THREE NO PAIN WITHOUT PURPOSE

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       IT WAS A FROSTY NOVEMBER DAY, autumn leaves fell down like pieces into place, the cold air was biting, and the sun was hidden behind thick clouds, yet Esme still decided to leave the house that Saturday morning after she had drunk her second cup of coffee to (a) wake up, and (b) keep her warm. Now she was walking down the deserted streets of Hawkins, cuddled into a thick wool jumper and a jacket. A dark green scarf was wrapped around her neck and brown gloves covered her hands. Today was the coldest day of fall they had had so far, indicating that winter was on its way.

       She was the only one in the family that liked the cold seasons, though. Earlier, when Anita left the house to meet up with her friends, she had already complained about the temperatures, a deep frown plastered onto her face. But Esme thought there was something ... peaceful ... about the cold, about the orange tint of the leaves in fall and the first fall of snow in winter, how it glistened as it fell.

       Anyway. Esme halted as a leaf got stuck on the sole of her shoe. Pulling a face, she peeled it off with her fingers. Wet leaves were kind of gross, she had to admit. She continued walking.

       Esme crossed the street, her gaze falling upon the huge houses now visible to her. Her family lived right outside of Loch Nora, the rich part of Hawkins, where people like Steve Harrington lived — or, as rich people said, resided. Her family wasn't poor, but not rich either. She quickened her pace, not keen on possibly meeting anyone from school. And after a while, in which she just enjoyed the fact that no one in Hawkins willingly left their houses when it was this cold, she reached the main street.

       Several stores were lined up on the sides of the road, but Esme was only interested in one. She passed the little chapel where they used to go to mass every Sunday, and the bakery where her dad bought donuts in the morning when he had the time, and RadioShack. Next to Melvald's General Store, she spotted the small bookshop she came to visit, one of her favorite places in town. 

       She entered, and the door jingled, announcing her presence. Instantly, she was met with warmth, heat flushing her cheeks (still, they stayed as white as always). The woman behind the counter turned to her, greeting her, a friendly smile on her lips. Esme smiled back.

       Large bookshelves covered every wall, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling, emitting warm light, giving the place a cozy atmosphere — this was the perfect place to spend a cold November day at.

       Esme went straight to the novel section. As soon as she was close enough, her eyes started scanning the shelves for pretty book spines. Of course, she knew not to judge a book by its cover, like her dad always told her, but it was a place to start, right? Her bookshelf at home was already screaming for some new content since the books on it, she had read them all at least twice (except for maybe some Shakespeare plays and Charles Dickens novels, books everyone pretended to have read but actually didn't.)

       She recognized some of the titles, like Interview With a Vampire, or The Shining by Stephen King. There was also a new book by him, Pet Sematary — maybe she could get that one as a Christmas present for Tatum; she loved horror. Her gaze landed upon another familiar book, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She reached for the book, the title Winter's Tale written on the front in large letters. This was one of her favorite books, she had read it four times already, even though it had only come out at the beginning of the year. India hated the book — she said the sentences were too long and complicated, and the descriptions didn't make sense most of the time. But that was exactly the part Esme loved about it — how the author spun his words into sentences, building a fantastical world full of wonders, was truly magical.

       Footsteps approached her, and her body tensed, trained to expect the worst. "Esme?" a familiar voice spoke, and Esme turned to her right. Nancy Wheeler looked back at her, a small yet surprised smile on her lips.

       "Hi..." Esme said shily. She didn't know how to react. Sure, she and Nancy got along in school, but they had never really talked outside. They weren't friends, just ... acquaintances. "I didn't expect to, uh, see you here." This was awkward.

       Nancy smiled softly at her, "I like it here, it's ... cozy." Then her gaze fell onto the book in Esme's hands. "Winter's Tale," she read aloud. "It's really good. Very romantic."

       "Um, I know... I've read it, like, four times," Esme said sheepishly. She put the book back on the shelf.

       "Four times?" Nancy chuckled. "Wow."

       Esme's heart sank. Was she laughing at her? At the fact that she had read the book so many times already? Did she think that was weird? She felt her stomach twisting into knots, and, all of a sudden, she wasn't in the bookstore anymore, no, she felt like she was back in school, hearing whispers about her all around. She needed to leave, was all she could think, right now. "Right, um..." Esme swallowed, stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and started to walk away from Nancy, her head hung low.

