Shutter [Jonathan Byers] Stranger Things I

X: Mend

mend

verb

repair (something that is broken or damaged).

Emilia found herself blissfully home alone when she made it there; the rain had subsided sometime in the early afternoon and so her walk was not as bad as she'd expected. Once she had blown off Jonathan and then pushed him away, she knew that she would not be getting rides. It was, however, for the better; there was no sense in wasting his gas to pick her up when she had been walking to the school on her own for over a year now. It was her mother who used to drive her to school on her way to work. Back then her father was kinder and opted to drive here and there, but once her mother died that kindness shed from his body like a snakes skin, revealing the true snake.

Pouring herself a glass of tap water, she sat herself down on the cigarette-scented and beer-stained couch. It was not pleasant, but it was her home. Sliding her journal from her bag, she looked back down at the words that were written, the words that Carol had read out loud for all to hear. A sigh escaped her lips, but she truly wanted to scream. She didn't, however, because the neighbours might have heard and wondered what caused quite a stir. Christmas for her was a horrible time of year; as a kid she never enjoyed it as it had always felt awkward and forced. As a teenager it lost its meaning, and all it became was a financial struggle. Now, it was just a violent memory.

When she looked around the dark living room, all she could see was dust; it was almost as if no one had truly lived here in years. Reaching for her camera, she took a picture of what she saw. Dull room, very little colour, lacking any joy and light, remnants of the uneventful night before. Beer cans strewn over the table, a half empty pack of cigarettes, a box of matches. Emilia stood up and got the image at another angle, and crouched down to be perfectly level with the table. Although this was her home year round, this was going to help bring home what Christmas meant to her; and that was nothing.

Invested in the great images she was getting, Emilia didn't hear the door opening. Her father kicked off his work boots, set the six pack on the shelf and he untied them. When he heard the shutter of a camera and shuffling, he was confused; a disconnected man like him often forgot that his only daughter's hobby was photography. Stepping into the living room, he watched her taking photos and assumed the worst. He assumed that she was taking pictures to show to someone, to prove that she was not in a safe home. Although he sometimes wished she was not there, not a part of his life anymore, he didn't want to lose her.

Instead of acting rationally, he acted with anger: an emotion he knew best. "What the hell are you doing, Emilia?!"

Emilia recoiled, nearly dropping her camera as she stood up; a rush of blood assaulted her senses and for a moment she was breathless and paralyzed. When the dizziness passed, she found that she was still paralyzed. A thick lump formed in her throat, and she realized that she was unable to answer the question that her father posed, but suspected it was rhetorical anyways. Swallowing back the lump, it disappeared for a split seconds before forming once again. She had nothing to say, no way to explain herself. He wouldn't understand.

"Tryin' to show someone how we live? You have a roof over your head, there is always food in the fridge. What are you trying to do, Emilia?!" His hand gestures were obvious, bold.

"N-no," she shook her head, "It's for a project; I-I can get rid of them..."

"That's the project you've been working on?" Emilia was surprised her father remembered what she'd said the day before about being out late working on a project. He carried on, "You're out late to take goddamn pictures? You're failing courses and this is what you have been working on?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Her father placed his hand to his head, an ashamed look upon his expression; he was not ashamed of himself, but of her. The way she was impossible to get through to ever since her mother died. He was tired of it, he was tired of seeing his dead wife in her eyes. Even the way she walked resembled her mother, and it made him want to recede further away from her. Both of them had their own way of dealing with what happened, but neither of them were doing so with a healthy attitude. It had been three years since she died, and yet they could not overcome the obstacles that were themselves.

"You stop messing around with your camera bullshit -it's a waste of time," he spoke the words so deeply that Emilia knew there was no fighting this. He would never understand how much photography helped her heal. "You fix your grades, or the camera is gone."

It's mine. I paid for it.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, though she wasn't sure why she was apologizing. Was it because she was not going to give up photography? Or was it because she'd taken pictures of their home life? 

She went to bed without an answer, and she woke even more confused the next day. How was she going to pull her grades up without help? And who, now that her only hope at asking Jonathan was gone, would she ask to help her now? In the morning she donned her jacket and hood, a scarf with gloves. Protected in its case was her camera, the only thing in her bag that mattered. She'd made a game plan for the day; she was going to ask Mrs. Krasinski what she could do to bring her grades up. Emilia wasn't stupid, the course itself was easy, she was just struggling to focus and needed someone to put her back on track. Whether she had to take some standardized test, read a book, or write an essay, she decided that she would do just that.

Once again it was raining, although that particular morning Emilia heard the familiar rumble of a car. Glancing over her shoulder for a reason she couldn't quite figure out, Emilia spotted Jonathan's car; the light tap of the horn signalled that he wanted her to get in. She took a moment to process it; what was he doing here? Why was he wasting his time with her? And yet, something drove her to walk to the passenger side of the car and she opened it with only mild compunction.

She got in and Jonathan had both hands on the steering wheel. He didn't look at her right away, even though Emilia was willing him to look at her so she could see what look was in those eyes of his. She wanted to read them, to see what she should expect from this. Was he mad at her? Certainly not mad enough, if he was here picking her up in the rainy streets.

"Why?" She asked.

"I told you I would," the words were sharper than he intended; they stung Emilia because she had not done what she told him she would the day prior. She'd bailed on him, although not with intent, after she told him that she would see him at lunch. Jonathan continued, "You might be a flake, but I'm not. I don't know why you didn't show up yesterday, but I don't care. I enjoyed being out there with you the day before, I enjoyed the company you gave. I don't understand why you want to push me away, but I think I know the reason."

"Jonathan..." she began, and then the words disappeared. She kicked herself for never knowing what to say when the time came.

"You're scared I'm going to be one of Carol and Tommy's victims, right?" He asked, "News flash, Emilia, I already am. So they see us hanging out, what are they going to say? If you don't want me around, just say it, but mean it. I'm not blind, I see you alone every single day and I can relate to that more than I'd like to admit. I don't... I don't like people very much, and yet I'm drawn to you."

"So... We should start again?" She asked, looking up and noticing this time that Jonathan's eyes were on her.

Jonathan laughed a little, signs that what she had broken was already on the mend. "Yeah, I guess we should."

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