"𝙄'𝙢 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙤𝙮
𝙊𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨𝙚 𝙄 𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙚.
𝙄'𝙢 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚.
𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚."
⬻ 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 - 𝘉𝘰𝘯 𝘑𝘰𝘷𝘪 ⤖
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔
By the time the police were through gathering your statement and Max's mom finally returned home from her graveyard shift at the diner, it was well into the early morning. You were escorted out of the trailer park by two separate police cruisers just in time to see Mr. Munson pulling into the head of the neighborhood, looking confused but overall unbothered by the police presence.
He had yet to see the crime scene that had become his home.
You helped to identify the body, but anyone in Hawkins could have been able to tell whose it was from eight yards away. Besides, the monogrammed cheer jacket told them everything they needed to know; Chrissy Cunningham was dead, contorted, and mangled beyond recognition.
You never actually threw up, but some part of you wished you did because you ended up carrying that sick, nauseous feeling around with you all morning long. You drove numbly through town and past the strip of empty family-owned businesses. You didn't want to go home. You didn't want to go anywhere. All you really imagined yourself doing was curling into a ball under your blankets and staring at the same spot on your bedroom wall for the rest of your life.
But you needed to tell someone.
When you pulled into the neglected parking lot of Benny's Burgers, it took you a solid five minutes to reach over and put your car into park. It took even longer to pry your hands off the steering wheel and twist the key out of the ignition. When the door finally popped open, the raw sunlight was so bright that it blinded you for a number of seconds.
You were still in the same clothes that you wore to school yesterday, twinged with the smell of sweat and the floral laundry detergent that Max's mom bought. You found yourself staring up at the short, dilapidated building, keys twisted uncomfortably around your fist as you contemplated stepping back inside of Randy and sputtering back home before any real damage was done.
The front door of Benny's opened and the rusted hinges cried out as Lucas Sinclair stepped halfway between the doorway and the front patio. The boys must've heard the car pull up and sent the only freshman on the team to go scope it out on their behalf.
He smiled upon seeing you. This wasn't the first time you've shown up after one of your brother's weekend benders. Lucas was a good boy. He always made sure to call your house when Andy proved to be a little too much for the team to handle. But he quickly noticed your shaken expression and let his smile fall, closing the door halfway behind him to give the two of you an extra inch of privacy.
"(Y/N)?" he whispered cautiously, your name was like a curse in a place crawling with Hawkins Tigers. "What are you doing here?"
You barely acknowledged him as you marched up the creaky wooden steps toward the door. "Go home, Lucas." You don't recognize your own voice. In fact, you barely remember what you said to him as you shoved the door inward and stepped inside the abandoned restaurant.
Torn-up couches and sofa cushions were scattered across the sticky tile floor. The room was illuminated by strings of tangled Christmas lights and yellow beams of sunlight pierced through the torn fabric of the blackout curtains that were hung over the windows.
Boys from the basketball team were scattered all over the room, eating fistfuls of cereal straight from the box or chugging lukewarm beers left over from the night before. The overripe smell of the rotting ceiling tiles made that sick feeling in your gut rear its ugly head.
An old TV was playing in the corner — news footage straight from Eddie's trailer. A nervous-looking reporter with dozens of people lined up behind him, craning their necks to catch glimpses at the fluttering white sheet that had been placed delicately over Chrissy's body. The blurry headline racing across the bottom of the screen was clear as day; Hawkins Student Found Dead.
You had been standing in that exact spot not even ten whole minutes ago.
"(Y/N)?"
The sound of your name makes you flinch and you look over to see your brother sitting up on the broken sofa, giving you a dirty look. You knew better than to show up there, and if you hadn't just been though a solid four hours of police questioning, maybe you would be a little afraid. Patrick sat beside him, smiling confusedly but not sober enough to command himself to greet you.
No one else really seemed bothered by your presence, watching the news with hungover fascination. It hits you all at once that nobody else knows. You're the only civilian in Hawkins who'd been burdened with the knowledge of Chrissy's death.
You came all this way because you thought Jason deserved to hear it come from you instead of that new police chief who no one really seemed to like. But time was running out and that blue state police cruiser wasn't far behind you. You wondered if they've told anyone's parents — if they've told Chrissy's.
You open your mouth to speak, to explain yourself, when the refrigerator door slams shut and you peer over the chipped diner countertop to see Jason standing up with a jar of pickles stacked under his arm. He had obviously had a fun evening – his hair whisked unevenly across his forehead and clothes all askew. You could practically smell the beer soaking through his white t-shirt from across the floor.
It hits you all at once what you're about to do and the tears you've been holding since you walked up the steps of Eddie's trailer come flooding out of you.
Andy rushed to his feet and set a hesitant, somewhat comforting hand on each of your shoulders as he looked back at his team for help. "Hey, hey, (Y/N), what happened? Are you okay?"
You nearly expected him to kick you right back out of the restaurant for disrupting what looked like a killer group hangover. Who was this guy and what did he do with your brother? The one who literally banned you from talking to him at school because the only thing worse than people finding out about his dorky math tutor was people finding out that the two of you were related.
