Chapter Text
The wind whistled through the street, swaying the branches of the oak trees encircling the city square. The chirping birds flew in the direction of the wind, some flying in flocks and others in solitary. Rustling of the passersby’s plastic grocery bags and the boisterous chatter and laughs mingled together until there was no recognizing which voice belonged to who.
The bench underneath Mike was firm, despite its long-lived existence. It’d been splinting at the edges. The color had been chipping away day by day, leaving minuscule light brown wooden splinters peeking out. Sometimes he’d pick at them. He didn’t feel like doing it that day.
He sat with his hands in his lap. They were shaking, despite being covered with a pair of snug gloves. Perhaps it was the chilly breeze. It’d been messing up his hair and blowing it into his eyes. He never made an attempt to fix it though. He sat and looked forward, his expression impassive and gaze detached.
This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. The bench probably had an imprint of his figure by now, given how many late afternoon’s he’d spent just sitting and waiting.
For what, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps a fresh and innovative idea for a new book or a will to finally call his mother back, who’d called about four times since the week prior. Neither reasons didn’t feel right, although they had some truth to them. He should call his mom. He should come up with a new book idea, one that will make his publisher’s eyes comically widen with money signs written all over them.
But he decided to sit and wait. Still not sure for what. His eyes glued to the spot where he’d last laid his eyes on El—before she’d dispersed into the wind blowing away the remnants of the upside down along with her—maybe had something to do with his state.
November 6th, 1997. That day had especially been hard for him. He’d woken up feeling heavy, like his limbs were glued to the mattress and covered in barbells. He’d barely eaten half a piece of buttered toast before going to his desk and trying to write something, anything. He’d thought of two mediocre sentences before standing up and going back to his bed.
After that he’d received a plethora of calls from his friends. Dustin had been the first, telling him to rest and take the day easy. Then it’d been Max and Lucas, both giving their best articulated speeches about “this being a hard day for every one” and “not letting the past control the present”. When Hopper had called, he let it ring. That was a beast he really wasn’t ready to face just yet.
Every one had something going for them. Dustin had moved to Washington D.C. years ago, studying astrophysics and starting work at the NASA headquarters right after college. He was smart as a computer, so him working for that big of an organization had been a surprise to almost nobody.
Will had moved to California right after high school, needing to get away from the memories that haunted the town. He’d studied art in San Francisco, where he’d met his now-husband Mark. His art had taken off, having been perceived as “extraordinary and profoundly emotional”. Mike had met his husband, had even been Will’s best man at their wedding. He was who he’d kept in most contact with, hearing from him at least bi-weekly and seeing him in person at least once every two months. He was proud of his effort.
Lucas and Max had taken a gap year after high school, intending on travelling across the USA. They’d sent him post-cards at each stop. After that, they’d moved to Philadelphia for Lucas’ college, which he’d quit after just a year because of a job opportunity at a start-up. Max had kept on skating and pursued many artistic projects. They’d had their daughter Ellie six years and their son Jonas three years prior. Mike had met them many times and they were the most precious things to ever exist (when he’d found out what they’d named their daughter, or after who they’d named her after, he couldn’t stop crying.)
Hopper and Joyce had moved to Montauk, only coming back occasionally to check on him and their acquaintances. His parents had followed their youngest Holly to college in Boston, but they came back once a month and made sure to check up on Mike, who’d taken over the old house.
Perhaps to the naked eye he also seemed like he had it all figured out. Sure, he was living in his boring and suffocating home town while everyone else had moved to bigger and brighter cities, but he was, admittedly, a pretty successful author. Having made it on the #1 New York Times Bestseller’s list multiple times and selling out each book faster than the previous had been no easy task.
His first and verily his best work, The Story of the Mage, had made him able to quit his part-time desk job and live off of the royalties for a long while, but he kept writing and publishing, writing and publishing.
His books were described as “intense and heartfelt” and “emotionally charged”. The Story of the Mage had won the hearts of many through not only his writing style or the intricate metaphors used, but also through his description of the Mage. She was the most fearless and strong character he’d ever written about. She’d had a tough and turbulent life, one that’d been cut short by her fierce heart, by her sacrificing herself for her loved ones.
Many thought she appeared in all his books through different versions, through Casey in The Flag of Poetry or through Persephone in Bottomless Oceans. It seemed as though he always found a way to incorporate this persona in his books, to the point where his fans would refer to the said characters as the Mage and not their actual names.
Many wondered if there was someone in Mike’s life who he based these characters off of, someone who incontestably meant a great deal to him. And, the truth is, there was.
Or, there had been.
Every anniversary of El’s sacrifice had pained him, locked his heart and body in jagged cages, not letting him function like a regular human being for the day. Others would argue he’d been that way every day for ten years, but he disagreed. November 6ths were the lousiest.
However—still sitting on the bench, shivering from more than just the icy breeze—he realized he’d never felt this down. Which made no sense. Everyone said grief and gloominess never dissipates, only weakens by each day that passes. That’s not what it felt like.
A darkness slowly spread over Hawkins, one that could’ve only been caused by the passing of time. The crowds of people lessened, the wind got stronger and the street lights started illuminating the sidewalks. Mike slowly rose, realizing his catatonic hours long staring contest with the brick wall of a building had probably made him seem like a complete freak.
