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For the redhead, Hawkins was a truly peaceful place—sometimes on Friday afternoons, when the sunset came early and lingered, its light gently skimming the horizon; in those days, Vickie would go to the nearest field—the one close to the military base, yet far enough away not to be disturbed—caressing the grass, walking with a sense of fulfillment through the golden meadow, the tips of her delicate palms holding—barely feeling—the blades of grass brush against her.
Sometimes she simply admired the distance; other days, the need to cling to something led her to read the book that had been important to her for as long as she could remember—the last and first book her mother had read to her before dying in the 1970s: Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. She loved the book; it was beautiful, and somehow it always managed to offer her a new message of hope.
Some time ago, a dear coworker gave her a Walkman so she could listen to music, having noticed—as always—that while tending to unconscious patients, she used to hum the melodies of various songs. That coworker, Elly Mc Wells, never really explained the reasons behind the gift; in fact, they had barely exchanged four words during the time Vickie worked at the hospital. Vickie told her it was an unnecessary expense—and quite expensive at that—but Elly defended herself by explaining that she’d found it on sale for twenty-four dollars because the volume-down button was broken.
A week later, Mc Wells moved away from Hawkins.
Without saying goodbye or speaking to anyone.
Vickie could never understand her.
The first cassette she bought was her favorite song, “Put Your Head on My Shoulder.” Robin kindly gave it to her the very day she mentioned having a Walkman, along with several others she used to listen to while riding the bus home. A small home, which she had hesitated to keep after distancing herself from her father, wondering if it was truly a reasonable decision or if it was just her mind acting out of anger in response to the senseless provocation of a wounded, alcoholic old man.
“Look at the piece of filth you are… Your mother would turn in her grave if she saw the monstrosity she gave birth to,” he had said the first time he caught Vickie sharing an intimate moment with her girlfriend Robin; apparently, clinging to the thought that no one would see them was sheer naivety. That day, after the encounter, Robin said goodbye, promising another date—a tiny world of peace that would hover in their galaxy. Just the two of them. But as she walked through the door, Vickie lost all her happiness; the color drained from her face, while her joy transformed at the speed of light into a burning match, leaving a thick smoke in the air—reflected in her father’s disgusted eyes.
Vickie never talked to Robin about it. She told herself that these were solely her problems and she shouldn’t involve her friend, who was already dealing with a heavy workload at the radio station alongside Steve. Why was Robin always with him? She excused herself by saying, “I wanted independence.” The lighter-haired redhead didn’t ask about the situation she didn’t care though she was overjoyed to find out she had a landline in her apartment building.
"At last we’ll be able to communicate even from a distance," she had said, caressing the palms of her hands, in that desolate hospital room during one of their daily visits, where they left the Underworld behind to shape their own Eden, serving as architects for this unstable reality, in the solitude of a small room, embracing each other so closely that their skin warmed one another, their noses brushing against each other, and Robin’s tousled hair blending seamlessly with the redhead’s.
There… Trapped in each other’s iron grip… There, the outside world seemed like a tiny grain of sand. People calling their relationship a sin, the Soviets, the sick, the cracks in the streets, the military, the conservative ladies judging her for her cropped hair, her mother, McWells… Her father; none of that existed. None of that mattered.
The redhead laughs when the other’s hair lands electrifyingly on her earlobe, making her legs tremble slightly—a movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by Robin, who doesn’t hesitate to caress her cheek, running his fingers over each of her freckles, memorizing every feature of her face, as if he were soon—or perhaps always—on the verge of losing her. Their gazes meet—lazuli against sapphire—plunging into the vast ocean of the other’s eyes; whether for a million years, three millennia, or a single second—it didn’t matter once Buckley’s crimson lips, those of the damn beautiful Robin Buckley, pressed against hers, and Vickie could never resist her beloved’s fiery affection, scratching her back with her left hand while her right drifted through her auburn locks.
However, sunsets last far too short a time. And, just as the sun bids farewell to the world, dragging the light away, bringing in its wake only the wretched darkness to which Vickie Dunne, in her misfortune, had grown accustomed. And so, Buckley—that damned Robin Buckley—drifts away. She pushes her away, digging her nails into her arms without realizing it, letting go to answer a call—the faint sound of a translucent voice revealing the reason behind it: Steve. By this point, Vickie had wished for an unexpected plague to bruise his balls until they rotted and, like an overripe apple, fell from the tree.
Robin looks back at her, wearing that expression that screamed from the rooftops: we’ll have to postpone it.
“I’m sorry, Vi” she looks at her, glancing to the left, exhaling in short, choppy breaths, before returning her gaze, softening her eyes “I need to leave right now… It’s an emergency.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, clenching her palms into fists, feeling her colorful nails prick her skin; again, this world, this grain of sand that she has struggled, time and time again, to call hope—to imagine that hiding is a tunnel at the end of which her beloved angel extends the warmth of his hands, showing her light—all that hope crumbles again and again, again and again. “Something important? What a surprise.”
Robin turns around, feeling guilty, and approaches, hoping to mend the cracks that secrets have caused in their unstable relationship, knowing that lately they’ve been dancing on a floor of glass. She longs so much to tell her everything, know she doesn’t know where to start. With Max? With Vecna? Eddie? The Demogorgons? The Russians? It was too much for anyone.
"Listen, Vic, I..." but her words are cut off by the sound of a phone ringing, a calm voice coming through; it's Jonathan.
«Robin, come quickly, we need you here. Nancy will go crazy if you don't show up.»
“Okay, I’ll be right there” putting on the jacket hanging over an armchair, she hurriedly opens the door. “I’m sorry, Vickie. Another time, okay? I’ll call you after nine,” she said without even looking at her before leaving.
And she got away.
She got away.
AGAIN.
Vickie is left stranded there. Alone. In that stupid, empty hospital room. Alone. Watching Robin walk away again. Alone. Without any explanation. Alone. While her heart breaks all over again. Alone. With a stupid look on her face. Alone.
She knows what Robin is doing; she really wants to believe that the radio station takes up too much of her interest and time and that… that she wouldn’t do any of that, wouldn’t hurt herself that way—unaware that in doing so she’d also be hurting her—even though all the evidence points to the contrary.
Robin was doing drugs.
She was probably a heavy addict.
One day, while she was still trying to steady her breathing, swimming through the peak of ecstasy—the climax of immense pleasure swirling in her lower abdomen—as the weeks remained hot, carrying a scent of syrup, sweat, and glory, her light-brown-haired partner received a call.
«Robin, where the hell are you?! We need you here; you have to bring what we agreed on so we don’t screw up the plan» it was the voice of that idiot friend, the one with that stupid hairstyle that looked like he’d had his hair cut while wearing pajamas—such a joke, really something to laugh at.
«Oh, shut up, Steve! I was busy! I’ll be there in an hour» Robin yelled back. Vickie felt another wave of satisfaction knowing that her girl wouldn’t leave her hanging like that, though it quickly turned into serious concern upon hearing the rest of the young people’s ramblings.