       Nancy must've seen the look on her face though, the embarrassment, the fear, because she stopped her. "I—I didn't mean it in a bad way—"

       For a moment, Esme didn't move, then she turned around. She liked Nancy, as far as acquaintances could like each other, so she decided to turn back around, her teeth biting down on her lower lip, nervous.

       "I wasn't laughing at you... I think it's cool..."

       Esme frowned. She had been called a lot of things in her life — most of which weren't very nice — but cool was not one of those things. The last time someone had called her cool, she remembered, was Anita when she was about four years old and Esme had told her that she didn't have to like the color pink, it was totally fine to prefer blue, even as a girl. "Oh."

       "I'm sorry if I sounded rude." Nancy looked genuinely upset at the thought of making her feel bad, Esme noticed. (Which was another thing that made her wonder why she was dating Steve Harrington, of all people. It didn't make sense, in Esme's eyes, because Steve Harrington wouldn't care if he made someone feel bad by laughing, it would probably make him laugh even more.)

       Esme sighed, then smiled. "It's fine. I ... overreacted."

       Nancy smiled back at her. "I know the people in school aren't very nice to you," she said. Esme furrowed her brows. "But I don't agree with that. I happen to think they're mean."

       Esme's lips curved upward hearing those words.

       "I just wanted you to know that."

       "Um..." Esme didn't know what to say to that. But she smiled. A confused smile, but a smile. "Thanks?"

       Nancy grinned.

       The tension that had enveloped them just moments before dissolved, making room for a lighter mood. Esme wasn't sure why she immediately thought that Nancy had cruel intentions, that her laugh was meant to hurt her, when she knew that Nancy wasn't like the other people in school. But, still, Esme's first thought when hearing her laugh about something she said was that she was making fun of her. Maybe the bullying got to her a lot more than she liked to believe...

       "So." Nancy clapped enthusiastically. Esme looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "What kind of books do you like?"

       Esme chuckled lightly. "Anything that's not horror."

       "Why?" Nancy asked. "I'm — curious."

       "Reality is scary enough as it is, you know? I don't need that in books too." Esme frowned at the bookshelf in front of her, avoiding eye contact with Nancy. She thought about that night, the night everything went wrong, in 1980. The night that she and her sisters played a game that they shouldn't have, unknowingly performed a ritual and summoned the Midnight Man. The night that had ruined her life.

       She could feel Nancy's eyes on her, a worried expression on her face. But there was understanding, too, Esme noticed. "You want to escape," Nancy said.

       "... I guess," Esme said.

       Nancy nodded, a small smile on her lips, before she turned to the bookshelf in front of her, her gaze roaming over the many books. Until she found what she was looking for. Nancy's eyes lit up and she reached forward, pulled out a book, and gave it to Esme. "The Little White Horse: The Secret of Moonacre," Nancy said, reading the book title. "I've read it a while ago, actually, and I think it's beautiful; it's kind of like a fairy tale. I know it's a children's book, but ... if you want to escape reality..." Nancy trailed off, watching Esme as she read the synopsis on the back of the book.

       A smile crept its way onto her lips while reading. It sounded nice. She looked up at Nancy. "If you say it's good, I'll give it a try."

       Nancy seemed to be shocked. "Really?"

       Esme shrugged. "Yeah."

       "OK," Nancy said happily.

       After that, they talked a little bit more about their reading habits, what genres they liked, and their favorite books. Esme could actually gush about Winter's Tale without someone (India) judging her. And Nancy told her how much she loved Little Women, but also liked to read gothic horror novels like Frankenstein or The Picture of Dorian Gray from time to time. Eventually, they left the bookstore together. Esme bought the book Nancy recommended to her and Pet Sematary for Tatum while Nancy got The Island of Dr. Moreau, a book that was a mix of horror and science that Esme didn't have the guts to read if she was being honest.

       They parted ways outside since Nancy still had some other things to do. Esme didn't mind, she'd just enjoy the peacefulness of Hawkins when it pretty much equaled a ghost town. But just as Esme passed the little chapel, thunder crackled in the sky, and a raindrop fell onto her nose. Within seconds, it was pouring.

       Esme hurried into the chapel, escaping the rain. She didn't want to be soaked through and catch a cold.

       The heavy doors slammed shut behind her, and Esme was engulfed in silence. A kind of silence that only existed in churches and chapels — in the presence of God. A lump formed in her throat as she took in her surroundings: the wooden altar in the front, the crucifix on the wall behind the altar, the benches, and the colorful windows. She remembered how her mom would always take them here for the Sunday mass, how she didn't really understand the words the pastor spoke but she liked the music. She remembered the feeling of comfort she would feel when coming here.

