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Whoever said dying isn’t so bad was a fucking liar. For one thing, it hurts like a bitch. For another, it gives a hell of a new perspective on things. There’s that whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes thing, which, well, you have mixed feelings about.
You always thought you’d at least get to graduate high school.
You used to lie about your age, actually, because you couldn’t stand the way people would look at you if they heard you were almost twenty-one and still a senior.
Damn, you’re gonna miss your birthday. Maybe they’ll still do something for you. Cake in the graveyard, or something. Give speeches. Put a little party hat on your headstone. Laugh at you. Something like that.
Hm. What will your headstone look like? Ideally, it’ll say something along the lines of ‘here lies Edward Munson, the most metal motherfucker to ever grace the town of Hawkins, Indiana’. Realistically, you probably won’t even get a headstone. You don’t think serial murderers get funerals.
You’re getting distracted again. People always told you you spend too much time in your head. Not enough in reality. Well, c’mon, who wants to spend all their time in reality? Reality can be shit. Fantasy can be shit, too, but you’ll take dragons over self-deprecation any day.
Huh. That’s sort of another form of running away, isn’t it. You’ve been running a lot longer than you’d thought. Funny, the things you realize too late.
A part of you has begun to think that it’s your own fault you haven’t graduated yet. It’s been three years, what’s even the point anymore? It’s not like there’s anything waiting for you out there. College isn’t an option, you don’t have the money. And you don’t want a job that will try to change you. But there, in school, you’ve got… something. You’ve got Hellfire, you’ve got those kids that need you. They could be great, they really could. Well.. Wheeler maybe, Lucas probably, and Henderson for sure. They’re already better than you were at their age. If you can give them that little push forward, they could be brilliant, and maybe you will have done something that’s worth it for once.
God, that’s selfish. And so stupid.
So you lock yourself in your room and you play your guitar, because it’s all you want to do, and you’re good at it, and you don’t feel so alone with it.
At least not the way you do in crowded rooms.
They all look at you like they know you already, but they don’t. You wish they did. Because sometimes you’re something pretty cool. Sometimes you shine.
Sometimes you just want to cry.
And whenever you feel like hurting yourself you go get a new tattoo instead (the bats are your favorite).
Chrissy knew you, for a second. She saw you, and the feeling of being seen is better than the high off any drug.
(Shit. You should have hidden your drugs better. The police have probably booked it all for evidence. And that was all the good stuff.)
Chrissy died, though. That was the price. Maybe if you’d been kinder, if you’d asked her what was wrong…
If you’d known her favorite song.
It isn’t fair that the one time you don’t run, you die. You want to try this out some more, this not-running thing. Could be fun. Could be what you’ve been waiting for.
There’s a new campaign you’ve been dreaming up throughout this whole experience, something creepy and dark and metal as all hell.
You’ve heard Will Byers is a killer DM. Maybe he can run it for you. Of course, you’ll never get to meet the kid.
It’s a really good campaign, though. There are vampires.
You used to fantasize about vampires. There’s a reason you like the bats the best.
Hey, you got killed by bats. Maybe you’ll get to be a vampire. Is that how it works?
That would kinda suck, actually (haha. ‘Suck’. Get it?). You don’t really want to live forever.
You just want to live a little bit longer than this.
You’ve never even kissed a boy, no matter how many times you’ve thought about it. Every time you think you’re ready you imagine the way he’ll look at you, and you chicken out.
Henderson’s here now, and he’s crying. Shit. You’ve made the kid cry. Can’t have that.
There is so much you want to say to him. You want to give him your campaign notes, you want to remind him to tell Steve to return the Winnebago, you want to quickly write a will leaving your guitar to him. You want to tell him that he’s made this year the best of your life, despite the monsters.
Fuck the monsters.
And in the end, that kind of makes it all worth it.
You befriended this amazing kid.
You met a girl who saw you, even if you couldn’t save her.
You fought monsters.
You bought time.
You were the Master of Puppets for about two minutes there.
You saw yourself, and for the first time you loved what you saw.
You think this is your year.
Yeah. This is finally your year.