There is a phone in the kitchen, and Jim makes his way toward it. He remembers, back when Will went missing, how Joyce had told him of the odd phone calls she'd gotten – the ones where she could hear Will's breathing and the monster on the other end.
He figures, as he clears the vines away from the cords, that it's worth a shot. He doesn't know how Will managed to call Joyce, but he does know that there was a Demogorgon around him when he did. Jim has the advantage of having killed the only Demogorgon taking up residence in the Harrington house, and he decides that he can figure out how to make a goddamn phone call.
He takes a deep breath. He isn't even sure if the phone'll function, but at least he manages to plug the thing in. Jim lifts the phone off its hook and holds it up to his ear. A sigh of relief escapes him when he hears the dial tone. He tries Joyce's number first, but nothing happens. The same thing happens when he tries any of the other numbers he knows off the top of his head.
He bangs his forehead against the wall and immediately regrets it when he feels the slick sliminess of the vines coating every square inch of the place. He tries to think about Will. He had called his mother – Jim had called Joyce because he'd figured that she's his best bet at getting out, and because she's the person he's closest to, but maybe it isn't about who he calls. Will had called his mother, and he'd called her at home, despite knowing that it was likely that she was at work.
Maybe the phones can only call their counterparts. Jim feels as though he's just had a stroke of brilliance until he realizes that he doesn't know Harrington's phone number. He tries to remember if there was a phone book anywhere when he was exploring the house. He decides that there might've been, but he doesn't remember where, so he resigns himself to scouring the house once again. If that doesn't work, he'll have to go to the library or something.
Luckily, there is a phone book on the top shelf of the shelves in the living room. Jim pulls it down and frees it from the strangulating grip of the vines encompassing it. Deftly, he flips to the H's, running his finger down the names until he finds Harrington. There are only seven names, and none of them are Steve Harrington. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, but it is a little frustrating when he realizes that he doesn't know either of Harrington's parents' names. None of the numbers are even remotely similar, either, and so he just calls one after the other, his shoulders sagging each time nothing happens. Finally, though, on the sixth try, the phone rings.
Jim can feel his heartbeat in his throat at the sound of the first ring, and the second. It rings a third time, and then a fourth, and he starts to fear that whoever's on the other end won't pick up, and they'll just leave him in this abyss with the sound of a ringing phone in his ear to remind him that he's all alone.
He's just about to give up and hang the phone back on the hook when someone picks up. "Hello?" comes a crackly, staticky voice. "Steve Harrington speaking."
Jim almost sobs, but he controls himself and says, "Kid, can you hear me?"
"Who is this?" Harrington asks, which doesn't answer Jim's question at all.
"This is Jim Hopper," Jim says slowly, enunciating the words, hoping against hope that Harrington will hear him.
"Hopper?" Harrington's words are fuzzy and cracking again. "We thought you were dead," he says dubiously, and then his voice takes on a suspicious tone. "How do I know you aren't just messing with me?"
"Harrington," Jim barks in exasperation, "I'm not messing with you. I'm on the other side of the Gate."
"You're in the Upside –" Harrington starts, sounding astonished.
Jim interrupts him before he can finish the sentence and say anything incriminating. "Hey! Hey, shut your mouth, kid. You never know who's listening, alright? But yes. I'm alive, and I'm stuck on the other side, and if you could let the others know, that'd be great. I'd like to get outta here. As lovely as I'm sure your house is, it's significantly less charming with a dead monster and vines crawling the walls."
"Yeah, I'll let them know, Chief," Harrington replies, sounding amused. He mutters, "Can't believe you killed a monster in my evil house."
"Thanks, kid," Jim says, his voice cracking. He just listens for a second. If he focuses, he can hear Harrington's breathing, and he can't deny that it's comforting to know that he's talking to a real person who'll try to get him help. "Hey, kid?"
"Yeah, Chief?"
"What day is it?"
"July sixth. It's about seven in the morning, which is why it took me so long to answer. Sorry 'bout that."
Jim lets out an incredulous laugh. "I'm just glad you answered at all. And that you didn't hang up on me."