“An hour?! We think Hopper is being chased by the Soviets who captured us at the secret barracks—the ones with the radio-wave identification code.”
“Russians? I thought they were dead.”
“Listen, Robin, you need to be here right—”
“I’m sorry, Steve, I’m with Vickie.”
“What? Robin, wait—”
Robin returned to bed, looking much more anxious after the exchange, glancing toward the door every so often, as if she wanted to escape and run to the radio station. Despite having previously refused to give in to the wishes of the little hairy guy, it wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before Robin left him, slipping away after stealing an “I love you” and the taste of his lips.
Vickie also noticed the physical deterioration in those fleeting moments when she watched her girl—though “watched” might not be the right word, since in reality she simply had a small passion for observing that woman’s features, actions, and body language. She loved her; she loved Robin so much—it was unlike any emotion she’d ever felt with any of her previous partners, guys who kissed her neck, made promises, and then acted outrageously. She hadn’t even felt those emotions with the ones who were truly good to her; a whirlwind swirled in her stomach, while butterflies fluttered through her heart.
No, Robin was special. Robin had something that made him love her, even though she didn't feel the same way about him. Maybe it was her infectious smile, her good humor—which, even in the worst situations, was pure kindness—the way she’d tuck a strand of brown hair behind her ear when she blushed, her red lipstick, her big, playful, and endearing eyes, her gentle caresses as she stroked Vickie’s face with her palms, her fantastic taste in music, her slow gait in which, without realizing it, she often placed her feet in a straight line, her musical talent, her ability to listen to her without tiring or complaining, as if hearing the redhead’s voice were a blessing brought by heaven’s most beloved archangel.
My God, how much Vickie loved that woman!
That’s why she was worried, but how do you broach such a serious subject? How could she stop her by saying, “Honey, I know you’ve been doing drugs; you need rehab, help, and to change your friends”? Besides, a little voice deep inside Vickie—call it guilt, hope, love, trust, fear, or whatever you want, it doesn’t matter—the only thing that matters is that feeling of needing to wait, of wanting to believe her when she leaves and makes up some silly excuse, of taking a deep breath, sitting down, and trusting Robin.
So she lets her go.
...
Alcohol is a comfort—beer in the park, in a secluded spot away from people, listening to The Cure on her Walkman. The first can trickles down her lips, leaving a bitter taste on her palate—a flavor of dry bread and nuts that she never understood could be so satisfying. Her notebook on her lap is another simple hobby; she doesn’t want to be a professional writer, even though she truly loves to write; sunsets, the wind, music, and greenery always have that effect on her; the tingling in her hands, crying out for the need to tell a story.
Although she isn’t particularly good at writing.
Sometimes, the stories of the sick.
Not even her own story.
«Mrs. Whisly is an elderly woman with graying hair, young at heart; she has a beautiful smile that lights up when her husband arrives. He loves her, and she loves him. At least that’s the general consensus; there’s affection in their gazes, support in their caresses, and loyalty in their hardships. However, when observing them individually, it was impossible not to sense their sighs into the void, a palpable sense of regret, and a longing for something different.
Is there love? Of course there is—but those feelings remain clinging, chained to other people’s bodies.”
But deep down, she loves stories of heartbreak; she’s never been a fan of happy endings. She adores people’s innocence, the fantasy and idealism of youth—yet the idea of “happily ever after” strikes her as profoundly boring, like an unfinished scene; an unsatisfying ending. The pain will never end; love isn’t usually forever. You could spend your life loving someone, and that person could die loving you—even if that emotion has no end, the reality is that it seems impossible for her to hold another’s hand for the rest of her life.
Sipping alcohol, she continues the story—or the letter that will never have a reader.
«Love endures until death takes you away; to live is to be condemned to give your heart away and risk having it taken into someone’s hands—trusting they won’t stab it with a stake. To love is to risk suffering; that’s why only the brave are capable of truly loving. The weak-minded end up offering caresses to their beloved, sighing their longings to their love.
The woman named Whisly sometimes listens to music about forbidden relationships and hearts that could not bring themselves to forget, even as time races against the clock. The man named Whisly, sometimes in his sleep, cries out the name of another woman: Elenora.
Oh, my brave ones… Dare to give your soul! To be rejected, to be the loser in the story, to fight tooth and nail to flee with your lover. Oh, my brave ones! This terrifying feeling will never disappear unless you lay it to rest. Oh, my brave ones! Do not wait until wrinkles cover your faces, failing to recognize the weariness in your eyes, forgetting voices and memories you swore would remain forever in your minds; do not wait until you are dead to begin living.
The time is now, my brave ones. Amen».
...
As she opens the door, she glances at the clock. It’s a quarter past eight; Robin promised to call her at nine. Yesterday’s pesto pasta in the fridge turns into a five-star feast; the beers and her nervousness whet her appetite, and she sits down next to the phone in the living room with a bowl in her hands, waiting for his call.
He doesn’t call.
Robin never calls.
AGAIN. DAMN IT.
...
Waking up with lower back and neck pain from falling asleep while waiting for him, Vickie is frustrated, furious, annoyed.
Angry!
...
When three weeks had passed and their meetings had become less frequent—only twice during that entire time (one of which was interrupted by a weird guy with a bowl cut just as they were about to get intimate)—and there had been only four phone calls, all lasting less than ten minutes, with Robin sounding strangely exhausted during those extremely short conversations and even sounding tired on the radio... Vickie is angry and worried—a lot, way too much.
When the military arrives asking for a certain Robin Buckley, she’s beside herself with worry; she practically wants to raid the grocery store a few blocks away and empty the entire pantry in one go.
When Robin arrives in a rush to kidnap one of her patients along with her boyfriend.... Then she’s running in circles, pacing back and forth, looking for some way to help the woman she loves deeply.
And finally, when Robin tells the most disturbing, absurd, and ridiculous story imaginable—about some kind of wizard who kidnaps children and wants to conquer the world with the power of children’s friendship and innocence, with a bunch of man-eating dog henchmen and, on the side of good, a little girl wizard, another little girl wizard, another kid with ridiculous powers, and a world of dreams they’re taken to—then...! Then she doesn’t know what to do!
When the military almost arrests her and a man-eating monster dog arrives, at that moment Vickie wonders if perhaps she’s high too; however, the gentle hands of her girlfriend caressing her, whispering compliments and promises of a great date at Enzo’s into her ear, while one of her favorite songs by one of her favorite artists plays beside her; it makes her let go and trust, just as her instinct had been begging her to do for so long.
To be honest, Vickie was glad that the evil tormenting Robin was just a crazy, cannibalistic guy with serious mental problems and not a tormenting addiction that would kill her in every possible way. She could handle the wrath of a demon, but not watching the love of her life kill herself.
And to be even more honest, Vickie had a little mini-crush on Mrs. Wheeler when she blew up those beasts, learning from Robin that Nancy was the best at handling military equipment. The Wheeler women were to be feared!