Besides the cars that passed him on his bike ride back home, the road was completely quiet. It gave him a sense of tranquility, the kind of peace that only comes with the acceptance of something greater. It was a great illusion.
Because he hadn’t accepted anything. No, he hadn’t accepted El’s death like everyone else had. He hadn’t moved on and only let the memory occupy a figment of his mind. No, he was living for the hope. For the hope that she was out there somewhere, safe and sound.
He never moved on, never had anyone new, couldn’t even bear the thought of it. Anyone else kissing him, hugging him around his neck, whispering i love you’s into his mouth admittedly made him sick, to his family and friends’ demise. During the first three years of El being de- gone, they’d tried setting him up with girls—none of them were her, gods they weren’t—and it’d never worked. He’d never even show up. They’d given up after the fifth try, after he’d told them all off.
Before even taking his shoes off, Mike heard the phone ring. He sighed exasperatedly before picking up.
“Hey Mike.” It was Will.
“Hey Will.” He started picking at his nails. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was headed.
“How have you been today? Have you taken care of yourself? You know, I still have the contact information from my old therap-”
“Will, I’m fine. I’m not going to a fucking shrink.” He knew the suggestion wasn’t totally unreasonable, he wasn’t fourteen anymore. He’d tried therapy nine years prior, when his mom had pretty much forced him after a year of constant “sulking and looking crestfallen”, as if he hadn’t just lost the love of his fucking life and best friend. Obviously his grades were going to tank.
“Alright it was worth a shot,” Will’s deep breath could’ve been heard from miles away, “but really, have you taken care of yourself? How’s the book coming along?”
Mike didn’t have it in him to admit he hadn’t been able to write a single paragraph. Perhaps he really was sulking. “It’s going … well. And I’m taking care of myself.” He hoped his eye roll wasn’t somehow apparent to Will. He looked around his house. He should probably vacuum the kitchen floor. He hadn’t done it in what, three or four wee-
His train of thought is interrupted by another sigh from Will. Jesus, this man will run out of oxygen if he keeps doing that. “Mike, this day is hard for everyone. We all loved- love El and she’ll be in our hearts forever, but we have to keep going, she’d want this for y-”
“You have no fucking idea what she’d want!” He felt a little bad for yelling at Will, but he just couldn’t keep listening to people tell him some incredulous tales about “what El would’ve wanted.” She wasn’t there to tell them what she wanted. They had no idea.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know what she would’ve wanted. But I can assume. Believe. Believe that she wouldn’t want you wasting your life away after her death.”
Well, that was another thing. After a tedious and prolonged period of time, his friends had somewhat stopped believing in his theory, had told him he needed to “cope” in other ways.
But deep down, he knew. He knew she was out there somewhere far, far away, hopefully living in serenity and bliss. The signs had always been there, in each flicker of his desk light, each static suddenly coming through the phone. Granted, it could’ve just been his horrible landline and fifteen-year old lamp, but he chose to believe. He believed.
He’d visited too many waterfalls across the planet to count, hoping to catch her standing there, wind in her unruly wavy brown hair, her eyes shining with recognition and love, her smile wide in peaceful.
He’d visit a waterfall after each release of a book, calling it a “break” from the life of an author. However, his biggest wish wasn’t to give his brain a well-deserved break, but to hopefully run into her, sitting by a small circular table in a secluded and lulling cafe, reading his book. Her face would be older, more refined, but she’d still tilt her head at every unexpected passage, laugh at each joke that had no reason to make anyone laugh and scrunch the space between her eyebrows when she wouldn’t understand something. Hopefully he’d be there to tell her all about it.
But she was nowhere to be seen. Not at the Niagara Falls in the USA, Victoria Falls in Zambia, not at the Dudhsagar Falls in India, Sutherland Falls in New Zealand, … or any waterfall he’d been to. Perhaps she’d never followed through with their dream, instead had created her own.
He missed her. God, how fucking much he missed her. The day she’d di- left, a part of him had disappeared with her. Hopefully she was taking care of it.
He couldn’t move on, didn’t want to. That meant accepting defeat, accepting she was dead (which she wasn’t, he was sure of it.) He’d rather have her memory haunt every inch and fragment of his life and soul for the rest of his life than ever attempt forgetting her. He would never.
“... theory were to be correct, it wouldn’t matter. It’s been ten years for God’s sake Mike! A whole decade! You need to just accept and-”
Mike had had enough. He said a brief goodbye before discontinuing the call. He slid down the wall and pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face as deep into them as he could, as if it would make everything disappear. Every deadline his publisher needs him to complete, every word about him needing to just “accept it” or “move on” as if any of them had lost anyone in the final battle. As if anyone understood.
He needed another break. His last one had included flying to South America, visiting another waterfall. It’d been a beautiful trip, full of winsomeness and naturalistic wonders, even inspiration. But, like always, he’d come back home empty handed, feeling like his heart had let itself crack one more time.
There were these waterfalls he hadn’t been to but had been seeing all across nature magazines and big posters on the ad walls in grocery stores. The Kirkjufellsfoss Falls in Iceland.
He sat down in front of his computer and booked the flight for the very next day. Decided to rent a cabin for two weeks in a town nearby.
Perhaps his friends had been a bit right. Perhaps he needed to get away from Hawkins during this abhorrent time, go somewhere secluded and tranquil.
Perhaps he needed to try and find her once again.