Fourteen / A mother truly never leaves her babes, she's in their skin. Mentions / Self harm, addiction, minor physical confrontation?
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Kids don't die in Hawkins.
Well. They're not supposed to.
It's normally a quiet town. Midwestern. A estimated population of eight-thousand breathing bodies.
If people are dying, it's the ones in the nursing home Jim Hopper swings by every Wednesday evening for Bingo. Takes his mind off his job, his lack of wife, and little cancer-dead daughter.
Children are not supposed to be dying.
His wasn't, and yet, she still did.
There was also just that one time a few years ago when that first Cunningham girl died. Then a few months later, that little Byers boy went missing for a few nights and they found his way home.
That had been it. Sara. Cassandra. Will. That's three. No more bad things were to happen. Not in Hawkins. Not anymore.
But now a fourth.
It feels as if there's one more wrong day, an uproar of suburban mothers will wield their heels and kitchen knives right at his head. Jim can't handle more shit. He seriously can't. He's still trying not to get sued the fuck out by Monica Cunningham and her rich-ass husband. He can't necessarily blame them. Both their daughters died some horrible twin death years apart and well, there's still no answers as to why it happened. It is clear this was not a double suicide years apart. No one's going to believe that even if he said it. Chrissy was so different from Cassandra, she wouldn't kill herself.
Jim's not sure what to do. Jim's not sure what he can do.
For the first time in a long time.
But there has to be an explanation to this. There's always an explanation to everything.
Just what the fuck is it?
The town's radio station, WSQK The Squawk, 94.5 FM—managed by two smoking boys, with some real long hair, one a rockstar in wishing, and the other dreaming of taking his photos some place far, his best photos are the ones with the smiling chicks—always played the same 80's soft-rock garbage at six in the morning because who was going to tell them how to do their fucking jobs! Wasn't like their boss swung around enough to dictate that there should be calmer music in the morning, you know, for the folk on their way to work. It's all cheap acoustic guitars, voices that sound sanded-down and worn. It was too damn much for that early in the morning. Eddie never listened to the radio in the morning because of it. Not because he didn't love rock, fuck did he, but it was just remembrance that he couldn't be a dreamer anymore. Whatever, it's fine. But something in his mangled gut told him to flip the switch and listen this morning on the way to the shop. Everyone was listening, because the damn rock music wasn't coming.
