The view outside her window used to be glorious with a garden in the middle of a metropolis. A speak of vibrant green against towering grey. With beams of sunlight bending around skyscrapers and lines of cars moving at a slow but steady pace, like marching ants. Now, all Tatum Romero had was a windowpane of the forest that stretched along one side of Kerley. The trees were tall and bordered the mid-country town like jail guards, unmoving but watchful. And the auburn and browning hues of autumn only made the town smaller, as if the sun couldn't find this place like it could find the city that held the teenager's heart with sure hands. Compared to the skyline of New York against the treetops of Central Park, the Hawkins street paled drastically.
Tatum sighed, her breath fogging on the cool glass of her second-story bedroom window. She was used to the height of a high-rise building, and it was deflating to be so close to the ground. Her brown eyes, that held the soul of the earth in their depths, absorbed the forest across the street that had cracked asphalt and was littered with crisp oranges leaves. The forest was dense and dark, not unlike an ocean with unexplored terrain. The day the Romero's had moved into the only available house in Hawkins, Tatum had clocked the forest that sat opposite her, huge and wild and untamed by humanity, and she had decided that the forest held the secrets of the universe. It had become a quick habit of Tatum's—a small tradition to match the small town she was now being forced to live in—to study the forest through her window each morning and each night. In truth, Tatum and her father, Donelo, had only been in Hawkins for two days now, but in that short time, the raven-haired teenager had become taken with the forest, staring out her window instead of unpacking the boxes that were stacked around her bare bedroom. The only thing she had properly unpacked was her collection of pulp fiction magazines and novels and her drawing pad. The rest of her belongings—the expensive dresses, her extensive range of high heels and boots, her favourite fur-cuffed coat, all the plaid skirts, jewellery and perfume—remained boxed up, cluttering the quaint sized bedroom. Don had even suggested that she could use the spare bedroom across the hallway as a walk-in-wardrobe.
"Tatum," her father called out from downstairs. Don Romero's voice was deep but smooth; he would have made an excellent news anchor if he hadn't chosen land and property development.
Tatum's eyes swept over the forest consumed by autumn, expelling another breath of her air form her lungs melodramatically. "Keep your secrets then," she whispered to the forest. "But know this: I'll figure them out eventually." The rest of the modest two-story house was just as bare as Tatum's room. No photographs hung on the walls, no splashes of colour yet or knick-knacks and nothing to tell guests that this was a home and not just a temporary house. Tatum rounded the corner to find her father searching through one of the moving boxes on the kitchen table.
"Mi alegria," he greeted her, tossing her a genuine smile. Don was the only one that called Tatum mi alegira or my joy because of the meaning of her name: bringer of joy. He had thought it was cute when she was a chubby baby with pink cheeks and never stopped, even when he moved out of the New York apartment or when he had to divide up his father-daughter time and only saw her on alternative weekends when he wasn't travelling for work. "Have you finished unpacking your room yet? I'd love some help in here," he went on, slashing open another box filled with fine china and delicate glassware. Donelo Romero was ruthless when it came to business yet it was always disguised by his charm and his handsome features of neat stubble, a square jaw and a dashing smile. People never saw him pounce, never realised they had the lower hand when it came to land and property deals. Yet he wasn't like this with Tatum. He tried to be warm, tried to thaw the coldness already installed in his daughter's veins, crystallising the blood. Yet his work had kept him distant and absent for the majority of her life. So, when Lucille and her new husband made the decision that Tate couldn't remain under their roof—for the wellbeing of Junior and Annabell, of course—Don had stepped up quicker than lightning. Moving to Hawkins for a few months hadn't been ideal, but he was trying to convince Tatum that it was for the best, that it could be good for both of them.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
Pulp Fiction ｡ Jonathan Byers
फैनफिक्शनPULP FICTION. ❝ From the dark side of dreams, and so much stranger than fiction.❞ A 'STRANGER WORLDS' NOVEL Jonathan Byers / Stranger Things Season 1 © lookingforlucy cover by brieIarson