What she didn’t expect was a romantic and adorable encounter between the redheaded teenager and her boyfriend, followed by a gathering of a large group of friends moved by having had the luxury of witnessing a loved one return to consciousness. Vickie was happy for them; during her community service at the hospital, she’d had to care for her, clean her, and help her move her limbs on multiple occasions—she’d even written about her.
«'The Room of Love.’
In the room of love
there is a world,
intimate and hopeful,
deeply defeated.
In the room of love
two young people long for each other deeply.
Not letting go in the face of death,
Separated by the fear
Of losing each other again
In the Room of Love
Red adorns the room
A red of courage
A red of passion,
Her sunset-colored hair
Rests in pleasure.
In the Room of Love
There is no room for an intruder.
In the Room of Love
She dies without pain.»
But feeling happy didn’t make her indifferent to feeling excluded, out of place. These weren’t her friends, they weren’t people she knew; they were Robin’s. She didn’t belong there at all.
The way “home”—or rather, the “secret” base that Robin had been telling her all this time was her workplace—the radio station. It was anything but peaceful; the couple next to her were hugging, friends were laughing, joking around with inside jokes and anecdotes only they understood, talking about how now the guy Will the Will who had died a couple of years ago, that Will? was a sorcerer just like the sorceress Once. Steve looked like a proud father bird watching over his chicks as he nodded, joking with Buckley about how happy he was that the group was finally reunited.
Vickie, meanwhile, was alone. Surrounded by a bunch of strangers, but emotionally alone; sitting in the corner of the van, counting down the seconds until they reached the station so she could have a long talk with Robin.
However, at the facility, she discovered something far worse than all the secrets, lies, masks, and deceptions; she discovered the damned suicide plot in which Robin would be involved, and she nearly had a panic attack. But there was no time for that because the very next minute, everyone in that psychiatric facility was in the room listening to a speech by this guy Will—a speech she would have found movingly brave, since she doesn’t even dare ask Robin what they are, were it not for one tiny detail...
<He's my Tammy> said the boy, with a very old-fashioned bowl cut, looking confidently at Robin, who returned his gaze proudly.
Tammy Thompson?
That bleached blonde with a voice like a turkey drowning underwater?
That beautiful girl Robin had stared at so intently when they first met—smiling at her, sending her sighs and laughter, and giving her a look that she could now describe as wanting to forget her to protect her broken heart? The Tammy Thompson who was rumored to have dated girls, even though those rumors were never confirmed?
That Tammy?
Now the hugs, the greetings, and the support were back, but Vickie was devastated for a completely different reason.
What if Robin had just used her to get over his ex?
The minutes ticked by, and she was still standing there. It was strange enough that Robin finally wondered if something was wrong with her. That’s why, no matter how tightly the auburn-haired woman’s hands gripped her wrists, she didn’t let the opportunity slip away. They were going to talk if they wanted this to continue! She looked for a place with closed doors where they could talk alone—a place that, unfortunately, turned out to be a bathroom.
“Vic, what's going on...”
"You can't go," she says, struggling not to scream. She wasn't furious, but distraught, sobbing in despair, cold, thick, crystal-clear tears sliding painfully down her face. "No... I don’t want you to die” but that wasn’t the truth, just the tip of the iceberg. I needed to let out every feeling, every thought, and every emotion, even though I had no idea how. “I… Rob, I’m scared. So scared! Because an hour ago we were on the brink of death, and I really thought I was going to lose my life. When we survived, I thought it was a miracle, luck, fate—I don’t fucking know! And… And I didn’t understand what the hell was going on, even though deep down I was so happy—so, so happy—because I’d really started to believe that this was something we could get through; there were the soldiers, the police, the other people. But are they part of the enemy, too? Now your friends are celebrating, playing around before throwing themselves into a suicide mission. For God’s sake! They’re kids—they shouldn’t have to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders or feel like they have to fight some intergalactic entity with a god complex. Then, too, there’s that friend of yours who mentioned Tammy and asked me if you love me. Because I don’t feel loved. I’m tired—so tired. So many things have happened to me in recent years, and you were the ray of light at the end of the tunnel, so I ran… I ran after you over and over again, over and over again. I waited for you day and night; I understood when you had to work. I never got upset when you dropped me off at the front door, canceling plans with silly excuses and quick words—even when it killed me to choose my makeup, hairstyle, dresses, and shoes, being the lovesick girl with a dazed look on my face” without holding anything back, I decided to let it all go: disorganized, chaotic, and jumbled. It was a mess of meaningless rambling. Falling to the floor, her knees giving out, hugging herself, also wrapped in the arms of her lover, who makes no attempt to comfort her, letting it all go “Because I loved you and said you had good reasons. Now I know those good reasons! But I still don’t know so many things. You don’t know anything about me either—nothing! Are you supposed to save Hawkins?! Am I the selfish one?! I don’t know what to do. My father kicked me out of the house; he even threatened once to kill me—to kill you. I turned down my college scholarship to be with you; I didn’t want to tell you. I really do love you, and I didn’t want this to end just like that... Do you love me…? Surely not…” she whispers uncertainly, as her lover brushes her hair. “And I have so many questions I’d like to ask you. For the past two years, I’ve refused to call you my ‘girlfriend,’ since you’ve never said it either, so… What are we? What the hell is Vecna? What will we do when this is over? Do you love me? What happened between you and Tammy? What does Will know? What do your friends know? What’s going on between us? Are we really going to Enzo’s? Are you planning to die on this weird mission? How much does Steve Harrington know? Do you love me? Am I being selfish for wanting to leave and let everything go to hell? Where were you when you canceled our dates? Do you love me? If I want to leave this town, will you come with me...?”
“First, breathe, Vickie,” she says, pulling her into her arms her… her girlfriend? Gently stroking her back in circles. Breathing heavily so she’ll follow suit. She had a lot to think about. Had she really been such a bad partner? Would it have been better to tell the truth from the start, even if Vickie might have thought she was crazy? “That’s it… Breathe…” Vickie uses her coat sleeves to wipe her face, mentally grateful that she’s using products that don’t smudge easily. “Are you with me?” She nods. “I know you have a lot—too many—doubts, but believe me… Believe me when I say I love...”
“Robiiiiiiiiin! It’s time!” It was Nancy’s voice. There were two ways to tell if something was really urgent. The second: someone dies. The first? When Nancy Wheeler gave an order.
“I have to go, though. When I get back, we’ll talk. As many hours as you want… Will you grant me one last thing…? Please, Vic, trust me” she held out his hands, rising from the cold floor. “I love you” and there were no lies, not a single doubt in his voice. Not a single wavering tremor in his heart, beating with affection in his chest.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise” she wanted to lean in to kiss her, to seal the pact with crimson ink and soft flesh, but the younger Wheeler’s cry interrupted their intimacy.
Robin stepped back. She opened the door until…
“Hi!” it was a girl’s nervous voice “Um… I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation… It’s just that my wheels got stuck on my shoelaces and I couldn’t move… You know; physical immobility or something like that.”
“How much did you hear, Max?”
“Everything?”
“ROBIIIN!” Nancy again.
