November 6th, 1983
That night was colder than she expected.
Fiona Hopper watched the puffs of smoke leave her lips and disappear into the night in a thick white cloud.
The neckline of her polyester uniform made her neck itch. God, she hated that job.
But she preferred to stay out of the house as long as she could. She hated her house — it was unkempt, untidy. Not that she was a particularly tidy person herself, but she'd be damned if her father thought she'd be the one cleaning it for him. No way.
Another drag of her cigarette masked the shiver that traveled down her body in the chilly night air.
She wondered what her father was doing at home.
Do you really want to know? she asked herself, answering with a bitter chuckle as she looked up at the dark sky.
And suddenly a little peg of sadness crept into her heart, like every time she looked up.
People said that heaven was up there. She wondered if it was true — if there really was a place where people went when they died, and kept living somehow.
Her mother used to tell her that the people they loved were watching over them, never really leaving.
"You must be so proud of us, Sarah…" she whispered.
Then another bitter laugh left her lips as she brought the cigarette between them to inhale more smoke.
She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar burn traveling down her throat and into her lungs.
It almost hurt — and she smiled at the feeling.
Then her eyes went back to the dark sky.
"What a load of bullshit," she said with another chuckle.
The sound of the door made her turn sharply.
"Fiona, there are customers in your area," her manager, Paul, was saying.
"Fuck's sake…" she muttered.
"Quick!" he urged. "You've been out here long enough."
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," Fiona rolled her eyes, flicking the cigarette away with a snap of her fingers. "Don't care about customers when I suck you, do you?"
Paul froze for a second, eyes wide. "Jesus, Fiona—"
"Tell me I'm wrong," she shot back, voice low and sharp.
Then she brushed past him, the smell of smoke following her inside.
The bell over the door gave a dull ring as Fiona stepped back inside.
The air smelled like grease, burnt coffee, and the lemon detergent they used to wipe the counters.
The hum of the old jukebox filled the silence between the clatter of dishes and the chatter of late-night customers. Neon lights buzzed above her, painting everything in a tired yellow glow that made the chrome tables look even dirtier.
Fiona grabbed her order pad and scanned the room. The usuals — truck drivers, a couple of old guys with their pie and black coffee, two girls from her school pretending not to recognize her.
Then her eyes landed on them.
Tommy H. was leaning back in the booth like he owned the place, smirking at something Carol whispered in his ear. Steve Harrington sat across from them, perfect hair, perfect smile — the poster boy of Hawkins High.
Fiona felt her jaw tighten. Of course it was them.
Her shift couldn't possibly get any worse.
She grabbed the coffee pot not hiding how bother she was, and she walked over, the heels of her shoes clicking against the tiles. She didn't even bothered to smile. She never smiled, even if her job required it. But she hated it, she would never act polite, especially to who thought they were better than her.
As she get closer she could hear what Carol was saying, ""Now you're after the goody-good, are you!" Carol grinned at Harrington, eyes glinting with mock sweetness.
"No, it's not like that," Steve muttered.
"It's totally like that, man!" Tommy laughed. "I mean, Nancy Wheeler?"
"She's pretty. And she's smart," Steve replied, his tone steady but tight.
"And a saint," Carol added with a snort. "Come on!"
"So different from our waitress, it seems!" Tommy said, turning toward Fiona as soon as he noticed her. That smug grin on his face again, the same grin that made her want to smash the coffee pot over his head. "Hopper! So fun to see you here."
"Well, I work here, and you know that." Her voice was dry, clipped.
He took a breath with, the grin becoming wider as he observed her, "You know what I find funny?" Tommy teased, Carol already laughing.
"Don't care," she said, pouring his coffee with precision, each drop deliberate. "But I have to pour you coffee, so I don't have that much of a choice, do I?"
Tommy leaned back, amused. "How much do you hate not throwing some insult, like you so like to do?"
"No," Carol laughed again. "She'd lose her pathetic, and she doesn't want that." Fiona didn't even looked up as she poured some coffee in Harrington's cup.
"Who could ever fire her? She has too many talents," Tommy H said, and Fiona stopped what she was doing to turn to the dickhead. "Tips and all."
"Tips?" Carol echoed, laughing. "That's what we're calling it now?"
"What about you, Steve?" Tommy smirked. "You tipping?" Steve did not answered, but Fiona didn't even bothered to look in his direction, her eyes fixed on Tommy and his duck of a girlfriend.
"Bet she'll make sure you do," Carol added, leaning in close to Tommy.
Then Tommy's voice dropped, his grin twisting into something sour.
"Guess she found new ways to earn extra — maybe a smile… maybe something else. Finally you're getting paied for what you do best."
Her face didn't move, but something behind her eyes did — a flicker, cold and sharp.
And then, without warning, the pot tilted.
The coffee spilled hot and dark across Tommy's face and shirt.
"Here's your free refill, asshole." Fiona said in a hiss.
Tommy jumped to his feet, shouting, but Fiona moved faster.
Her hand snapped out — a clean, hard shove to his chest that sent him stumbling back into the booth. Coffee sloshed, the cup clattered to the table.
Heads turned. The noise cut through the diner.
The manager came running then, face red and confused. "Fiona! What the hell?!"
"You saw that, right?!" Tommy bellowed, more shocked than angry. "Psycho bitch!"
Fiona's breath came out sharp. She stepped forward, chest heaving, andHer fist came up before she even thought about it. The punch landed square on his jaw.
"Okay, that's enough," Steve's voice came from behind her, sharp and irritated.
Before she could turn, his hand closed around her arm.
