❝ 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘤𝘧𝘭𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯? ❞
in which violet harper moves to hawkins, indiana: where a boy came back to life.
STRANGER THINGS 2 ONWARD !
[ 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘰𝘤 𝘹 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯 ]...
'I'VE BEEN THINKING,' Violet says, stifling a yawn. 'We should look at getting another car.'
'And why on earth would we possibly need another car, Violet?'
The teenager shrugs, chewing on the nail of her left index finger as she gazes out the window to the landscape peppered with morning dew, dull light creeping over the dead trees. 'Well, this school's kinda far, I'll probably be going out a lot more, and you won't be going anywhere.'
Marge rolls her eyes, ash from her cigarette floating onto the dashboard. 'For God's sake Violet, of course I will be. How else do you think we get groceries? The magic fairies do it?'
'But you're working from home now. And I'm not. It makes sense for me to need the car more.'
Marge bites down on her back teeth. 'Sales still requires a car, Violet,' she says quaintly. 'And I'm perfectly happy picking you up from school every day, and I'm not about to buy you a car just so you can fuck off for days at a time and wander in and out whenever you please.'
'It's not like you'd notice either way,' she mumbles under her breath.
'I beg your pardon?'
Violet doesn't answer her back. The dead treeline began to thin back with spots of suburbia. In the corner of my eye, Violet could see Marge parting her lips to speak, but says nothing. She steps on the engine instead. 'You can get a bicycle like every other kid I've seen here so far if you're that desperate to get out,' she spits.
They say nothing for the remainder of the car ride. In fact, they'd barely said a word to one another since Violet had gotten home last night. She'd pulled up in the gravel driveway just as the sun had set behind the house. Just as Violet had suspected, Marge was slouched in her hunter green armchair, still wrapped in plastic, painted fingernails tapping on a half empty wine bottle. No questions, no concern. Not a word. Violet had slid her bedroom door shut with a bang, tossing the pink slip aside as she began unpacking everything Marge had thrown back into their boxes, collapsing onto her poorly made bed in heavy, dreamless sleep.