“I don’t have time for this.”
And she left.
Again.
...
Max was a pleasant friend; in a way, she was the second person Vickie liked best in the group. Spending time washing her hair had a big impact, though more than that, it was her smile. Vickie loved people who smiled as if life were worth living, as if there were reasons to exist, to fight, and to face difficulties to stay on their feet, even when circumstances were against them.
They were trustworthy people.
“So… you and Robin?” asked the younger redhead as soon as the room was empty; with just the two of them there, it was obvious she could relax, even if that peace of mind came hand in hand with the anxiety of not knowing whether their partners would return alive or not.
“YES…” she replied, rolling her wheelchair across the floor to the common room and sitting down in one of the chairs.
“How long has it been?”
“A year and a half? We started hanging out after Hawkins was destroyed by the earthquake—or, well, I guess by Vecna. We never officially started dating, but a year and a half ago Robin kissed me for the first time… And it kept happening until whatever we have right now.”
“Good heavens, you guys really are bad at communicating, huh?” Vickie nods from her seat “If you need some encouragement—and God knows you do—I’ll tell you that Lucas and I have broken up six times; he’s always won me back.”
“That sweet guy and you broke up? I can’t imagine it. He visited you every week for two years while you were in a coma.” She stood up, walked over a bit, and picked up the teenager’s boombox, which was on the table, playing the song Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush. “Tell me how it happened.”
“The first time? Well… He wanted to meet my dad… But my dad—he’s, you know…” <racist> were the unspoken words; the awkward silence in the air confirmed it. “He pushed too hard, without realizing it. I got angry and told him it was over. I wanted to protect him, so I decided to walk away, but with Lucas it’s impossible to keep him at a distance—he’s always finding a way to break down my defenses” there was tenderness in her voice. “We talked, we understood each other; we listened to each other’s feelings and reasons, and then, naturally, we worked things out” a pause, a silence that feels like a rebuke. Max clenches the hospital gown, digging into her skin as she sits in the chair “Although if you’re referring to the last time…” the girl can’t hold back her tears, which slide down where her freckles are. Vickie combs her hair, trying to be at least a comforting presence “That was when my older brother died. We were young; he didn’t know my brother the way I did, so some time after he died, he said, “Well, that’s one less burden off your back, right? He was a total jerk” even to Vickie, who never met the boy in question, it sounds a bit hurtful. “It hurt me. Because it was true. Billy, my brother, was a jerk, but most of the time he acted that way to protect me. When he found out I was friends with Lucas and the guys, he started picking on them and scaring them off, since my “father” was also an alcoholic—and violent, to boot. Billy kept me away from Lucas and the guys, knowing that his violence could be directed at me at any moment, for any reason.”
Vickie understood perfectly what it was like to want to keep your partner away, believing that would be the best way to protect him; she also understood the hurtful words, the kind that sting so deeply they burn the most innocent part of your soul. Every “I have to go” stung. It was obvious that it wasn’t on the same level as Max’s situation, but she understood.
“In conclusion, Vic,” she said, recalling the way the brunette called her. “Partners say hurtful things; they often push us away or leave without explanation. So you have every right to leave, to get angry, to walk away, and never look back,” Max said, grabbing the redhead’s wrists and staring intently at her. “Even so, I assure you that you should listen to Robin. She may not be good at communicating, but she walked away with your best interests in mind. «They’re kids; they shouldn’t have the weight of the world on their shoulders or feel like they have to fight» every time someone learns the truths of this world, they tend to wonder why it’s children who have to face such things, and the answer is love” the younger redhead smiles, in that way Vickie cherishes so much, as if life were worth living, as if there were reasons to exist, to fight, and to face hardships to stay standing, even when circumstances were working against them “Joyce fights for Will, Hopper for Once, Steve for the kids or Nancy, Nancy for her family, Jonathan for Joyce and Will, Mike for Once, Will for his family or Mike, Once for Hopper and Mike, Erica for Lucas, Lucas for me and his family, and I for Lucas... Now, I ask you, who do you think Robin is fighting for?” the answer was in the air, in the lies, in her lover’s concern “She’s doing it for you.”
...
Max struggled a lot to recalculate, then... Then her eyes rolled back, she wasn’t moving, she wasn’t speaking, and Vickie wasn’t even sure if she was alive. Was it part of the plan, right? That crazy, deranged, suicidal plan, where a telepathic sorceress would enter a little girl’s mind so they could guide each other to the land of dreams. She still doesn’t understand how that could be real.
And minutes later, they were being attacked by the U.S. government’s military forces. Armored trucks, rifles in the hands of hesitant young men, guns searching for them everywhere with the goal of taking their heads as trophies—or hostages to exchange for the ultimate prize. She dragged the wheelchair to the hidden base behind cardboard boxes; eating amid the anxiety of being pursued, fearful of losing her life, fearful that the teenager beside her—radiating a longing to fight until peace was achieved—would also lose her life.
“She’s doing this for you.” Max’s voice echoes in her mind, silent beside her.
“I love you.” How much of their relationship was real?
Max opens her eyes! But the sound of her arrival alerts the soldiers. The very next moment, they were being aimed at by the soldiers.
She wished this would just end already.
The soldiers cruelly dragged them across the floor (Max was simply pulled out of her chair, though they didn’t refrain from kicking the wheels), forcing them to kneel on the floor of the radio station; soldiers in camouflaged leather uniforms, surrounded by numerous weapons, stood before a woman with a long, bitter face—one who had seen the best and worst of humanity, stuck in a constant tug-of-war between good and evil. Her furrowed brow betrayed her need for answers as she nodded toward a soldier with a long scar across his right eye.
“Where are they?” her dark eyes seemed to devour the nurse, but far removed from that was Max’s scream demanding they let her go, while… …while they held a gun to Vickie’s head “And don’t you dare lie; we know exactly every one of your plans, movements, and soldiers: Project 011, Nancy Wheeler, a worthy infantry soldier, Hopper, a former Vietnam veteran… I could go on—the plan to intercept the worlds and crash them into each other, getting rid of the Upside Down along the way?” The woman paused, demanding a gun from the soldier with the wounded right eye. “However, at this point there are two things I don’t know” she paused again, circling around the nurse, that sweet woman with heavy makeup and a local pink-striped suit. “The first: What connection do you, Miss Vickie Dunne, have with these horrifying… terrorists?”
Terrorists—a bunch of foolish teenagers throwing themselves into the fight for the world—rather than the military pointing guns at the head of Max, a girl just waking up from a coma, in a wheelchair? Indeed, this is the world turned upside down.
“The second one…” the click of the gun’s safety being disengaged is Vickie’s main warning before the barrel presses against the center of her forehead; she swallows hard “Where—which of all the portals will they emerge from? Tell me, or you’ll die.”
“I…” the woman’s finger gets closer and closer to the trigger; Max’s scream isn’t loud enough to divert the nurse’s attention from the ring finger moving toward her death.
“Don’t you dare lie, or you’ll die.”
