❝ 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 ]...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FIVE SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, MRS BYERS ( episode 3: the pollywog, cont. )
Violet, the note reads. I have gone for a walk. You can take the car to school today, but have it back here no later than 5pm. — Your Mother
Marge Harper was nowhere to be seen on Friday morning, car keys still in the counter bowl, the house and its appliances humming away.
Violet must have re-read that note a dozen times whilst she waited for a pot of coffee to brew, almost burning her fingertips when she reached for the handle without looking carefully enough. Since when, on God's green earth and all its fleeting history on it, did her batshit insane Mother go out for a walk. She finds herself glancing at the back door frivolously as she tried to situate herself down on the dining table, looking out at the landscape. It made Violet's job easy, she supposes, having wanted to 'I don't feel too flash' way out of school today anyway. Provided the school didn't call. Even if they did, Marge never checked the answering machine to know. She'd forge a sick note if she had to.
A bout of rain seemed to be threatening its downpour over Hawkins today, dark gray clouds stretching across the sky. The acres of lawn that had come with their house, patchy from the bottom of the back steps to the edge of the tree line. The forest was as orange as anything now, the leaves dialling themselves down to deep reds and browns and then letting the wind pull it gently from their place, floating to the ground.
Violet felt tempted to ask Marge when she got home if she'd found a walking trail or something nearby sometime this week whilst she hadn't been home. God knows what else she was doing around here other than staring at her work and watching it write itself. She'd have plenty of time to wander about, stare at the trees, possibly fill her head with more excuses as to why she'd made the absurd move to Indiana.
As raggedy as everything was in Hawkins, the inner parts of the forest must be beautiful. At this time of year especially, the pines and leaves and twigs not damp enough to slip you up, but to leave gentle prints to help you walk back the way you came. Any residue of rain would smell magnificent. Maybe even tether to the fog if you went early enough.
