𝙎𝙃𝙀'𝙎 𝘼𝙉 𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙇, 𝙈𝙔 𝙊𝙉𝙇𝙔 𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙇.
Diana Blake was who everyone in Hawkins wanted to be or be with. Her family name held power in the town and she wore her popularity like a crown. Until she discovered that her crown was made with...
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IN THE BIGGEST HOUSE AT THE END OF LOCH NORA—the one with perfectly trimmed hedges, colourful flowerbeds, and vibrant grass that belonged on a golf course—lived the Blakes. Although the Blake family was well respected in the town of Hawkins, their name graced every conversation that flowed from envious lips. People wanted their life. The cars, the house, the money, the reputation. Everything seemed so perfect.
For as long as Diana could remember, her house had never felt like a home.
Although she lived in style, she always felt an anxiety in the house. Things that made a home were never present. There was no laughter in the halls or warmth in the air. There was little love to be found.
Estella and Marco Blake married for love but that love turned to dust, and their affection for their children died with it. They looked at their children coldly, almost as if they were trying to find a fault in them. Their children would rush to cover up that fault within them, but what it was they never knew.
Marco felt the centre of his heart go hard whenever his children were around so to keep up appearances, he kept away. He wasn't an absent father, but he wasn't an active one either. He knew that spending too much time under the same roof as his wife and three children would only result in arguments and headaches. He was the opposite of what everyone expected him to be. To the rest of Hawkins, Marco Blake was a hard-working family man with kind eyes and a soft smile. He was charming and polite; caring and affectionate; a good father, a good husband, and an excellent professor. But within the walls of 1224 Loch Nora Court, his family knew the truth. The version of himself that he showed the world was nothing but a manipulation tactic. Behind closed doors he was cold, callous. Power was a drug and he was addicted.
Estella was different, yet cold all the same.
She used to be a kindergarten teacher before her husband requested she quit to become a stay-at-home mother. He claimed that their children would benefit from having her around all the time but deep down, a part of her knew that his request didn't stem from a place of good intention. He wanted her to be completely dependent on him. Submissive. Docile. Controlled. Blinded by the desire for approval, she agreed, but losing the job she loved so dearly broke her heart. When she looked at her children, all she felt was a pang of regret. The resentment she held for her husband manifested itself into their mistreatment. She knew they deserved better, but better would never be her and she gave up trying many years ago.
Diana supposed that the only love she ever felt was that of her older siblings. There was an unspoken understanding that while they were all suffering, and they didn't know how to save each other, they were all suffering together.
Allison was the oldest and Diana wasn't sure what was worse for her: being old enough to remember when their parents were in love or having the memories of the people they used to be. Allison saw everything. She watched their father turn cold and their mother turn complacent. Eventually, she was forced to take on the responsibility of caring for her younger siblings. It wasn't fair, but someone had to do it even if that meant losing her formative years so she could mother children that weren't even hers.
James was the middle child. He could do whatever he pleased without fear of consequence. The attention of their parents, although they already had little to spare, never fell on him. But as the walls of their house became more and more suffocating, he came to the conclusion that someone needed to step in and act as a buffer in the nuclear reaction that was their family. He was the fixer, the comforter, always there and always forgotten.
Then came Diana.
Diana was the youngest and it was evident when comparing her to her siblings. While she was beautiful, well-mannered, and popular like Allison and James were in their youth, she was also an unrelenting people pleaser.
Chasing approval was the only high she ever felt. She would fetch her mother wine even though she knew six glasses a night was bad for her. She would bite her tongue when Allison snapped at her, feeling guilty that the older girl already sacrificed so much for her. When her father was home, she would go out of her way to make him proud even though he would never feel it. She would do almost anything James asked of her. At school, she climbed the social ladder like she was climbing for her life.
Her brother liked to say that her fatal flaw was her likeliness to put others before herself and that she would light herself on fire just to warm others. He wasn't wrong, even if Diana would never admit it.
Who would ever hate her if she was the most agreeable person they knew?
A war brewed within her mind. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered pretending. There was no satisfaction in trying to be someone she wasn't and going along with her family's false picture of perfection was more draining than it was protective. But every now and then, a tiny voice would creep into her mind and remind her that if her family could make sacrifices, she could too. Validation was a dangerous thing and the restless and complacent parts of her mind were playing tug-of-war with her soul.
In a town like Hawkins, rumours spread fast and gossip was the lifeline that everybody clutched onto. Whether it was a distraction or for pure entertainment, everyone listened to it. Rumours could make or break even the strongest of people. Though the Blake family was made of many problems, they still put up the front that they were a picture perfect family that lived a picture perfect life in the two-story house at the end of the richest neighbourhood in town.
And so the house at the end of Loch Nora became haunted by the unspoken phrase: Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong. The Blake children heard it echoing through the halls when their parents fought at night. Behind the empty wine bottles and stacks of papers their father had yet to grade, a voice would start whispering: "Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong." They would stop to listen to it for a moment and look in each others eyes to see if they had all heard. They always did yet nobody ever said it aloud.
The whisper of frantic reassurance was everywhere, and therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever declares that they are breathing despite the fact that breath is coming and going all the time.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.
Diana told herself that lie for so long that she started to believe it.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.
Everything was perfect, but nothing stayed perfect for long.