«Will you grant me one last thing…? Please, Vic, trust me» In her favorite book, the protagonist repeatedly faces situations that require courage—situations that demanded she trust those closest to her. «And as for risk, there’s risk in almost everything one does in this world» —that was Vickie’s favorite quote from Anne of Green Gables. Likewise, she once wrote something similar: love is the privilege of the brave alone—those who never hesitate to give their heart along with a silver dagger.
If so, it would be the huntress offering a young woman’s heart to her queen—surrendering her feelings, loyalty, and trust to Robin.
“I don’t know. I’m a volunteer nurse at Hawkins General Hospital. A friend asked me as a favor to take care of this young lady until she can look after herself and get around on her own” it made sense, considering that she had never interacted with Robin’s friends until today, and that they found her in her nurse’s uniform, caring for that girl; fear would serve as an excuse to hide. It was coherent enough to the point that doubt would flicker across the elderly woman’s elongated face.
A doubt that is sealed by a gunshot.
Vickie assumed she was dead.
The bullet would strike her skull, shatter her frontal bone, leading to what would be a quick and painless death. Blood would bathe the floor in crimson red, and her face would be immortalized in a heroic tragedy, watching her life slip away meaninglessly.
That’s how it would be until...
“In the old lab!” Max’s voice interrupts, just as the bullet veers off toward where his body should be cooling “The kids will come out through the portal in the old lab, where it first opened.”
...
The soldiers decide to take them hostage, mumbling something about exchanging them for Eleven, the sorceress. Calling them “high-value trophies.”
They were prisoners of war, in short.
...
To see a world—a world you’ve only just learned exists today—vanish before your eyes, swallowing up the mud, the earth, the ruins, the monster, and, in its fleeting passage, the life of a young woman, is, to say the least, a shocking experience. She doesn’t see what everyone else does; she doesn’t see a sister, he doesn’t see a daughter, she doesn’t see a girlfriend, he doesn’t see a friend, she doesn’t see a companion—not even an acquaintance. Just a girl with weary eyes, consumed by the storm she created. Committing suicide.
Robin is out of his sight—how he wishes he could hold her, comfort her. The one who is within her reach is Max, who screams, screams, screams, and tries to move, to do something, to act. She’s surely thinking, “I’m so useless,” “Could I have done better?” If I’d let them kill this girl and never blocked the exit, my best friend, my sister, wouldn’t be dying.
Vickie does what she can. She hugs her.
...
A week later, she finds herself in a government prison, being interrogated by an elderly, bald man who calls himself “the improved replacement for the former general.” Same shit, different shitter. A device connected to her heart rate, measuring the believability of her lies.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
True.
“Do you know who you are?”
“Yes.”
True.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No.”
True.
“Do you know what Experiment 0011 is?”
“No.”
Lie.
“I saw the girl, but I never interacted with her, and I don’t know what the experiment is.”
True.
“Have you killed anyone?”
“No.”
True.
After three hours of stupid questions and answers, she is blindfolded, drugged with chloroform, and wakes up a few hours—or days?—later at the radio station, surrounded by dozing bodies, except for Joyce Byers, who sits in a corner, stroking her son’s old-fashioned hairstyle. The mother raises her hand, glancing at her lips as a signal to be quiet, then makes a second gesture—a signal to come closer.
There were young children, not much older than seven—almost a dozen of them; a whole kindergarten class, along with teenagers, adults, and… Was that the teacher? Crawling among the unconscious bodies. She recognizes a couple of them: Steve, Lucas, Will—and that’s where she stops counting.
“What happened?” she asks in a soft whisper.
“Apparently, they released us, although we each have black bracelets that count down the time” and she wasn’t lying; under her jacket she wore a black watch? with green letters on a screen, showing a fairly advanced count. “Mine says: one year, six months, five days, and three hours. I think that’s how long the government will keep us under surveillance. I looked out the window—outside, we’re surrounded by ten camouflaged military trucks, and there are soldiers on every corner of the base,” she replied in an even quieter voice. “Besides that, when I woke up, the general—a bald man—told me we weren’t killed simply because we proved ourselves to be highly capable soldiers. I guess we screwed the military over so badly that now they want us as allies.”
Vickie nods, almost dizzy from the information, feeling too numb to move, crawling among the bodies, searching for two in particular: her partner and the girl for whom she’d developed an unexpected affection. Fortunately, they’re together. Max is in the chair, and Robin is sleeping with her back and head resting on the redhead’s legs, using them as a pillow.
Vickie smiles at the sight.
Oblivious to Joyce’s surprised gaze.
...
The sunset is beautiful; Vickie loves sunsets—sitting in the countryside, brushing against the grass, pretending that life is worth something. That’s why she’s sitting there now, next to Max. She’s sitting on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling, while Max is still in his chair; both of them are admiring the sunset over that small, quiet town.
“What are you going to do now?” asks the nurse. The teenager hesitates.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to live with my dad, and my mom won’t show up… My brother is dead, and so is my best friend… And I’m in a wheelchair” put that way, it sounds like a really hard life. “I’d say I could live with Lucas, but if we’re constantly together, the three of us would end up fighting all the time. Besides, right now I need my own internal battles to fight.”
Max—Maxime Mayfield—looks back at her. A cold breeze ruffles her hair, the same shade as the sky at sunset; her cobalt eyes tremble, locking gazes with the girl before being swallowed up by the storm. Vickie had weighed her options so many times over the past three days; there was only one decision she was truly certain of.
“Do you want to live with me?” Max’s eyes widened. “I mean… You don’t want to live with your father, and neither do I. You need rehab—I’m a nurse. You don’t have a home, but I do. Plus, you’re one of the few who know about my relationship with Robin…” The teenager frowned, looking away. “Wait, seriously, how many others know?”
“Ha, ha, ha… Well, Mrs. Byers already knows, so Hopper does too. Nancy figured it out when Will looked at Robin as he came out of the closet… As far as I know, Steve and Robin are super best friends, so I guess he knows too. Will, obviously. It won’t be long before Erica figures it out.” On top of that, Lucas told me about that scene while I was running for my life.—Max thinks for a moment, shrugging.—I guess that covers everyone; the rest are just clueless… And, in answer to your earlier question…” the smile at the corner of her lips spoke louder than a thousand words “Sure. I’ll move in with you.”
“Um… I don’t know if this is the best time—can I come back later?” It was Robin, nervous—more nervous than she’d ever been. Robin Buckley, stuttering and nervous? Any sane person would say that’s a sight worth seeing.
“Don’t worry about it. I have things to discuss with Lucas anyway.” She dragged her chair, the metallic sound of the wheels—warped from the soldiers’ kicks—echoing behind her.
The silence that followed wasn’t as depressing or distressing as many might think. Robin walked with short, quick steps, one after another, until she stood beside her lover. Dawn was fading on the horizon, starting as a soft salmon hue and, minute by minute, transforming into a beautiful orange; the sun shone behind the trees and forests, beyond Hawkins. Beyond that small world where they’re trapped.