       That feeling of comfort had disappeared, though, as soon as the people of Hawkins started to theorize about what had happened to the sisters three years ago — how they had gone missing for a month after vanishing under mysterious circumstances and then reappeared looking like ghosts — thinking it had something to do with Satanism or witchcraft. After that, they were no longer welcome in the masses. So they stopped coming.

       ... Esme missed it, though.

       Slowly, she started walking down the aisle, her footsteps echoing in the silence. She could feel her heart beating faster than usual, hammering against her ribcage. She didn't know why she was nervous, but everything in her screamed at her to leave. You're not welcome here, no one wants you here! She stopped in her tracks in the center of the room. Her gaze was fixed on the crucifix on the wall. She wanted that feeling of comfort back that God had once given her. Maybe it would help her feel less ... lost.

       But the only thing she felt was an incredible sadness, tears were welling up in her eyes. Her hands curled into fists, and she turned to leave.

       "Hello," a voice said behind her. Startled, she whirled around. Pastor Charles smiled at her as he came out of the sacristy. "I apologize, I didn't mean to scare you." She remembered him, he was a kind man, always friendly (but she guessed as a pastor he had to be). Over the past three years, however, he had aged; his hair and beard had turned a mousy grey.

       Esme didn't know what to say. The words got stuck in her throat.

       Pastor Charles eyed her, his head tilting slightly to the right. "You're Esme Deverell, aren't you?"

       Esme swallowed but nodded. "That's me."

       "You and your family used to come to mass every Sunday."

       "Yeah, my mother was — is — very religious." Esme started picking at the fabric of her gloves. She felt uncomfortable under the gaze of Pastor Charles, how he seemed to attempt to look into her thoughts, into her soul, like he tried to figure her out — which was probably exactly what he was doing.

       "Why did you stop coming?" Pastor Charles asked. He stood in front of the altar now, but he made no move to come closer, maybe because Esme still looked a little spooked, like a deer caught in headlights.

       Esme frowned at the floor. "Um, well, I'm sure you know what the people say about me and my sisters," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, before she looked back at the pastor, a pained expression on her face. She felt her chest tighten. "How we're ... witches or working for Satan or something." She hated talking about this. Why was she talking about this? "We're not exactly welcome here anymore."

       "That seems to bother you," Pastor Charles said.

       Esme huffed. "Of course it does."

       "Why?"

       Esme wasn't sure how to answer his question. She once believed in God, in the notion of everything happens for a reason, and she still wanted to because it gave her comfort and something to hold onto. But could she still believe? Could she still have faith that God never allowed pain without purpose? Because she really didn't know if the pain that she was going through, that the people around her were going through — Anita and her fear of showing weakness, India and her need to be popular to feel good about herself, Vinnie and Eddie and the terrible situation with their father — had any purpose...

       Now, everyone believed that Esme and her sisters were the Devil reincarnated or wicked witches. The comfort that she had always felt when coming here was taken from her. And, yes, that bothered her, because she missed it, missed having this constant in her life, the knowledge that there was a place where she was always welcome, where she could seek help.

       How could she still believe in God when she didn't have that anymore, that safety?

       "I believed in God when I was younger, and I loved coming here," she said, her gaze moving from Pastor Charles to the crucifix on the wall. "Then I got interested in science and math and I started to think that for something to be true, to be real, there has to be evidence. But that was ... lonely." And she was kidnapped by a monster in the middle of the night, so, not believing in anything otherworldly didn't do her any good, really.

       She didn't know why she told Pastor Charles all of this. Maybe, deep down, it had troubled her for a while, since the Midnight Man, which was proof — the evidence she had wanted and needed as a kid — that there were things in this world that couldn't be explained. When they had played the Midnight Game, she thought God wasn't real, that it was just a story, a cultural construct, that was supposed to help people; so she didn't believe that the Midnight Game was real either. But it was. And it turned Esme's world upside down...

       "And now, no one wants us here. They would rather burn us at the stake than accept us." She scoffed bitterly.

       Pastor Charles cracked a smile at her comment before turning serious once more. "But ... do you believe in God?"

       Esme stayed silent for a moment. But then, she slowly nodded. "I think I do. I want to. Because— Because it made me feel safe. But now it's different... Now, coming here feels anything but safe." She shrugged her shoulders. Tears formed in her eyes; an anxious feeling gnawed at her insides.