"Hey, no problem, Chief," Harrington replies calmly. "I'm gonna go tell the others, now, and we'll figure something out, alright? Jane'll be happy to hear that you're still alive."
"Yeah, okay," he breathes, and wishes like hell that Harrington wouldn't go. He feels like he's going crazy down here with no one to talk to and it hasn't even been two full days.
"Hey, Chief?" Harrington's voice pulls him from his thoughts, and Jim manages to hum out some sort of acknowledgement. "If you want, you can call any time, alright? I'm gonna be home for a while, so I'll try to pick up when I can."
"Okay. Thanks," he replies, and even if the words aren't all sappy and full of emotion, the tone with which they are delivered is. Jim can't find it within himself to be ashamed. He's stuck in a place where he's gotta be strong a hundred percent of the time. He can allow himself to be weak around people, especially the ones that have even the smallest idea of what he's going through.
"Yup," Steve says softly. "I'm gonna let them know now, okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Call me whenever."
Jim clears his throat. "Okay."
"Okay. Bye, Chief." The phone clicks, and Jim lets go of a breath that sounds kind of like bye if he listens close enough.
Exhausted, he retreats to the pantry where he eats more food, drinks more water, and suffers more dreams when he finally manages to win his fight with sleep.
He is still a monster, but at least this time, his victims are not Sara and El. He can be grateful for that.
This time, he is a monster of a different sort. Or... maybe he is not the monster. But he must be, because only monsters engender this much hate. Only monsters are met with disgust and rage; only monsters are met with bone-breaking fists and breath-stealing kicks. Only monsters deserve to suffer.
"Am I the monster, then?" a girl's voice asks, and he looks over to her, coughing up blood, coughing up the blood of his father, coughing up the blood of his enemies, and he thinks that she – with her soft dark hair and her big, dark eyes – cannot be a monster.
"No," he forces out through bloody, broken teeth, through gasping breaths. "No. You're not the monster."
She tilts her head at him, curious. "By your definition, I must be."
"No!" he shouts. "You are not the monster. You're just a child."
Her big, dark eyes seem to swallow him whole. They are too old for her youthful face. She looks at him, solemn and sad and serious. "So are you," she tells him softly. "Look."
She points down at the water around them, and he notices that it is dark and so glassy that it reflects his face. It is a face he hasn't seen in a long time, he thinks, soft and small and smooth, with deep blue eyes and dark blond hair.
"What do you see?"
"A child," he murmurs. He looks back at her; she is smiling smugly at him.
"And so you are not a monster, either," she says matter-of-factly. "Only a child." She sits down in the reflective pool of water surrounding them, and he follows suit. "Only a child," she repeats, "but one who has suffered."
"You suffered too," he tells her softly. "You suffered more."
She frowns at him, this strange child with her innocent face and her too-knowing eyes. "We do not compare suffering. I suffered, and so did you. We are not the only ones. But we are children. We do not deserve to suffer. We are not monsters."
"You did not deserve to suffer," he corrects her.
She shakes her head. "Neither of us did," she refutes. "We are both children, and children make mistakes. That does not make us monsters. That does not make us deserving of our suffering."
"Okay," he relents.
She smiles at him. "I read your letter."
"My letter?"
"You and me, we are both growing up," she says. "You are learning to feel again. I am learning to be a person. We both make mistakes, but we are not monsters. You are not like Papa, and I am not the monster."
"Yeah?"
She looks at him and nods seriously.
He hugs her. "Alright, kid. We're not monsters."
She pulls away a bit, bites her lip. "You called yourself my dad."
"I did," he replies, his voice breaking.
"Can I call you dad?"
"Of course, kid. I thought you knew."
"I know now," she says firmly. "That is good enough. So I will call you dad, and you will call me Jane."
"Not El?" he asks curiously.
"El is short for Eleven, and that is a name for a person who does not know they are a person," she says scornfully. "It is good enough, but Mama called me Jane, and she does not remember me, so I will remember me for her."
"I'll remember you for her, too, Jane," he says.
Jane smiles at him with tears in her eyes. "We are coming for you, Dad."