Lucas must've closed the door behind you because all of a sudden the room was dark again and you could only make out slivers of everyone's faces in the multicolored light of the Christmas bulbs. A few other guys stood up, looking stiff, awkward, and out of place. Like a couple of G.I Joe's propped up in a broken dollhouse.
You shake your head with a pathetic sniffle, bubbles of tears blinding you as they fell in heavy rivers down your cheeks. You don't think you've cried this hard since you watched The Last Unicorn in theaters for Will's birthday three years ago. You obviously can't form the words necessary to explain what was wrong, but Andy pulls you into a stiff hug anyway.
It's unnaturally supportive; nothing like the hugs your parents forced you to perform on family vacations to prove to the other families that you were somewhat normal. Andy hasn't hugged you like this since all you cared about was Barbie, My Little Pony, and trying to catch Santa coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve.
Jason emerges from behind the wall of basketball players, looking up at your brother, who could only shrug, before lowering himself to your eye level and putting a hand on your shoulder to turn you away from Andy's chest.
"Did someone hurt you?" He borderline demands. Although you came all this way for his sake, you can't help but cringe at the condescending tone in his voice. You're about to shake your head when he doubles down. "Was it one of those Christian Academy assholes?"
"Jas-Jason, I really need to talk to you." The words barely make it past your lips. Your brain keeps trying to place Chrissy right next to him, just like you've seen every single day at school. Jason and Chrissy. Chrissy and Jason.
He clenches his jaw and stands up straight. "I knew it. Which one of them was it, huh? Was it Richard? Richard Phillips?"
You put a hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. There's no way in hell you can tell him that his girlfriend is dead. No fucking way. You should have left it alone while you still could.
"No, Jason, please—" but your heart is already hammering from the sound of the front door slamming open against the wall. Jason beckons his buddies to follow him out with two curled fingers and you have no idea who Richard Phillips is, but you know he's in deep shit if you don't get the Hawkins Tigers off his back.
You shove your way through Andy and Lucas and the rest of the boys, nearly tripping and falling flat on your face as you race to beat Jason to his car. "Jason, no—stop it! Please, you have to listen to me."
He fumbles to pull the car keys out of his jacket pocket and you tug on his arm to try and coax him away from the dusty parking lot. He's fuming when he finally looks up at you; face red and angry. You've only ever seen him get this worked up over basketball. Certainly not you. Not Andy Donovan's freak little sister, you.
"Jason, it's Chrissy."
Her name tastes like poison. Like rotten citrus, or an orange left too long out in the hot sun. Jason halts and sends a quick glance back at the other guys who had grouped up around the door, waiting for their next order. Almost helplessly, he lets you drag him around the back of the building, where the dumpsters are piled high with pizza boxes and crushed beer cans.
"What about Chrissy?" he hisses, finally finding his keys and making a tight fist around them. "Did Phillips touch her too?"
Jesus Christ. Who was Richard Phillips and why did Jason want him dead?
"No, Jason. It's not–It's not that." You use your sleeve to try and brush away another glob of tears. They've been pouring out of you nonstop since the dam broke. "Chrissy's...she's..." you take a ragged breath and for the first time today, it seems like you have Jason's full attention. "I saw her. I saw her body. She's dead."
His face fell. It was like every muscle above his neck shut down all at once. "What?"
"I was—I was at the trailer park. She was there. The door just opened and she was there." You're not entirely sure if what you said made any sense, but you can't stop now. "I'm sorry. I just needed to tell you. I'm so sorry."
When the feeling returns to his face, Jason glares down at you. The protective shimmer in his steely eyes was now washed away. "You really are a sick freak, Donovan."
You try to bite down as hard as you can on the inside of your cheek, but a wet hiccup still escapes you. Some protective resolve crumbles inside of him and Jason steps closer, searching your eyes for some sign of insincerity, but ultimately finds none.
"No," he licks his lips, a nervous chuckle bursting through him. "No, you're kidding. This is a sick fucking joke. You're sick!"
His words cut, but you know they won't scar.
All of a sudden you hear gravel popping under tires and look over your shoulder to see the blue and gold police cruiser slowing to a stop right beside Randy. You watch with bated breath as two regretful-looking officers step out and lock eyes with Jason before removing their uniform caps in a unison display of mourning.
"No fucking way," Jason shakes his head in denial and trips backward, fumbling for footing as he limps into the mouth of the woods directly behind Benny's. The rest of the team joins you in watching him struggle for balance, clutching his head and his heart with either fist.
It isn't until he's completely disappeared from view that you hear the most heartbreaking, violent scream echo from beyond the trees and know that he finally believed you.
(A/N: I'm back, bitches. Yeah so college is hard and this new laptop is tiny and I can't type well on it yet so it's really just trial and error right now. This might not even be good but I wanted to publish today, despite how illiterate i feel. I have two more classes today and then I feel like writing all night cause I haven't gotten the chance to do it yet. Love you all! Thank you so much for reading this story! Happy Munson Monday!!)