#chalky writes

[junk-and-disorderly]

Eddie Munson: now at peace.

The words on the stone slab blurred in his vision--he wanted to scream, wanted to fight, kick, and bite--anything, because Dustin Henderson wasn’t at fucking peace.

He knew the process, the ‘five stages of grief’, as the counselor had called it. She’d said with a calm voice and pitying eyes that it would “take some time”, and it was “natural to feel lost” and “you should really go to the earthquake survivor support group”. But how could she know? There was nothing fucking natural about what had happened to them. It wasn’t Hawkins that split in two, but Dustin’s whole fucking world.

(He understood why Max rolled her eyes at the therapists now, and that was a whole other regret on its own.)

So here he stood, in front of an empty grave for a boy who would never grow older. For a brother who would never see Dustin graduate (and wasn’t that the kicker? Dustin would get to do the one thing Eddie wanted most), never get to see his own dreams manifest, never, never, never--

The sting of nails against his palms was grounding. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.

There was new graffiti on the grave marker, and with a sigh, he began his weekly ritual, his self appointed penance for being the one to walk away. It is easy to be dead.

Each step he took sent soapy water over the rim of the metal pail. The doctor told him to rest and to be careful, but why should he? Everyone else was always pushing themselves past their breaking points, taking the hits for the sake of the Party, because someone had to ‘think of the children’.

A flash of bloody teeth in the underworld. A chair in a metal room, blood stained knee high socks.

He wasn’t a child anymore.

[junk-and-disorderly]

Bad Moon Rising

Everyone knows that nobody ever dies in Hawkins--they just go missing. 

It’s the town’s most well known secret. Sure, the obituaries still get printed in the local paper, usually a sob story about how nan was ninety-eight years too young. And sure, funeral notices were still passed around the steepled churches like it was currency in showing how much they cared.

We’re so sorry for your loss.

Our heart goes out to you.

You’re in our prayers.

The churches were for services, potlucks, weddings, meetings--but never funerals. The last funeral to be held in Hawkins, actually in the city limits, was in 1966. 

Eddie exhaled, a lungful of smoke escaping into the moonless sky. He dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel.

It was all such bullshit. 

The door to the trailer swung open in a blur of red plaid. “Seriously dude? How long does a smoke break take?”

Of course, Gareth’s impatience only encouraged him. Eddie grinned, taking achingly slow steps towards the trailer, throwing his entire body into each footfall. “I’m…going….as fast….as I can….”

Gareth groaned, running a hand down his face as two other boys chuckled behind him: Jeff and Grant. “God, why do I even bother?”

Jeff clapped a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head in sympathy. “You’d think you’d learn after a couple of years, but…you’ll get there eventually. Probably.”

“Come on Eddie, I don’t want to be the first person to die of boredom in twenty years!” Margret shoved them all aside, paying the boys no mind as they all dropped down the steps on each other’s heels.

“Well, I’m not one to keep a lady waiting.” Eddie threw his head back with a cackle, quickly speeding past his remaining friends.

Everyone knows that nobody ever dies in Hawkins, and Eddie?

Eddie was going to find out why--tonight.

-☾✩☽-

[junk-and-disorderly]

What little light remained was eclipsed by the writhing mass of flying creatures hurdling towards them, the sky going dark, the last of the sun's rays sputtering like the dying embers.

The shadows devoured the land below it, engulfing the tiny figure down far below, below of the swarm headed his way, or of their shreiks trumpeting the beginning of the end.

"Steve…" Dustin croaked, watching the scene unfold before him. This was no fantastic last stand against evil in battle where good prevailed--there were no heroes.

We're no heroes.

"STEVE! YOU HAVE TO RUN!"

He didn't care if he screamed himself hoarse--he had to let him know, he had to warn him, had to let him know just what was coming.

"RUUUUUUN!"

There's no shame in running.

[junk-and-disorderly]

“Shiiiiiit Harrington, you didn’t tell me you were loaded.”

“Not really a Harrington am I?” He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“We have no last names, we have no masters. We belong to no one.” Her hand falls on his shoulder, her words grave and well worn. Recited and repeated ad nauseam. A good luck charm and an oath. “Just Steve.”

A smile creased his features, reaching up to lightly squeeze her hand. “And Kali.”

She returned the smile, however small.

“Well, Harrington or no, these rich fuckers look like they could afford some redecorating.” Axel pushed a vase off the fireplace, braying with a hyena’s laughter.

He watched as the precious porcelain shattered against the tile. Steve had been the first to clear the house, checking for signs of life, signs of trouble.

Or so he’d told them. Kali knew though, because she always knew him best. She had shaken her head at him, but said nothing.

She didn’t have to—her eyes said it all: there is nothing for you here.

In the end, she was right, just like she always was.

He had scoured the halls searching for any scrap of his past life. Maybe they had been missing him all this time, kept his baby room the same as it was, blue checkered walls thick with his mother’s perfume.

But there was nothing.

There were no portraits of a chubby baby boy, no treasured stuffed animals, or commemoration of his first steps.

Nothing.

I’m nothing.

The thought made something ache in his chest. So with a smile, rough and with too much teeth, he barked out, “Yeah. There’s nothing here those assholes can’t replace.”

