august

You knew, if you see the body they’re gone. No kidnapping by the Russians, no waking up from comas. Gone. Dead. Hell you’d had this conversation with a particularly understanding tombstone many times. But there was always hope. Hope that somehow it was a vicious nightmare, or just Vecna fucking with your mind. Yet now, in the proverbial belly of the beast you are hit with the feeling of “this is the end of the road”. You linger behind, encouraging your friends to get moving. You want a moment longer. For what? You don’t know. But they understand, and say they can give you 5 minutes, no more.

Everything that happened in Hawkins over the years, everyone you lost, everyone your friends lost, and it all comes down to this. Some kind of stupid scorpion spider looking monster. You want to scream, to cry, to feel something other than sweeping numbness. But the only noise you hear is the death rattles from a body decapitated. Steve comes back to find you, you don’t know how long it’s been, you note that the flesh you’d made your seat on is somehow cooler. 

“You know, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought, or hoped we might find him. Somehow.” Steve’s voice is quiet, but clear enough for you to hear it. You nod, hot tears spilling over, you furiously wipe them away with a filthy sleeve. “I even hoped he’d come back as some kind of vampire, y’know, because of the bats…” You laugh at Steve in spite of yourself,

“God he’d have been a nightmare as a vampire.” You smile at the thought of Eddie doing some ridiculous Lost Boys shit, flying outside your window with a shit-eating grin on his face. Steve laughs quietly, in agreement with you. “Time to go?” You look up at Steve, he offers a small smile and a sad nod. You stand, dusting off your trousers, taking one last look around, just in case Eddie suddenly were to appear and pull you into his arms, breathing in the top of your head, laughing when your hair gets stuck to his stubble. But nothing happens.

Steve guides you out, with your permission, you steal furtive glances around the landscape as you go, your shoulders sagging lower with every breath. You make it through the rift, to the lorry, where you bundle yourself into a corner, imagining yourself resembling a sack of potatoes. You are so numb at this point that you barely notice the change in terrain as you cross over from the Upside Down and back into the MAC-Z. You do obviously notice the truck being raided by the military and the ensuing chaos. You are thrown roughly out, pinned against the truck and yet nothing feels physical. You know you should be feeling pain from how hard hands are gripping you but there is just nothing there, as if your nerve endings have simply given up on registering sensation.

The numbness abates for icy terror when screams pierce through the wall in your head, you follow the gazes and see Eleven still in the doorway to the upside down. You watch, horrified, unable to tear your gaze away, as the planned destruction unfolds and she is taken from your lives, forever. If this were a story you’d want to hunt down the writer, beg them to write a different ending. You know happy endings don’t happen in real life, but you would absolutely pull an Annie Wilkes if it meant you and friends never had to know loss like this. 

In spite of it all, you recover. Your friends do too. You find it within yourselves to move forwards, never forgetting but simply choosing the path that won’t leave you broken versions of yourselves. Before you know it you’re facing a second anniversary of a day that shattered you. You wake up that morning, a knot in your stomach informing you of the day before your tired eyes glance over at the calendar. You heave your blankets off, and go through the motions of your day.

Spring in Hawkins was always beautiful, yet today is the one day the world seems less bright, less hopeful. As you drive, you ignore the flowers beginning to breach the ground where a giant metal bandaid covered a tear in the world, ignore the happy, safe faces you pass. You know the route to the cemetery better than the route to the grocery store by this point, you park up and trudge through dew damp grass. 

The tombstone is clean, no one bothers to graffiti it anymore, in some ways, that's worse. Like the town has forgotten him. You sit quietly, letting the breeze ruffle your hair, breathing in the fresh air, eyes closed. In these moments you let yourself think of him, of his smile, the way he smelled, the feeling of waking up on his chest in those mornings where the world was blue and cold, but you and Eddie were warm and glowing. 

It gets too much.

“Why do I even bother? You’re not even fucking here!” The screech rips itself free of your throat as you crouch, glaring at the ground. 

Obviously, no one had been able to move Eddie’s body when he’d died. You’d begged, tried to do it yourself. Steve was the first to be worn down by your begging, he had travelled with you to the spot, easily found by the vortex of bat bodies, rippling out from its centrepoint. You’d been prepared to see whatever had become of your love. 

But there was nothing there. A bloody shape dragged away gave you some indication of what had happened. You’d hit Steve in your rage. Pounded your fists on his chest as you screamed. Steve stood motionless until your hits became weaker and your fists fell at your sides, he pulled you into a hug and never spoke of it again. 

You realise you’ve dug your nails into the dirt so deep your fingers are covered with mud. With a sigh you retract, sitting back on your heels. The rage abates once more, leaving you with your familiar friend, numbness. There is silence around you, your scream gone unanswered, silence that is only punctuated by a single twig snap.

“So, uh, is this a bad time?”