A/N: I know, I know, I have too many stories. But I've had this one in my head for a couple years and season 3 of Stranger Things just really got to me. I hope you all enjoy Molly as much as I do!
"Life is to be lived, not controlled;
and humanity is won by continuing
to play in face of certain defeat."
- Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
Chapter One
Molly Davis
"Do you want me to remove the muzzle?"
The girl nodded fervently, catching the scent of metal from the bit in her mouth. Every morning, every evening, every night, she tasted it and smelled it and fought against it. And yet it remained, unchanged.
Sometimes she forgot the sound of her voice.
Sometimes she forgot she could even speak.
"Do you remember what happened last time?"
The girl nodded again, slowly this time.
"You almost killed Doctor Samson, did you know that?"
She shook her head once.
"If you do it again, I can't promise I'll ever be able to remove this. Do you want to wear this for the rest of your life?"
She shook her head.
"So, you promise to behave?"
She nodded once.
"Good."
Slowly, hands unclasped the contraption, pulling the metal gently away. Her teeth ached and her throat was dry, the taste of free air stung her flesh, and it was the greatest sensation she could imagine.
Until she began to speak…
September 6, 1983
"What are words?"
Molly Davis wrote the sentence on the board, underlining it with an extra layer of chalk. No one answered the question, but she did not expect them to. It was the beginning of the year, after all. All questions were optional, rhetorical, and immediately tossed into the ignore bin. English was never the most popular subject, but she liked a good challenge.
Some of the children were glancing out the window, watching their last days of summer disappear from the wrong side of the glass. Others were staring at the tops of their desks, taking in the grain like it was far more fascinating. Will Byers was the only one paying her any real attention. The kid had an imagination on him, and it would take him far one day.
"Are they just randomly arranged letters, a simple tool for one person to understand what another needs, or is there more to them? Are they an idea, an actual piece of humanity, a glimpse into the soul?"
Someone snickered in the back.
"I know, I know, a little overdramatic for the first day of school. C'mon, Miss Davis, we haven't even started Shakespeare yet," she paused, watching the inevitable less-than-enthusiastic reaction to everyone's favorite playwright. "Oh no, there go the eyes glazing over. If only Bill could see how far he's fallen."
Will smiled at that, and she gave him a friendly wink.
Molly leaned against her desk, grabbing a pen from the surface and holding it up. "Anyone care to describe this pen for me? Melissa?"
In the back corner, blonde curls bounced as the owner looked up. "It's…red?"
Molly lifted her free hand, gesturing toward her student. "That's right, it's red. Color is one of the best descriptive devices available to us. Straight, simple, to the point, but it doesn't have to be. Red doesn't do all the shades justice. There's a difference between the red of this pen and the red of my hair.
"Is this pen really red? Very red? Well, those are just as boring as saying red, now aren't they?"
There were some nods. The audience was slowly coming to.
Jumping off the desk, Molly displayed the pen in front of her like a prized possession.
"The possibilities for describing the red of this pen are endless, and therein lies the beauty of it. How do you choose the word to describe it? Does any word work or do you choose something that just feels right to you?
"Let's say someone described this pen as super red, what do you think that says about them? Why would they use the word super?"
Will shrugged. "Maybe they like comic books?"
"Excellent observation, Mister Byers," Molly replied with a nod. "Superman, Super Friends, superheroes. What better way to describe something as greater than what it is than by adding the word super before it?"
She gestured to a red-headed boy in the front row. "Derek, is your dad still the best mechanic in town?"
The boy nodded, smiling with pride. "You know it."
"Does he describe a car as just red?"
Derek shook his head. "Flaming red."
"Flaming," Molly echoed. "The perfect description for a mechanic or car enthusiast, loud, masculine, dangerous. But probably not the right word for someone who prefers rose red. What sort of person do you think that is?"
"Probably gay."
Molly felt her eyes narrow as she glanced to the back where two boys snickered in unison.
"Now, Troy, I was hoping we could make it through the first week before I had to install the expressway to the principal's office, but I guess you had different plans. C'mon, step into the hall. I'll talk with you in a minute."
She watched the boy stand up, shuffling forward with a grin that spoke of no regrets on his face. He was quite proud of himself, despite having to repeat this course. His mother had given her hell for it, but Molly had faced worse monsters in her lifetime. Wailing parents were nothing to her.
