She died in the winter. There was some foolish, naive part of him that thought she might come back in the spring. Life always returned then; all colours were reestablished, all hope restored.
For him, those cold, waiting months had been beyond bleak. Even when the sun returned, it was as though his eyes were tinted. He just couldn’t see the light. Couldn’t find the taste in food, when he brought himself to eat. Couldn’t dream. That was the worst part. The whispered blow. That he couldn’t even dream her when he slept, no matter how hard he tried. And he always woke up sweating. Sweating or screaming.
That spring he saw yellow. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat, but it wasn’t the yellow of her hair, or the yellow of her favourite flower (daisies—God, she’d loved daisies). It was the yellow of a manila envelope.
Hopper had taken them. He’d barely deigned to touch them before throwing them on the kitchen table; hearing the smack of the heavy stack slapping against the wood. Then he’d walked away.
Four months. That was all it took for Diane. She’d thrown him out; after one too many beers, she’d said, bawling in the way she hadn’t when Sara had died. It was like everything had come rushing out of her at once; everything she’d held back. And he’d stood there in the middle of their living room dressed in the same sweats he’d worn for weeks, taking it all like some impenetrable dam.
She had screamed. Thrown shit at him that she’d once held at value (china plates, those little figurines from her mother’s house, books with flowers still pressed into them that flew out after impacting his chest and cracked in half). And cried. Cried until her makeup looked like dirt falling off her face.
At least she was wearing any.
So he’d packed a bag and drove down to Indiana. Spent a couple of months with his cousin, saved up. Now he had a place. In Hawkins, of course, because there was nowhere else to go. His inner compass had been vandalised until the only direction it pointed was home.
Except that was a lie. Home was a graveyard on the outskirts of the city, where his daughter’s gravestone had been placed under the boughs of a willow tree.
Six days he’d spent fixing up this piece of shit house. Putting in carpet, painting the walls, building a goddamned dresser so he had a place to put his clothes. He slept on a boxspring rather than a mattress, which had to be the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever done. But he couldn’t feel the pain. Nothing compared to the ripping he felt in his chest when he thought of her. When something reminded him of her.
And that ripping… like something inside of him was tearing his chest in two with a knife… it never went away. Everything was a dull throb next to that. His chest was a void and his heart wasn’t even there at this point.
He’d given it to her—for safekeeping. He’d stood at her bedside and held her frail hand which was lined with veins, and kissed her forehead. And then he’d walked away. He couldn’t watch. The edges of the world were fuzzy and his body was heaving and he would not watch his daughter die. The only good thing in the world he’d had. He could not watch her go.
Instead he’d sat on a stairwell and cried. He was a broken man who hadn’t been given the chance to break. The wind had swept his feet from under him, taken away his balance, taken away his sanity.
Taken away his little girl.
The carpet, he noticed now, laying on his back against it, was white. Why he’d chosen white carpet was beyond him. But a rainbow stood out against it from the light shining in through the window, through the glass of whiskey at his right hand.
She’d had a prism in her room. Hanging from a hook so that, whenever the sun was out, there was always a rainbow on her wall to admire. She would have loved this one, he thought, eyes burning.
He looked away, unable to stand the sight. A hot tear fell down his cheek, which made everything so much worse. Made him so much weaker. Took away the dam and let the water fall, rush, destroy. He destroyed.
Suddenly he was sobbing. Clawing at the carpet. At that stupid fucking rainbow, because he hadn’t been able to save her, and that wasn’t fair. He’d promised—after every horror movie and scary story and goodnight kiss—he’d promised. To always protect her. To always guide her and love her.
He hadn’t loved her enough to see her die.
These heaving, gut twisting, breath stealing sobs exhausted him. She was gone. He knew that. Gone, and she’d died alone, and he’d died that day, too.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
There was fire in his lungs. But what came next made it burn so heatedly he gasped.
Daddy. Daddy, don’t cry.
Hopper managed to sit up. Managed just that, and that alone, because that was all he needed to know he wasn’t dreaming.
Daddy! It’s dark here.
