Not gone. Here.”
He doesn’t know how to handle the situation after so many years expecting and experiencing the worst case scenario. Her hand is so small in his, he can almost feel each individual bone. He thinks about the state of his trailer, how it’s no place for a kid but it could be... His thoughts become more clear as he focuses on this one thing he can do for this girl, for him, and he remembers something. Something really important.
He clears his throat, shy about the emotion choking his voice. Eleven’s looking away but her tiny hand squeezes his in encouragement.
“Do you, uh, like Twinkies?”