The mood broken, Molly moved back behind her desk, gathering her thoughts.
"Words are how we communicate to the world around us, how we communicate about the world around us, and in turn, they are also how we tell the world about ourselves without even meaning to. If you ask William Shakespeare, Stephen King, and J.R.R. Tolkien to describe any object, you're going to get drastically different answers, because it is their preference and it is what feels right to them as an author, as a person. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we force you to take English classes until you're legally an adult."
She watched the various pairs of eyes looking up at her, blue eyes, brown eyes, some with glasses, most without. Once, she had been in their position, in that very room if she recalled correctly. School had been her sanctuary, her everything, and English class was her favorite. After being denied the use of words for so long, that young girl she had been could not learn about them fast enough.
That was why she never minded when her students seemed bored. Boring was safe; boring was the best outcome she could hope for.
Molly grinned. "Now, how about you all tell me about yourselves with that colorful description in essay form!"
Groans. Music to her ears every time.
"I want three to five paragraphs from each of you describing your favorite events from the summer," she called out, grabbing pencils for the inevitable children who were short them. "Will, only one of those can be a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. And no, Tina, reading about an event does not count as an event. You had to leave your house at some point."
It was always on County Road 16, when the lanes straightened out and took her through the open fields on the edge of her land, that Molly would see him.
She didn't know where he came from, if he parked on some side road and waited for her old pickup to lumber through or if he'd followed her from somewhere back in town; she never actually paid it much attention. But in the back of her mind, she came to expect a visit every once in a while, which was what kept her from jumping when red and blue lights began to pulse in her rearview mirror.
Smiling, Molly pulled off to the side, careful not to turn too far. The road hardly had a shoulder and dipped quickly into the grassy fields below. She wasn't in any danger from traffic anyway. Maybe five cars in total used it on a daily basis, and Hawkins wasn't exactly known for attracting outside attention.
Chief Jim Hopper took his time exiting his Chevy – he seemed to increase her wait by at least a minute every meeting – so Molly reached for the bag on her seat and grabbed out some classwork. She might as well get some work done while he wasted her time.
Well, maybe wasted was a harsh term. It couldn't be all that bad if she was smirking the whole time.
When she finally glanced him sauntering – yes, that was the appropriate word – toward her truck through the side view mirror, Molly had already read through three essays.
Definitely adding time.
Molly rolled the window down, and was greeted by a very stern gentleman, his aviators on and pen and paper out, ready to dispense his small amount of justice.
"License and registration, ma'am."
Hopper was so full of shit, she almost started laughing.
"You know, Jim, when I get pulled over for an actual offense one of these days, I'm going to wind up handcuffed on the hood of my truck because I don't know how to properly interact with an officer of the law anymore."
In the beginning, their meeting had been for a legitimate reason. He'd caught her speeding down the same stretch of road a couple years back, but she had been driving a convertible then. It had been the same the next two times as well. Then he had pulled her over as a joke, and now here they were, chatting on the same abandoned county road like it was the most normal thing they could do.
"That implies you're capable of leaving Hawkins," Hopper countered, flipping open his little notebook. He even began to write something. "Who's gonna pull you over here? You so much as speak to Phil, he might faint."
"Your confidence in Hawkins PD is stirring."
He leveled a look on her. "License and registration."
She tossed the essays at him in response, allowing herself a small giggle as he struggled to keep them all in line.
"The hell are these?" he asked, sifting through them.
"Essays from my students."
"What's today, the first day of school?" Hopper asked, tossing the papers back. Molly let the sheets flutter around and fall in the cab. Not like they were going anywhere now. "You giving kids homework on the first day?"
"It's hardly homework if I have it right now, Jim," Molly replied with a shake of her head. "No, I do it every year. I ask the kids to write about themselves. It gives me an idea about what they like, how committed they are, what their comprehension level is, and that way I can plan from there."
Hopper nodded slowly, possibly comprehending what she had said, possibly not. She could still smell the beer on his breath.
Her smile faltered. "Should I ask you for one?"
The chief snorted, removing his sunglasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Get past the terrible handwriting and I'm not sure you'll like what you read."
"Well, that's up for me to decide," Molly replied, reaching out and grabbing the notebook from him.
"Hey! That's interfering with a criminal investigation."
"I'm sure you'll get over it," Molly said half-heartedly, reading over the scrawl. She recognized the poorly written name of her college. "'Ohio State sucks.' Seriously, Jim?"