Dark. Hopper wiped his eyes, burying the heels of his palms into them, and laughing, because all he could do was marvel at how mad he’d become, and think how much he’d like a smoke just about then.
“It’s dark here, too,” he said, to the ground through the gap in his legs. “So dark without you, baby. Like there’s no sun.”
She wasn’t here. He wasn’t talking to her. That wasn’t real. It was torment. And it hurt too much for words.
“I miss you,” he told her. “Every day. Daddy misses his baby, okay? You hear me? He misses you so, so much. And I’m sorry–I’m sorry, Sara—” the tears were spilling out so fast he couldn’t catch them. “I couldn’t handle it. But it wasn’t fair for you to… it wasn’t fair at all.”
There was nothing. No response from his deluded mind. A part of him was let down, because he’d half expected something more. And once again he was reminded that his little daughter who hadn’t even reached seven years old was dead and gone and buried, and he would never see her again.
He sat there for a moment, crying away the last of it all, crying for her. Cursing the whole world for taking her away.
Hopper drew in a deep breath and stood. The sun was hot on his back, and he could feel it, at least. He reached for the pack of smokes on his mantelpiece, took them, unwrapped them carefully. Lung cancer. That’s what had killed her. Hopper slid out a cigarette and placed it between his dry, cracked lips.
There is a reason why Jourdan Dunn has been the cover girl of countless fashion glossies, and it’s not just because of her legs which go on for days! Jourdan is one of those natural perky beauties, who at 26 has a seven year old son who suffers from sickle cell anaemia, but manages to be a hands on mum (with support of her own mum), whilst jet-setting to shoots and campaigns all over the world.
She is therefore the perfect choice as the face of the April Grazia beauty shoot. When we are all hopefully thinking about jetting out of here, follow some tips on to keep your skin fresh whilst you’re on the go.
And remember Jourdan is one of us as she was scouted whilst shopping in Primark aged 15- there is hope for us all! Kinda.
And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
Once, when you were seven, you came into the kitchen and asked mum: “Does my name begin with the letter P because P is the 16th letter of the alphabet and I was born on June 16th and is Sarah just Sarah because S is 19th letter and she was born on the 19th day of June?”
The failing use of my right hand isn’t actually the failing use of my right hand, it’s just another way to tell the time. And I’m ticking. So I’ve been picking myself up at bars with a bottle in each hand, but I never give myself any play. I just make plans with myself for the day after next. By the time the sun swings back around into position I forget the context of why I asked myself out in the first place. Did I think I was going to score?
I let a stranger pour me one more. She says,” my name is Sara”. Doesn’t take much more than that to start a relationship. My darling Sara cleans rooms for a living, giving her youth and beauty to dirt and dust. Understands more than most that family must be the foot you put forward first, you must weather the worst together. But, having never met her family, she places love above all else, then protests that I use the word love too freely in poems, and I should really just say what I mean. And I suppose what I mean most is that; I’m trying.
She’s been buying me time on a maxed out credit card, arms scarred from selling her own blood to pay down the debt. Tells me she doesn’t mind going broke so long as I can give her a little sweat. She says, “try”. So I do my best impression of a pen, and when every problem looks like a page I commit ink to paper. And the worth of the words that come out determines my wage. I’ve been making enough to pay her the compliment of not quitting, of not sitting when standing is required.
She only asks that I put the effort in, and in return she’s willing to pin a paper heart to her chest, then do her best impression of a target. She says that effort is the Siamese twin of success. So when everyone else looks like a wrong answer, she says she’ll settle for being my best guess. So we lie in bed like a mess that someone’s been meaning to clean for the large part of a long while. We lie there like a pile of dirty laundry, and how we’ll ever come clean is beyond me. So we don’t. She says, “it’s supposed to be dirty, and if by the end you haven’t hurt me then you didn’t try”.
So I do my best impression of a surgeon, going in, cutting purple hearts out of my own, use my veins like thread. Then have hurt sewn to our skin like medals, because when the bleeding stops, and that dust settles, all we have are our wounds to wear like decorations upon our chest. Sara does her best impression of a war, tells me not to count my pride among the casualties because maybe faith means never keeping score. She says there’s more to effort than just switching gears, and in terms of what one should give in this life sweat holds more value than tears.
You have to try, and even though the failing use of my right hand means I’ll never land a knockout punch in the first round, life is composed of sound and fury, and whatever noise is left in me will be twice as loud when I try. So I plug myself into the idea of going the distance and I amplify.
My darling, Sara has a throat like a vase that sings her words into bloom. She’s got a voice like perfume. It’s been sticking to my clothes, so everyone knows where I’ve been sleeping. She’s been keeping me so close you could use my body for evidence; pull her fingerprints as proof that she’s been on top so often she’s starting to look like my roof. But a real sexy roof, and she doesn’t leak, unless you count the crying. She does that sometimes, worries that she’s just a back up plan.
My darling, Sara, I’ve lived long enough to learn too many choices can destroy a man. I will make no exodus. I’ll be around long enough to watch uncertainty bid us farewell, then echo our names into the crater caused by the impact of when our lack of conviction fell. You’ve never had to sell me on the idea of absolute certainty in the trustworthiness of another.
The first and only time you met my mother, mom said, “I like the way she looks at you”. And I echoed back to her that I liked it too. Eyes like recycle bin blue. Sara looks at broken things as if she can make them new, and more than a few times I’ve caught her staring. Caught her wearing a smile reserved for those busy making plans. Sara believes that distance is a fundamental that can be side-stepped by a piece of string and two tin cans, and I remember when my tin can rang.
They said, “there’s no family to speak of so love is next in line, and there’s not a lot of time, but she’s asking for her boyfriend.”
In the cab to the hospital I feel my heart bend as if bracing for impact. So I do my best impression of a man and face fact. It’s supposed to hurt. A doctor does his best impression of the truth, and spares me attempts to skirt around the issue. They can’t stop the bleeding, and the failing use of Sara’s heart isn’t actually the failing use of Sara’s heart, it’s just another way to tell the time. My darling, Sara, I was holding your hand when you died, and even though the failing use of my right hand prevented me from feeling you leave, I tried.
My Darling Sara, Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long
Follow Forever/Bias List/Positivity Post/Friendly Promotion/Let Me Love You
So, I’m realizing that I may not hit my milestone as I keep on blocking porn blogs, but then I decided not to care about the count and I’m gonna do this anyway because this honestly makes me happy just spreading my love to you guys. You all mean so much to me and I truly value each and every one of you, even the ones I just started to follow or haven’t followed yet because I’m stalking and working up the courage to follow back because koala-tea following me what? I love you all. Honestly, I try and give each one of you an explanation as to why I love you, but I’ve said it before that this mun is so bad with ooc expressions, I am literally a potato. If you don’t see me give you a lot of words or any at all, PLEASE don’t take it the wrong way, you’re on this list because I love you and you mean a lot to me as a writer and a mun, it’s just I have a hard time expressing myself in so many words and I’ll probably end up being repetitive at times - I will apologize for that, even if I don’t have to (I’m your stereotypical Canada eh)
@ghostofaformerself - Always have to put my Ghost first, I’ve said it before she’s the reason I am even on Tumblr, I credit her for starting all of my internet friendships because without her I would still be clueless about this great community. Rayne is an amazing and incredibly written character, I love her so much. Ghosty, you’re still a terribletrashbagperson for hitting me with all of the Rayne feels, but let’s face it we both know I love you for it.
@hcvenofear - Keets, my darling Keets. Kudos to Paige for introducing us and giving me a wonderful internet friend that I am determined to meet one day no matter what. My PLL buddy tbh, the person I scream and cry to over Spencer Hastings god my heart. So much love for Keets both as a writer and as a person, and Keets even though I am pathetic with fandoms I’m gonna write with all of your muses because rping with you is fanfuckingtastic and good for my soul (maybe given you’re the head bitch in charge)
@astrcnautical - AGAIN credits to Paige for introducing me to such the beautiful soul that is Theo. I’ve written with Theo on his multi and I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT! Again, being that I’m pathetic with fandoms and do not have much knowledge of Star Trek, I do wanna write with Jim and Theo (okay but who wouldn’t want to write with Theo u bae bro) one day and I’m gonna love it because it’s you Theo and I love you.
@beastlynecromancer - ARI!……What’s that? Typing your name in all caps with bold and italics to make it sound like I’m screaming because wow what a darling you are isn’t enough to express my love for you? Darn, that’s my go to line x3 No but in all seriousness, I’ve told you many times before that you’re one of my dearest partners, I love you lots okay. Brent was the first muse of yours I’ve written with and I completely fell in love with him (as did Kim and later my other muses of course lol), he’s truly an awesome character and very well developed, honestly Ari you’re an inspiration to me as a writer. I’ve mentioned before how much I love all of your muses, even the inactive ones as they hold a piece of my heart because our interactions were so great that I’m keeping them forever in there. Also throws @merfolkmayhem because yes this blog is awesome too and I want to love those muses of yours <3
I looked down as he stroked my cheek, trying to use my only soft skin that remained on my body to calm his anger. “Promise me, Y/N… Please… I’m not always going to be here for you. I have a job. And as much as I love you, I need to support you, support us so we can afford this house. Food. Clothes. Even the special trips we take. All from my job. But I can’t go if I can’t trust you not to kill yourself.” He sighed as I looked down and pushed my shaking body against the wall, turning away from his deep brown eyes that would suck me in and never let me go.
Silence fell between the two of us as he clenched his fists, deciding if he should be angry or comforting or a mixture of both. Meanwhile I bit my lip, fitting the urge to cry, though my efforts failed quickly as a large sob escaped my mouth.
Almost instantly, Evan got down next to me, shhhhing me and pulling me into his warm embrace, pressing his lips gently onto my aching head. He put his lips then to my ear, gently humming some song in my ear gently as I closed my eyes focusing on the melody.
“I…I love you Evan….”
“I love you too beautiful.”
That was about six months ago, before Evan left to film season 5 of American Horror Story. We skyped every day since, doing the usual scar check and had our little “movie night” every Friday (sometimes with Sara and Finn sometimes joined him) and got the occasional visit from Tassia, but sadly it wasn’t enough. I really missed him, but I understood that he needed to do this. Not only had he signed a contract, but this was his passion and he loved not only loved the show but the people he had worked with their and I did too. Tassia and Sara were my best friends and I had gotten close to Finn when they had me as an extra last season but after the whole cutting thing which the whole cast found out about talk about mortifying Evan pulled me out telling me I was straining myself on all these auditionsI was doing and told me that I needed a break. That I was stressing myself but deep down I think we both know what it was.
I had been through this manic phase with Evan many times within the five year stretch of our relationship but never had I self harmed, Being on set with Evan… It just made me feel this insane amount of insecurity as I stared at the many women that Evan had to kiss and do sexual stuff to on camera. It didn’t help that I would get random hate from fans but a lot of it came from the press. So I headed down the eating disorder path. Reading that anorexia made you fatter it was bulimia that I followed. After every meal I would make myself throw it all up. Everyone else in the cast knew about me throwing up… but I think they thought that it I was pregnant which in terms would make the press hate me more. Even Evan himself began to panic so eventually when I was fifty ponds thinner I tried with all my will power to stop but it wasn’t to be. That’s when Sara and Tassia put the pieces together and figured out what was going on. I made the promise not to tell and reluctantly they agreed after a night full of yelling, arguing, and tears. Then this turned into guilt and stress making the depression worse and needless to say that’s when it started.
Evan honestly is the best. He took the year off to help me, not saying a word against my actions until the week before he left. He was scared of what would happen when he left me. And he was right to be.
I was spiraling downwards again, only leaving the apartment once every other week and relying on Skype’s from Evan, calls from Sara, texts from Finn and/or visits from Tassia to get by. They were what was keeping the black hole from swallowing me. Though I knew that a single day without the voices of my friends would let it in and destroy me. I had no chance to fight it.
That’s why this past month has been a living hell. Because I hadn’t been in contact with anyone and haven’t left my apartment.
Who the heck would be at my door at two-o-clock in the morning?
Though my mind immediately to serial killers and kidnappers but regardless I continued my way down the stair until I reached the door.
Opening it up a mere tiny crack, arms quickly wrapped around me and a snickers coming from the people still standing outside.
“What the-Sara? Finn?” I stood still shocked as Sara dropped me, “What are you doing here?”
“Wow no hello for me?” Tassia said as she stepped into the house. I smiled at Sara, dropping my arms and running to Tassia, hugging her just as tightly as I did Sara. After a brief moment I let her go and shrugged giving Finn a quick hug before looking around rapidly, behind my friends.
“Where’s Evan? Isn’t he with you guys?” I questioned, looking back at my friends who smile down at the ground.
“I’m so sorry Y/N. He’s still filming but he told us that he is sorry and-” I cut Finn off and laughed slightly.
“It’s um… Fine… I’ve just been a bit lonely lately and er…..” I sighed grabbing my right arm, “You know.. I’ve just missed him…” A small tear fell from my eyes but I quickly wiped it away, not wanting my friends to see me like this, “It’s stupid.. But you guys are here now! What should we do?! Do you guys wanna watch a movie? Sleep? Unpack? How long do you guys get to stay??” I faked a bright smile, as only a small amount of happiness rushed over me. The three of them laughed,
“Umm Sara leave Saturday. Finn leaves Wednesday . And I stay for however long I want to.” Tassia said with a wink wrapping me in another hug.
“So I take it you two want to sleep?” I asked, looking to the two who likely flew in from who knows where, “You both have bags in your eyes! Get your asses upstairs! We have two guest rooms! And I’ll take the couch. Tas if your tired..”
She smiled and nodded, following the upstairs with a small yawn, looking outside to ensure my friend’s cars were locked before going to make a coffee and heading upstairs to “shower”.
‘She bought it. She’s sleeping on the couch.-Finn’
‘Don’t forget flowers!- Sara’
'Damn flowers too! Someone’s getting boyfriend of the year. ;) -Tassia’
I giggled before setting the phone back down as I pulled into Y/N’s cluttered driveway.
Me and Y/N’s driveway. Not just mine. Not just hers.
Just how everything should be. And now for the first time in what seemed like centuries, I got to use my house key.
Stepping out of the car with the items I got for Y/N and did a jig to the door, quietly turning the knob so that I wouldn’t be heard.
As the door creaked open, surprise filled me as I saw the lights were still on downstairs. Surprise mixed with a large amount of panic began to settle in my mind as I ran around the bottom floor but stopped when I heard the sound of water shutting off coming from upstairs.
I knew two out comes were ahead of me. Good or bad, I knew that I truly needed to go and find the answer. Maybe this was selfish but I had plans and it hurt to know that they would either be renewed or destroyed.
Blood. Lots of blood leaked onto the bathroom floor and Y/N stood there, her nightgown sleeve rolled up making cuts and watching her blood drip on the floor but I bit my tongue, waiting for her to see me before taking any action. But every-time she dragged the razor across her wrist I cringed and it took everything I have not to speak, flinch, or cry.
Finally giving up, I walked towards her and put away the razor, locking it away. She was so fazed she barley noticed, her hands still shaking from her anxiety. Taking her hand, I grabbed the towel that was next to the sink and moved us both on the edge, dipping the wash cloth out to clean her marks, then after binding the wounds with gauze I picked her up bridal style and set her down gently on the bed. As I began to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, setting a arm around her waist gently stroking her hair.
“It’ll be okay. I’m here not. You are beautiful. I love you. You are special. You are kind. You are important to me… heck even more important to this world. You are gonna be okay. We can talk about it later. More importantly I am here. I’m home and I’m never leaving you again okay?”
((AN: OKAY Not exactly what was requested but let me know if you want a second part and thanks for all the requests. Sorry they are taking FOREVER but I hope you enjoy them. I love yall <3 stay youtiful!!!!))