The touch burned like a spark. Fiona spun on her heel and shoved him hard in the chest.
"Don't touch me!"
"That's it!" the Paul barked. "You're done! You're fired!" Fiona turned to him with wide eyes.
"You're joking!" she exclaimed, but Paul did hesitate.
"I said you're fired!"
She ripped off her apron and hurled it straight at Paul's face. "Fuck this shit."
And she walked out, the bell over the door jingling behind her — sharp, final, like the sound of a door slamming on the only thing holding her together.
Her hands trembled as she fished her keys from the pocket of her uniform.
Her laugh came out shaky. It sounded more like a sob.
The parking lot was almost empty now, washed in the pale yellow of the streetlights. A neon sign flickered behind her — OPEN 24 HOURS — mocking her with its stubborn glow.
Her bike waited near the dumpster, the only thing that ever felt like hers.
"Of course," she muttered when the engine refused to start at first. "Of fucking course."
Another try, and the motor roared to life — loud and angry, like her heartbeat.
She gripped the handlebars until her knuckles went white and took off down the empty road, the cold wind clawing at her face, tears stinging her eyes before she even realized she was crying.
By the time she reached the edge of town, she pulled over.
Her breath came out fast, broken.
The silence out there was heavier than the noise — just the wind, the far-off hum of power lines, the world asleep.
She killed the engine. The sudden quiet hurt.
Her hands were shaking. The taste of smoke and adrenaline was still on her tongue.
And then the anger cracked — split right down the middle — and the rest came spilling out.
She slammed a fist against the tank. "Fuck!"
The word echoed off the trees, small and useless.
She pressed her forehead against the cold metal, and the tears came freely now, hot against her chilled skin.
"Fuck..."
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She looked at them — open, pale, useless — and let them fall on her knees.
Her breath came out uneven, hot against the cold air.
And then the tears came.
They started small, like she was just exhaling too hard — but then her shoulders jerked once, and again, and her whole body folded in on itself.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she could push the sound back in, but it was too late.
A sharp, broken sob tore through her chest.
The world blurred — headlights far away, the shimmer of frost on the asphalt, the smell of gasoline and salt and smoke.
Her throat burned, her face wet and cold.
It wasn't clean or delicate — it was ugly, desperate.
For a moment she just let it happen, forehead pressed to the handlebars, the metal cool against her skin.
Her breath hitched, the air scraping raw in her lungs.
Then — abruptly — she stopped.
The tears dried on her cheeks, leaving her skin tight and cold.
"Enough," she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
She dragged a sleeve across her face, smearing what was left of the tears, forcing her breathing back into rhythm.
Her fingers found a cigarette in the pocket of her uniform.
The flame from her lighter shook a little, catching her reflection in the chrome of the tank — red, then gone.
The first drag filled her chest, heavy and hot.
She let the smoke out slow, her lips trembling only once.
The quiet returned. A lonely song somewhere far off — a dog barking, the hum of power lines, the faint rhythm of her heartbeat.
She closed her eyes and took another breath.
Why do I even fucking care? she thought. A bitter chuckle left her lips. She stood there chuckling on her own for a few moments. She hated everything. She was used to it.
Then, as she was about to put the cigarette between her lips, the purple plastic pearls of the bracelet around her wrist caught her attention. The chuckle died in her mouth, her lips twitching as she looked at it.
"I don't hate everything," she muttered, caressing the pearls. "I've never hated you, Sarah."
Then, before she could start to cry again, she pushed her hair back and took a deep breath. She stood there for some minutes — or maybe more, she really couldn't tell. But the sound of bikes caught her attention, and she opened her eyes to look in the direction of the noise.
The lights grew brighter, small figures forming behind them — two boys, laughing, their voices carried on the cold November air.
"Hey, look!" she knew that voice.
"Fiona!" The other one said, she also knew that voice. They were two children, Will Byers and Dustin Henderson. Of course she knew them, Jonathan Byers was the only person Fiona could call a friend, and that was how she knew Will. But it was not the only reason actually. Before Sarah, Fiona used to love all the nerdy kind of stuff, she had even been part of a d&d group for some time. Will and his friends seemed to love this about her, so they were always happy when they saw her. Even if it had been years that she had dropped almost everything that she used to love before.
"What are you two doing here?" she asked, as the two boys stopped their bikes in front of her.
"Going back home," Will said with a nod of his head.
"We've had a campaign of 10 hours at Mike's house!" Dustin explained, his eyes glowing with excitement.
"Sounds epic," Fiona answered, taking another blow of her cigarette. Of course they were at the Wheelers', she bet even Lucas Sinclair had been there. The four of them did everything together.
"It was!" Dustin agreed. "What are you up to? Except ruining your lungs."
Fiona tilted her head at the boy, "Going home from work, smartass," she said, "And you also should be going home, it's late."
"Yeah, you're probably right," Will said, getting ready on his bike, "See ya."
"Yeah," Fiona said with a little nod of her head, before remembering something, "And tell your brother to bring his chemistry notes tomorrow, I didn't study."
Will chuckled, "Of course. Bye." He said pushing his bike to move.
"See you around, Arwen," Dustin said, with his usual smile before following his friend down the road.
Fiona let out a little chuckle, shaking her head as she observed them race and laughing. "Arwen, uh?" she muttered, with a smile, but when she looked down she saw her polyester uniform and suddenly the smile disappeared from her face.
"What a load of bullshit," she said trowing away her cigarette. And when she sit on her motorbike once again, something caught her eyes. The light above her was flikering. On and off. On and off.
"What a shit of a city," she muttered, before starting her bike and drive into the night.