He looked smug. "Just recording the facts of the situation."
"Michigan fans," she mumbled, throwing the notebook back at him. "Have you even been to Michigan?"
"I see it on the map every now and then."
Molly shook her head, crossing her arms over the open window. She watched his blue eyes focus on hers, the cheeriness quickly fading, and wondered how late he had been up this time.
Jim Hopper was a strange case. He was simultaneously the simplest creature and the most complex enigma. Molly liked to think she understood him to an extent, through their brief conversations and whatever Patty deemed necessary gossip – not that she had asked for it. The woman lived for trouble and if you so much as made eye contact with someone new, she would give you a briefing complete with slides.
But there was always a wall she would hit. She liked to think the man cared in some way – he kept pulling her over for small talk after all- but he'd always shrink away, and she wasn't quite sure how to address that. Maybe he didn't know either.
"I'd say yes, you know."
For a while, she had thought the small talk was going to lead up to just that: a question about dinner or coffee, but it never did. She'd been disheartened by it at first, even when she hadn't known what her answer would be. Jim Hopper, after all, had a well-known reputation around town: drinking, abuse of medication, an overall disinterest in anything he did. A glowing resume for a prospective partner, but he made her laugh, and after everything her life had been, that went a long way with Molly.
It was only when she started paying attention, truly, and actually listening to Patty's words that she realized Hopper's behavior around her was atypical of the brutish chief. He was almost charming, which was not a word anyone would describe him with.
She realized then how serious their meetings were, and how profound his resistance to asking truly was.
"Yeah," he replied, sounding defeated. "I know."
He put his aviators back on and turned to his vehicle, the moment clearly at an end. Molly resisted the urge to grab his arm.
There had been a point where she didn't know people, emotions and facial expressions were as difficult to read as Russian, but over the years, she had become quite proficient at the art. Hopper was not the sort of man to give in to pity. It only made him disappear further behind that immense wall he had built. So, she bunched her hands into fists and counted the loose rocks on the asphalt.
"So, I'll see you at the bar later?" she asked when he had returned to his car.
Hopper stared at her from over the open door. "It's the first day of school, Miss Davis."
Molly only grinned, turning back into her truck.
The vehicle roared to life, climbing onto the road and kicking up dust in its wake. Through the rearview mirror, she could still see Hopper standing there.
He was shaking his head, but she thought there may have been a smile on his face.
It was another two miles to the farmhouse she called home, straight through fields of corn. When her father passed, Molly began to rent the land to her neighbors, although they were all beginning to feel the squeeze from the mayor. Modern innovations for modern times, they said. Hawkins was apparently growing, and growth demanded expansion, at the cost of their farmland.
Molly didn't want to sell the land. She liked the isolation it offered her. Easier to see who was coming that way.
Also, a shopping mall did not sound remotely appealing.
Molly killed the engine in the dirt driveway, listening as the sound of birds and wind blowing through the trees returned to her ears. She used to hate the quiet of it all. Sometimes she still did. It reminded her of too much.
Packing the papers back into her bag, Molly watched the house a moment. Two stories, white as can be, front porch complete with a swing. Americana at its finest.
It looked the same as it had that morning, but she could never take appearances for granted.
Letting her bag sink back into the seat, Molly reached over for the glove compartment under the dash and popped it open. Her hand returned with an M1911 pistol, a relic from her father's tours in World War II.
Only then did she head for her house.
With a steady and practiced grip on her pistol, Molly methodically searched the outside of the building, calmly checking through each screened window for anything out of place. Her orange tabby, O'Malley, was sleeping soundly in the bay window, blissfully unaware of her presence.
She checked the storm cellar as well, but the door was locked, and had been for the last four years.
Satisfied with her perimeter sweep, Molly unlocked her front door, quietly, and stepped inside.
The pistol pulled close, her dominant eye fully focused down the sights, Molly began to clear each room of the ground floor, before moving her investigation upstairs. Her finger tapped just above the trigger well, ready for anything, but today, like every day since she had returned, the house was hiding nothing but dust bunnies and memories.
With a sigh, Molly allowed herself to relax, arms dropping to her sides.
Just another day in Hawkins, Indiana.
So, this was just an introductory chapter to Molly in her present day. We'll get more into her backstory next time. Thanks for reading!