Vickie kicks her legs, sitting on the edge of the roof, still wearing Robin’s pink-and-striped nurse’s uniform and black jacket with multicolored spots; she doesn’t seem to be in any particular mood.
“So...”
-"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she interrupts her. "I'm talking about Hawkins, the sunset, the fields, the forest... The warm scent of earth and ebony in the air." Vickie closes her eyes, breathing softly, wishing she could breathe it all in. “I always thought Hawkins was a small town, full of small-minded people with small dreams; quiet, in a nutshell. Robin, you showed me that wasn’t the case. And I’m not talking about this whole thing with the man-eating monster dogs or the magical man who kidnapped children to take them to the Land of Dreams.”
“You have to stop telling it like that; it sounds like random, strange things created with no beginning and no end,” she jokes, laughing. Even though Vickie isn’t laughing as heartily as she is, even though the bracelet on her wrist keeps counting down the hours (one year, six months, two days, five hours remaining), even though the group’s overall mood is more than a little depressing.
“Robin, the reason you showed me how unique this place is… It’s as simple as why you were here. Because you sparked a revolution within me, you introduced me to new perspectives, new people, new worlds… You came into my life and turned it upside down a million times; you turned my world on its head” Vickie smiles, the sky-blue shadows above her blue eyes, verging on gray, have never looked so beautiful. “Robin, it was you… You ruined me.”
”Vickie, please, please… Don’t say those s...“
“You were the worst and the best thing in my life. Over these past two years, every kiss, every caress, every word of praise, every compliment, every promise—it was all wonderful. You were wonderful.” Robin understands; she understands that right now her partner, Vickie, doesn’t want to listen to her, but rather to speak and truly be heard—perhaps for the first time in far too long. “Every silence, every interrupted kiss, every goodbye, every missed call, every night waiting for you, every broken promise, every time you ran away—it was a curse. You were a curse” Vickie turns around, and God, she’s the person Robin loves most in the whole world; how much she wishes she could wipe the pain from her face. How she wishes she weren’t the reason for the pain. “I love you” she doesn’t deserve those words, doesn’t deserve that affection, doesn’t deserve her loyalty, doesn’t deserve that tenderness, doesn’t deserve Vickie. And they both know it. “Why are you fighting? Why did you risk your life fighting those monsters, Buckley?”
Risking her life? Fighting? Why did she do all that? As she thinks about it, the auburn-haired woman realizes something that was always there for anyone who paid attention to see; in their group, everyone had motivations—direct or indirect—but there they were, even Steve, fighting to protect his chicks like a big mother hen. She, however, did not. There wasn’t a single good reason.
“I guess I wanted adventure—I saw so many interesting things: evil Soviets, evil organizations, games, parallel worlds… I wanted fun.” The disappointment on her beloved’s face is more than she can bear; she’s an idiot, a big piece of humanoid crap.
“When Max found out about my doubts, he told me that everyone was fighting for a reason; ‘Who do you think Robin is fighting for? She’s doing it for you.’ I don’t doubt that for a second, since they were supposedly there dying because there was something to protect, someone worth dying for” Vickie clenches her fists, exhaling heavily. Robin approaches, afraid she might jump. “But there you were… dying for no reason.” Three days ago, the military captured Max and me; they pointed guns at me, they wanted to shoot me in the head, and if it weren’t for Max, you’d be crying over another body right now.” Vickie stares at her; in that glassy gaze, something shatters amid deep rage. “I hate you.” she deserves those words, she deserves that contempt, she doesn’t deserve her trust, she deserves that loathing, she deserves Vickie’s rage. And they both know it
Vickie pushes her legs backward, spinning around the wall, falling from the ceiling to the floor; in two steps she’s in front of Robin, pressing her hand against her lover’s chest, while that palm embraces the sound of the heartbeat, pumping emotions from her chest to her mouth.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It beats, nervous under the judgment of the short redheaded woman.
“There are an excessive number of things I have no idea about you, Buckley” those phrases, full of respect and distance, were painful. “That’s why I have an indecent proposal for you… Let’s be strangers” it hurts. Breaking up hurts. People tend to chatter about broken hearts; no one mentions that your stomach clenches, your eyelids feel heavy, your knees long to give in to the pull of gravity, and your lips beg to fall to their knees, pleading for mercy, begging for a second chance. It hurts. “No more lies, no more deceit. Let’s start over.”
The night is cold. The stars shine; the black sky absorbs Robin’s happiness; the heavens bear witness to a new story, a new beginning. The wind wants to be a part of it, blowing, blowing, and blowing.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Vickie Dunne. I’m nineteen years old. My mother died, and I’ve grown apart from my father. My favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. I love ’60s music. I just semi-adopted a teenager with serious problems. I love to write—especially when I get anxious. I’m going to study medicine. I got sevens in social studies throughout high school. I had mixed feelings about Mrs. Wheeler. My best friend is an elderly woman in her eighties with one foot in the grave, and… And I can’t remember anything else” her hand on her heart drops, resting at waist level, waiting.
And Robin has no intention of wasting this second chance.
“Nice to meet you, Vickie. I’m Robin Buckley. I’m nineteen years old. I don’t have a father or a mother—they died when I was three—and I was raised by an aunt. I don’t have a favorite book because I don’t read that much, though I like Sherlock Holmes. I love Guns N’ Roses. I wouldn’t mind helping you with your newly adopted daughter. I ran a radio station, but I never got my driver’s license, I don’t know what I’m going to study—I failed math fourteen times—I had a crush on a girl I idealized for quite a while, my best friend is an idiot with a stupid hairstyle, and I’d love to tell you every detail of the last few years of my life.”
...
“Are you telling me that Jonathan took pictures of Nancy in an intimate moment with Steve and decided he was a good match for her? Ha, ha, ha! These people are crazy!”
“That’s right.”
“Are Hopper and Joyce dating?”
“That’s right.”
“And Vecna—I mean, Henry—was he really human?”
“Yep.”
“And Derek’s family—the one you helped kidnap—are they still tied up in the barn?”
“Yeah…?”
“And you and Steve were kidnapped by a Soviet organization trying to replicate American experiments, and they sedated you with truth serum?”
“Sure.”
“God, Robin! This is a lot to process,” she shouted, putting my hands to my head.
“Although I’d already told you most of it.”
“No, you said—and I quote—‘Well, Vic, I know this is going to sound weird, but there’s a parallel world created in the mind of a monster with the power to alter dimensions, create portals, and reach our world, kidnapping children to bring them into his mind—into this fantasy world—so he can harness the hidden power in their innocent brains. They’re coming to kill a patient, and there are superpowered, man-eating creatures following him. The Russian and American governments are our enemies',” she mimicked, making exaggerated, mocking gestures. “You left out some vitally important details there.”
“Oh, I only had five minutes! I did my best to make things as clear as possible—the important and urgent parts were all there.”
Without realizing it, time passed; the clocks read one year, six months, one day, and eighteen hours. Dawn was breaking behind them—a conversation that was supposed to last minutes but dragged on for hours. An atmosphere that began with painful candor and ended in peace, a settlement, a contract that it was time to fulfill.
