Shutter [Jonathan Byers] Stranger Things I

XIII: Alone

a·lone

adjective & adverb

having no one else present; on one's own.

Jonathan drove home at the speed limit, leaned against the door of the car with his hand propped up by the cold window. He tapped his fingers furiously on the steering wheel as he worried; Emilia reacted badly when she realized the time. Two hours was quite late, but a six PM curfew was absurd. Jonathan Byers knew he had it good when he realized the freedom that he had; it was not that his mother neglected him, but that she trusted him. He had a car and he went where he wanted, but he was usually home for dinner, picked up Will when he was required to, did well in school, took care of his little brother when his mother worked late.

What sort of home life did Emilia face that she was so worried about being home at eight PM? Half of him wanted to pull over, turn around, knock on her door and tell her father that she was nearly an adult, to give her some freedom. But that was what bold, brave people did. He scoffed at the idea of showing up at her door, seeing her father -he imagined a tall man- and being scared witless. That would surely win her over, he rolled his eyes as he pulled into the drive way. It was a cold year, only half way through October and already the winter chill was settling in. He noticed the lights were on in the house, so he turned off the car and went in to spend some time with his brother.

Emilia hopped the pretty white fence and walked through the small yard-like space that brought her to the street she lived on. Her feet stumbled underneath her as she was moving too quickly; it didn't matter now how quickly she arrived home, because she was already late. What was five more minutes on top of two hours? She stumbled as she jumped over the ditch that separated the end of the road and her hands caught her just in time before she hit the ground. Her heavy bag full of books and her precious camera slammed against her back, worsening the impact. With cold gravel digging into her palms, she pushed herself back to her feet and rubbed her hands against her jeans, staining them with blood.

As she neared her home, she spotted the Sheriff's truck and her stomach sunk. The pain in her hands was nothing compared to the worry that spread over her like wildfire spread through a forest on a hot summer day. Knowing beforehand that she would be in trouble, she was amazed to see that her father would have called it in; her disappearance. She'd been two hours late, something Sheriff Hopper would have rolled his eyes at. No sense in running after a teenager who wasn't home at such an early hour; even Emilia knew that. She wondered what her father might have said to convince Hopper to show up.

As she reached the driveway, she noted that her father's truck was not parked where it normally was. A shuffle of feet and a groan of complaint caught her attention, and she walked to the porch where she saw Officer Hopper struggling with her father, who was complete dead weight – he had gotten black out drunk before eight PM. Emilia couldn't say that she was surprised, but Hopper was when he noticed her.

"You're Emilia?" He asked in a grumble.

"Yes," she replied, walking up the porch.

Hopper had her father's arm around his shoulders and was trying to keep him up, only her drunk father refused to plant his feet on the ground and hold himself up. Some mumbled words came from his lips, but it was incoherent and all Emilia could think of was that she didn't have to worry about being caught getting home too late. Even if he had been mad about it earlier -if he even noticed- he wouldn't remember it on the morrow anyways.

"Can you unlock the door?" He nearly begged, "I'm dyin' here."

She reached into her bag and grabbed her house key, unlocking the door and holding the door open as Hopper got her father within the frame. It was not without struggle, but he managed to safely get him to the couch, which was good enough for Hopper. To Emilia's surprise, Hopper flopped down at the end of the couch, leaning on the edge of the seat as her father's feet were there. He sunk into the cushions and took a moment to breathe. Emilia stood in the hall and studied the man who was in her house, wondering if he was going to leave or just make himself at home.

"I am so out of shape," he sighed.

"C-can I get you some water?" She told herself it was polite.

"That'd be lovely," he nodded.

Emilia ducked into the kitchen and turned on the tap. In the sink were a stack of dirty dishes, and she grimaced, knowing all too well that she would be the one to do them in the morning. When the water was running cold, she filled up a glass and brought it back to Hopper. It was not the first time a police officer had brought her father home since her mother's death. She handed him the glass, and he thanked her.

"Is it always like this?" He was referring to the mess, the state her father was in, the tension.

Emilia thought back to when her father caught her taking photos of the coffee table, and knew that it would be wrong to tell Hopper that it was always a disaster in their home. She shook her head, standing a few feet away from Hopper. There was no point in making things more difficult for her father, because it would only make things more difficult for herself. There was nothing Hopper could do to make her life less miserable at home; her father had never done anything that warranted or justified her being placed in another home. She made do with what she had; a roof over her head, food in her belly. She didn't need love from her father.

"No. It's just been a long week."

He nodded, "That is has."

She didn't have anything else to say.

"You know, your mother was one of the nicest people I've ever met," he spoke out of the blue. "She was good friends with Diane."

"Diane?"

"My wife. Ex wife."

"I didn't know you were married," she said bluntly.

He looked up at her, but he looked through her. "They knew each other, Arlene came to the city a few times. That's why I moved here after my daught- uhm, never mind."

There was a tension, a silence that was only disrupted by their breathing, and her father's snoring.

"You drive?" He asked.

She nodded.

"Want to come with me to bring your father's truck back?" He asked.

"No. He got too drunk to drive home, he can walk there tomorrow in the cold," she replied sourly.

Hopper pondered this reply, and then nodded, "Fair enough. You have yourself a good night, Emilia."

"You too," she replied, and then she was alone. Walking the few paces to her room, she crawled into bed and pulled the blanket over her even though she wasn't cold. Lying on her back, she reached her hand down and slid it underneath her shirt. Upon her pale flesh she knew there was a dark purple scar over her abdomen, left side. Her chest had faint scars from the sternum break, the lacerations caused by the seatbelt were fainter still. She lied awake, thinking about the accident, thinking about the physical and mental pain it had caused her, the paths it led her to go down, and the regret that came with it.

Jonathan lied upon his bed, hands underneath his head. Staring up at his blank ceiling, he wondered if he should have kissed Emilia before she left today. Such thoughts taunted him; he was a coward, he wasn't brave, he was scared. At the same time, however, she was in distress and it would have felt wrong had he kissed her. So instead, he wondered about the thoughts he had, the day dream he had of how soft her lips were. He wondered if it was realistic, he wondered if she would ever want him to kiss her.