[junk-and-disorderly]

There has always been

A sharp point

On prom-night heels,

The cut of metal

Along a ribcage of lace,

The taste of girlhood dreams

Turn bitter on my tongue.

They don’t tell you

That growing requires pain,

That sixteen ain’t so sweet.

That kindness has teeth,

And their smiles are cutting.

First love,

first loss.

—-

(I buried you in a hollow casket,

But it was not empty,

For I lie with you.)

—

Afternoon coffee

I will not be sipped at

Swallowed whole

Consumed

—

I traded the softness of satin for the security of steel

[junk-and-disorderly]

[junk-and-disorderly]

There were certain undeniable cosmic truths that all human beings had to reckon with:

1. Everything dies; humanity, earth, the universe.

2. Change is inevitable.

Then there were the everyday truths that were no less earth shattering, but smaller, more personal. These little truths were fractals of the big two, broken down until they were easy to consume, palpable, and more importantly, Eddie’s legacy.

There were benefits to being the town freak; he knew things no self respecting member of Hawkins would know. They were too blindsighted by the theatrics and the yelling to notice that he listened, too. He was able to live above society, playing the role of the Fool and spouting his wisdom laced heresies, but never within it.

That’s how he knew:

1. Barbara Holland didn’t die from a gas leak. (see point 1)

2. Karen and Ted Wheeler’s marriage was dead in the water. (double whammy of point 1 and 2)

3. Larry Kline had a bit of a cocaine problem (change is inevitable; if it wasn’t white powder, it would be some other vice)

4. Steve Harrington was a grade A douchebag. (cosmic truth)

Eddie Munson was a burnout, a true Munson. He knew things he shouldn’t, much like his father, like how to hotwire a car and how to pick a lock.

He took pride in knowing things--knowledge was power, and these little truths were a currency of their own.

That’s why when he found Steve Harrington high out of his mind with a concussion, laughing in a bathtub in the middle of a party, he realized the worst truth of all:

He didn’t know a goddamn thing.

+++

The weight of just how much he didn’t know Steve Harrington was all consuming. He’d always been a stupid pretty jock, with too much money, riding the coattails of his parent’s name. Untouchable.

Not the boy wrapped up in his sheets with bruises lining his throat, splintered from the touch of too many hands.

I didn’t know.

He reached out with a trembling hand to move a lock of hair from his forehead. Long lashes fluttered against his cheek, daring to pull from dreams the waking world.

Thankfully, he didn’t stir.

Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to look away from the light of the cracked trailer window dappling the boy’s skin. His hair fanned out like a broken halo along the pillow, golden.

He thought back to the night of Tina’s party, walls vibrating with music and laughter, while he sat on the dingy bathroom tiles with Steve Harrington.

I didn’t know you.

He was no longer untouchable, not a marble statue, but a living, breathing, breakable thing. He couldn’t help himself, running a thumb along the frayed shirt collar. It was an old band shirt worn thin with love, light and airy. Fingers trailed along his skin, mapping out scattering of moles that lined them.

“That feels nice.” It was soft and sleep mussed, but warm. Steve cracked an eye open, sliver of hazel peeking through.

“Hey, pretty boy.” He tried to swallow the emotion bubbling up, feeling a calloused hand tangle with his own.

I didn’t know you would mean so much to me.

+++

There were certain undeniable cosmic truths that Eddie Munson had to reckon with, but none were more important than this: he knew he loved Steve Harrington.

[junk-and-disorderly]

The words blurred in his vision, unable to read the words before him.

They were gone.

They were gone, and he was alone.

Again.

The warehouse felt even emptier than he remembered, no longer filled with Dottie and Axel’s maddened giggles, Funshine’s radio, and Mick’s gentle conversation. All that remained of the trio were kicked out chairs and folding tables, forgotten utensils and stained mattresses. Items that were inconsequential and of little value.

Just like him.

The crinkle of the paper in his hands echoed in the silence--there was nothing there to soak it up. Kali’s explanation for leaving made sense. Everything that had gone down in Hawkins, and their return trip to Pittsburgh had put too much heat on them. It wasn’t safe to stay any longer, wasn’t smart to  remain in one place any longer than they had to.

Steve understood---really, he did.

But why didn’t they wait for me?

His hands began to tremble, vision swimming with the threat of unshed tears.

It was stupid--they’d clearly been long gone when he got back. The stained mattress on the floor reeked of mildew and the damp, and Axel’s favorite mug had grown it’s own science experiment. It didn’t matter if he’d gotten back a day, a week, a month before.

When Steve didn’t leave with them, when he decided to linger in Hawkins, that had been the line drawn in the sand. They were never going to wait for him, and he would always end up here.

He belonged to nobody.

Sound ricocheted off the metal walls, of flesh against stone, anguish and grief stitched together in one agonized sob. 

It was only until he felt something wet hit his hands, did he realize the full force of his grief. For the first time in years, he was crying.

Big fat tears were soaking his cheeks, burning his scraped and bloodied knuckles as they landed.  And he couldn’t stop.

A dam had burst, and he was sitting in a dirty warehouse, cradling his head and on his knees like a child. 

I’m nobody.