A contract that had to be signed after discussing the most uncomfortable aspects of their relationship. Vickie is the first to return to the uncomfortable topic.
“So… Tammy…?”
“I told you, Vic. It wasn’t so much about her as it was about me—my identity as a person.” Vic looks at her for several long seconds before resigning herself to nodding silently, bringing the conversation to a close a second time.
Sitting on that damp rooftop, where the frost of chilly nights couldn’t reach them, their backs against the wall, the red-haired woman’s head resting on the brown-haired woman’s shoulder, humming old songs, recognizing the Elvis rhythm. Robin places her hand on top of her now-ex-lover’s, caressing her tense knuckles.
“I’m sorry—I really am. I beg your forgiveness, Vickie.” “I know I wasn’t a good partner; I lied to you, I cheated on you, I ran away, and I made excuses to myself saying it was for your own good—only to end up putting your life at risk.” And that’s just the tip of the iceberg; she knows she put her partner through a rough time, and she’s grateful for second chances. However, if they want to start over, it has to be with a clean slate. “I’m not asking you to forgive me; I’m just saying I’m sorry.”
...
The clock shows one year, four months, and six hours remaining until the young people’s release. They learned some time ago from Dustin that the clocks were bombs that would be activated at the slightest attempt to escape, killing them and everyone around them. It’s strange to understand and come to terms with the fact that you’re constantly being watched by people you don’t know—even as you know perfectly well what kind of people they are: those who don’t flinch at taking a life.
Enzo is bathed in the dim glow of yellowish lights, in a corner hidden from the prying eyes of unexpected onlookers. A girl with shoulder-length hair waits, wearing a classic black dress with a daring neckline that draws stares, her legs bare, her only pops of color being some bluish earrings and red pointed-toe shoes. It was a great idea to ask Joyce for advice and to borrow some clothes from her.
Her date arrives fifteen minutes late.
It almost seems like nothing compared to how things have unfolded over the last three months.
What was that...?
The group was held captive at the radio station for the first week; no one had any idea what was really happening or if they could escape without being killed, even though every morning soldiers would come in, bringing food, water, and supplies. Mrs. Byers’ theories were correct—the general granted them a long life in exchange for their commitment to come to his aid the moment he needed them.
When the first week ended, the group was released, though each member was kept under strict government surveillance—always under guard, with soldiers stationed at the schools. On rooftops, on terraces, in bars. No matter where they went, there were soldiers and snipers ready to attack; the Wheeler family was the most targeted, even the seven-year-old girl—after all, they were the ones most deeply involved.
They were actually allowed to leave because of statements made by some about a missing classmate they were worried about. So, Dustin and Lucas set off for the woods, accompanied by a couple of armed soldiers, searching for a certain Argyle whom they had “forgotten” near the outskirts of Hawkins. Days later, a stoned pizza delivery guy who looked like he was high on weed showed up—coincidentally, a friend of Jonathan Byers.
At first, Max living with Vickie seemed like a challenge; Max needed a lot of help—he was emotionally vulnerable, and physically vulnerable as well. Still, they made it work. Maxime’s rehabilitation therapy is progressing slowly but surely; he can now even walk a few meters on his own, managing independently with crutches. Vickie is now actually working at the hospital, doing cleaning shifts—double shifts, to be exact—but it’s a job, after all.
Meanwhile, Hopper and Joyce, the Byers family, were trying to come to terms with the loss of a daughter, the loss of a sister. And Mike still wears a blank expression, as if everything were the same as before, as if time had stopped the moment Eleven passed away. Everyone says it’s shock—the first stage of grief: denial.
As Robin thinks, a stunning figure—a beautiful redhead with cropped hair—approaches from a distance, wearing a flowing red dress made of soft fabric, billowing from a sleeveless mermaid-style neckline that meets her neck, with a simple black coat draped over her shoulders, moving to the uneven click-clack of black high heels. Her face was a work of art valued at ten billion dollars—or any number so large it wouldn’t fit on a calculator. Her makeup accentuated her striking features; the sky-blue eyeshadow transformed her gaze into a piercing cobalt blue that took Robin’s breath away. Her naturally pink lips were painted a carmine red, and her cheeks were tinged with a soft vermilion.
So beautiful.
"Rob, what's going on?" says Vickie, smiling—that damn smile showing her teeth, sweet and refined, knowing exactly what's happening. Robin is dazzled by the sight of this woman. "Are you okay?"
"Perfect."
The night is young.
Enzo’s is wonderful, secluded, with that 1920s bar vibe that Vickie loves, a band playing slow jazz in the corner, couples smiling at each other lovingly, so absorbed in their own romances that perhaps only the waiters notice the strange familiarity at the table reserved for “close friends.” So close that, by pure chance, they were both dressed to the nines, gazing at each other as if hanging every constellation in the cosmos were the least of their concerns.
As if time had stood still, these moments lost in the vast ocean of others’ gazes; the crowd fades away, the food and the town are nothing at all compared to the smiles they exchange. The food at Enzo’s was renowned as the best in all of Hawkins; the meat was juicy, tender white-cut steaks that melted on her palate, with a creamy, golden flavor—a delicacy worthy of admiration. For Vickie, this experience fully lived up to the restaurant’s reputation.
And the wine—the wine was another surprising delight. Without the slightest knowledge of vintages or fruit fermentation, the redhead could say without a doubt that it was the most delicious drink ever created by man. Delicious and cloying, the sweet aroma of the scarlet liquid was intoxicating. Robin admired the girl’s pronounced blush, the way her features softened, as if in love.
The clock showed three hours remaining.
Vickie rambled on about a recurring theme—Max—and the open door to the room revealed a heartbreaking sight: the teenager crying on her partner’s shoulder, saying it was her fault her friend had died, that if she’d never revealed the location, her friend wouldn’t have died—though even worse was the lingering sense of shame at her own thoughts, aware that without that sacrifice, the person who cares for her, guides her, and takes her in would be dead, too.
Robin, noticing the melancholy in her words, decided to change the course of the conversation.
Just as she’d asked, the paper and pencil arrived at the table on a silver tray. Vickie raised an eyebrow, laughing nervously. As soon as the waiters took their leave, Robin held the pen between her fingers, scribbling words between the lines of the notebook, feeling her lover’s intense gaze.
<Vickie, you look stunning tonight... You have no idea how many things I want to do to you> Vickie blushes even more, laughing out loud... Maybe the wine had a stronger effect than expected.
The redhead snatches the paper, writing in the notebook.
<You look amazing too, sweetheart>.
From that moment on, the conversation fizzles out, reflecting a society that would never consider a romantic relationship between two women to be normal. Letters go back and forth, love is in the air, along with prying glances and discreet touches under the table.
The clock shows one hour remaining.
