WHISTLEBLOWER | ❝It only gets stranger...❞
Hawkins has never looked back on the events of November 1983. They know the surface-level story. 'The boy who came back to life.' Will Byers is alive and well, while the futile search for Tonya McCarth...
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SATURDAY 3rd NOVEMBER, 1984
SATURDAY nights are always busiest at the Hawk Theatre — relatively speaking, anyway — and Daphne always knows this when it hits a certain time of day. Right on the cusp between afternoon and evening, the sky slowly turning into a powdery blue hue, the marquee lights splash onto the pavement as people's shadows either file into the theatre or line up at the box office. Inside it tonight is Daphne, most trusted among all the adolescent part-time employees to handle tickets.
Something about being cooped up inside a glass box, watching people come and go should be claustrophobic or too public for her. But Daphne has never minded it; in fact, she rather enjoys it. The box office is her own small space, and separated by the glass she loves when she catches glimpses of movie magic in people's eyes... it makes the squeaky chair and the draft that creeps through the hinges all worth it.
The flow seems to have steadied for a moment, Daphne having just given, once again, tickets for 'The Terminator' toa trio of friends arriving for a fun night at the movies. Sometimes the queues ebb and flow like this, allowing for a moment to herself. She reaches for her pen and scribbles something down on her notepad again, having just had another idea for her short story. The inspiration has finally arrived, but she holds the idea gingerly, not entirely sure whether it is too personal yet or not.
... It had started yesterday, after she arrived home from school feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed. Daphne dismissed her dad's concerns, simply admitting that she felt ill (which wasn't a lie) and so came home early. The door shut to her room, she had started playing some therapeutic Joni Mitchell records and collapsed onto her bed, along with all her messy and raw feelings. The guilt for what had just transpired with Felix still ate away at her, and she debated back and forth if and when she should reach out again. Daphne tried the phone a couple of times later, and once more the next morning, before it became clear that Felix wasn't answering and wouldn't be any time soon.
With her work shift not starting until one, Daphne had contemplated what to do with herself for the Saturday morning. She had mostly lounged around in her most comfy jeans and a black knit sweater, mostly listening to music or reading to avoid the weird atmosphere from her dad and Aunt Peggy. Then her mind had drifted to Nancy and Jonathan, wondering where they were right then and if Murray was going to be as vital as they said he was. And when she connected it with piles of scribbles on her desk, that was when she had felt the urge to do something herself — something to express everything that had happened the last year, and channel it into something productive. So Daphne started doing the only thing she currently knew how:
