𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 彡 [e. munson] [✔]

─ 𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨.

*ೃ༄𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘

1985

Clasping the round talisman adorned with a neatly cut ruby hanging from her neck tightly in her palm, Magdalena May internally prayed—and she wasn't even religious by any means—but she prayed for a better year in her shithole of a hometown. Stepping out of her uncle's battered station wagon after thirteen hours and watching her childhood home come into view sure had a way of messing with her pretty little mind. She'd do just about anything to get the chance to hop back into the beaten-up car with Frank and head back down South to Louisiana while continuing to have impromptu karaoke sessions to the Dire Straits songs that littered her personalized mixtape.

That's what the uncle-niece duo had done on the way to Hawkins. Magdalena's all-time favorite band just about eased her mind in every situation. Those musical melodies worked for her better than any drug out there. Her solemn yet unwavering green—almost aqua-colored eyes shifted over to her uncle Frank, who was more than delighted to be unpacking her luggage from the trunk of his car and thus returning his niece to her home. Then those hypnotic eyes glanced right back at her modest two-bedroom home. The same house in which so many firsts happened. First steps, first words, first party, first time getting stoned, first meaningless kiss, first tears of sorrow, first drunken hookup, first meaningful kiss. The list went on and on.

The inside of the house held tremendous memories up until the girl simply didn't give a rat's ass about them. Not since two months ago. Not since the person who she'd reserved all her love for was no longer present. Magdalena's light brown, sloppily tied up half ponytail drifted with that all too familiar Hawkins breeze. Her puffy, teased hair was almost an exact replica of Stevie Nicks' along with the black lace shawl barely covering her shoulders. Black—as if it hadn't been obvious—was her preferred shade for clothing items. But she wasn't a goth. No, not at all. That label would certainly offend her. Too in tune with her inner thoughts of wanting the Grim Reaper himself to take her away, the blare of a horn roughly penetrated the inner workings of Magdalena's ear ultimately making her jump and flinch all at the same time.

The enigmatic brunette stoically watched her uncle repeatedly press the horn of his car with one arm through the open window. The middle-aged man had the most childish of smiles plastered across his face as his hand never left the horn. Magdalena discreetly smiled to herself about the circumstances: it was seven in the morning on a Sunday and the neighbors were certainly sick of her uncle's bullshit. With two more deafening honks, the front door of Magdalena's house burst open, and out came her sporadic, highly discombobulated father, Marion May, with paint splatters all over his acid-washed jeans. Forever the struggling artist, Magdalena internalized, but soon put her thoughts on the back burner when she took notice of her dear father hurling towards her, nearly tripping over his own feet.