<Actually, there’s something I really want to ask you>
<What is it?>
<Vickie… Do you want to go out with me? I mean, officially be a couple—not just this casual thing>
Vickie’s eyes widen from ear to ear, her jaw dropping as she bites the inside of her cheeks, rolling her eyes toward the jazz band. Robin is afraid; she’s afraid she’s broken the peace treaty—that patch of frost they’d been pretending to skate across as if it were a glacier—the pact of silence that began with a fresh start.
The clock shows forty minutes remaining.
The woman with reddish hair holds the pencil, writing over and over, crossing things out a dozen times before, gazing at the ceiling, the walls, the band, Robin—perhaps searching for inspiration. Who needs inspiration for an answer? It’s a matter of whether or not she doesn’t know, doesn’t understand. Another ten minutes pass like this—thousands of words written, thousands erased—before she seems satisfied with the letter.
There were too many crossed-out words; without a keen eye, you wouldn’t be able to see the real answer—the one that was satisfying enough for Vickie.
<I would regret every moment of the rest of my life if I said anything other than: Of course, forever, I want to be by your side. Walking down a path filled with light and darkness—I don’t care, as long as we’re together. You and me>.
Five minutes left.
Robin wants to cry.
Four.
<Don’t talk to me so sweetly, or I’m going to kiss you right in front of these twisted old folks>.
Three.
<Go ahead. Let’s give them a real scare>.
Two.
The brunette rises above the blood-red velvet seat, leaning her cleavage over the table; from an old-fashioned vantage point, she seemed about to whisper in his ear; from Robin’s perspective, she was on the verge of devouring the fullest lips in the world, belonging to the most beautiful person in the world.
One.
“Happy birthday to you” the soft jazz melody gave way to the cheerful rhythm of a birthday celebration; the device on her wrist marked one year, three months, and twenty-four hours “Happy birthday, Miss Vickie, happy birthday to you.”
A white cake with golden butterfly-shaped decorations, filled with strawberries and lightly drizzled with melted chocolate, was placed on the table; it looked divine and tasted delicious. The waitress cut a large slice—not a thin slice like in other places—a generous portion on the birthday girl’s plate.
“I hope you have many fruitful years ahead, Miss,” says the waitress, placing another slice on her partner’s plate before quietly stepping away.
“Birthday?”
“November 7th? You didn’t forget, did you?” asks Robin, quite surprised that Vickie wouldn’t remember her own birthday.
“You’re right! I’d forgotten because I was so busy with all this stuff for our date.”
And the night continues for the young couple, on a path full of light and darkness, with potholes, twists, falls, and wounds. Always together.
...
Three years later, it’s a rainy night on the highway; tears from a sad sunset tinged with gray clouds trickle down the car’s windshield. The older redhead drives carefully, even though she’s one of the three resigned drivers. The road is silent compared to the car, where Guns N’ Roses scream out lyrics so electric that the romantic undertone behind them is forgotten.
A yellow sign comes into view, reading: «Hawkins, thirty miles away» Robin’s whistle competes with the sound of raindrops hitting the pavement; a young college student jumps into the car, clinging to her boyfriend’s—or rather, fiancé’s—arm.
“Back to good old Hawkins,” says the dark-haired guy, smiling at his girlfriend beside him—who isn’t quite as comfortable as she’d like to be while sharing headphones with the redhead, who’s playing that annoying song again. Doesn’t she like anything else? At least her round cheeks, highlighting her freckles, are worth the torture of listening to Running Up That Hill ten million times. “Are you happy?”
“Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it! Lucas, we’ll get back together, and I can’t wait for Mike to tell me how that book continues. That awful ending can’t be real!" Vickie laughs from behind the wheel; she didn’t like the ending of Project Manhattan either—so much suffering just for that mediocre ending. Although Max disliked it because of the unresolved mysteries, she disliked it because of the fake “happily ever after” story. “I still can’t get over Eddie’s death.”
The engaged couple chatter nonstop along the way; the miles tick by to the rhythm of the revving engine. It’s no surprise to see Dustin’s car—after all, they’re both coming from a similar starting point. Robin waves out the window, laughing macabrely.
“Dustin wants us to have a race,” says Robin, looking at her girlfriend with big, wet-puppy eyes in the rain, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “We have to, Vi—we’re almost in Hawkins. Let’s break the rules.”
“Of course not! The designated driver sets the speed” though even as she says this, Max and Lucas cling to their seats, while Rob sticks her tongue out the window at the little big nerd. “Besides, do I need to remind you why you still can’t legally drive a car? ‘Crazy behind the wheel; drunk driver caught red-handed on the streets of New York,’” she reminds him, stepping on the gas.
“That’s actually a really funny story, so it doesn’t matter how much you complain.”
...
Hawkins is a distant memory. Entering the town is an experience like no other; it’s not quite nostalgia—it’s more like continuing a strange dream, a distant memory that turns into a deep fear of being nothing more than the hallucination of a patient diagnosed with schizophrenia. The dark, narrow streets—the scar that still divides the land—are, in a way, a way of shouting in their faces: “That was real!”
The Wheeler house remains the same; it’s the small details that have changed—from the height marks left by children who used that space as a fort, marks that have now disappeared beneath a fresh coat of paint on the wood. The old TV in the living room has been replaced with a newer model. Every aspect of that place was kept the same, though updated—like a ten-year-old girl accompanied by a bunch of brats, tracing the legacy of her ancestors, leaving marks and notebooks on the basement shelves.
Soon, the old Wheeler home is filled with life.
Vickie, Robin, Lucas, and Max come from New York, where they’ve lived ever since the government stopped targeting them with snipers for taking two steps on their own. Vickie and Max are studying nursing, in a way; Lucas and Robin run an antique shop, selling ghostly objects, among other things. The four of them live in the same building, though in different apartments across from each other.
Right behind them, almost within seconds, arrives Dustin, the group’s current mastermind—someone who, in both the future and the past, will change the world—a student of quantum mechanics at one of the best universities in the entire country, perhaps the very best.
Nancy takes time off from her job in Boston for this reunion; she and her younger brother step out of their car and are greeted by friends and family.
Will and Jonathan arrive in the same car as Hopper and Joyce, a married couple who went to pick up their youngest son in the big city and then set off for the Mexican desert to shoot an original independent film—despite how outlandish their ideas were; they succeed. The family is united before joining the larger group, appearing happy even from a distance.
Steve brings along a certain baseball player: Derek, who does a very poor job of hiding his crush on the younger Wheeler sister, Holly. Erica also arrives with them, along with the teacher and “Missile Santa,” Murray.
Everyone is here. At least everyone who was invited.
As drinks, jokes, anecdotes, and updates on everyone’s lives fill the air, Max throws some harsh jabs at Mike for killing off his favorite character, with Dustin backing him up. Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, Robin, and Vickie are so drunk that they blurt out bedroom secrets, drawing the judgmental indignation of Mrs. Wheeler in the corner. That indignation vanishes when Max reveals how much indiscreet information he knows about the married couple, having been inside Henry’s mind.
It was so warm, so emotionally intimate that the sound of the door opening on that stormy night is disconcerting… Who could it be? The household members exchange glances.
Are they expecting someone else?
Could it be... Is it possible...?