       Pastor Charles sighed, his brows furrowing together like he was thinking about what she said, about what he could say. Then, he came a few steps closer to her. Esme stayed in her place, her feet planted on the floor. "I know what your family went through. And, yes, I know what the people of this town think and say about you. But that can't stop you from believing. It shouldn't. If you find comfort in God, then that's all that matters. You don't need the church for that."

       Esme looked at him, her eyes wide.

       "Faith is something very personal, and if there's a chance that it might help you, that it might make you feel safe again, then why not try?"

       Why not try? The words echoed in her mind. Why not try? He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, believing in something that once gave you something to hold onto in the loneliest hours, that made you feel safe, but was ripped away from you because something completely out of your control had happened to you and now everyone thought you were some sort of ... monster.

       Why not try? She remembered the feeling of comfort she had had every time she stepped foot in the little chapel, how it had felt like she was being wrapped in a warm hug.

       She wanted that feeling back.

       Why not try?

       ... Maybe she should try.

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       THE CONVERSATION SHE HAD HAD with Pastor Charles was still on her mind, playing in a loop over and over again, like a broken record, when Esme came home afterward. While she was in the little chapel, the rain had stopped so she could walk home without getting soaked. She wondered if it was fate that it had started raining right when she was outside the chapel. She wasn't sure. But that was the thing, though, wasn't it? You could never be sure, you had to have faith.

       Esme sighed. This was giving her a headache.

       After taking off her jacket, she sat down on the bench in the hall and pulled off her shoes. She made a face; the shoes were soggy. In the kitchen, she could hear her mother, probably cleaning (it was too early for her to prepare dinner already — it was just about 4 p.m.), with French music playing in the background. Esme smiled at that before walking in and seeing her mom scrubbing the stove, her back turned.

       "I'm back," Esme announced.

       Opal jumped, surprised, then turned around, her dark curls flying around her. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she eyed her daughter and processed her words. "Back? From where?" she asked.

       "I was ... at the bookstore." Esme frowned. "I told you I was leaving."

       For a moment, Opal just stared at her, not saying anything. Then, "Right, you left with Anita."

       "Actually, I left an hour later," Esme said, growing annoyed. Opal's eyes widened, and she was about to say something, but Esme cut her off, "It doesn't matter." She forced a smile onto her lips before pointing behind her, "I'll be in my room." With that, she left the kitchen, entered the living room, and then went upstairs. It was always great to find out that your own mother didn't even notice when you were gone for hours (the perks of being the middle child, right?). All she wanted to do now was read the new book that Nancy had recommended to her and escape into another world, a better world.

       But as she reached the upper floor, she spotted India, kneeling in front of the locked door of their dad's study, trying to pick the lock. Esme halted, confused, and with her head tilted to the side, she watched her sister as she tried to get into the study. India hadn't seen her yet because she was still solely focused on the lock, her tongue slightly sticking out of her mouth.

       Esme cleared her throat.

       Caught off guard, India turned to Esme, dropping the things she held in her hands. Esme eyed her, an eyebrow raised. India looked to the door and then back at her sister. "It's not what it looks like...?" she said, but her voice sounded unsure — most likely because it was exactly what it looked like.

       Esme crossed her arms. "So you aren't trying to break into Dad's study?"

       India blinked, then sighed. "Alright. You caught me." She picked up the tools that she had used to attempt to pick the lock and stood up. "Aren't you curious what he hides in there?" she asked, tapping a perfectly-manicured fingernail against the door.

       "Uh, I mean... I guess?" Esme frowned. Sure, she was curious, but she didn't think that breaking into the study was the best way to get answers. But, then again, it seemed to be the only way since Usher refused to answer any questions about what was in there or what exactly he did at work. It was a little frustrating, she could admit as much.

       Her curiosity, though, was nothing compared to India's. Every now and then, when India's curiosity got the best of her, she would ask Usher countless questions, interrogating him about his work, about why he had insisted on taking them to the lab after their disappearance instead of the hospital, and why the doctors at the lab hadn't seemed to be bothered when they found out that the sisters were different, strange.

       Last night's dinner was one of those moments where India couldn't help but ask question after question, pestering their dad to the point where he got really annoyed and was about to leave the table to lock himself into his study. Opal had jumped in then and stopped India, "We're having dinner, India. This is not the time for a cross-interrogation."

       "You guess...?" India sounded annoyed at Esme's vague reply.

       Esme just shrugged her shoulders.

       India rolled her eyes, then went into her room right across from Usher's study, leaving the door open for Esme to follow. And she did. India sat down on the edge of her bed. Her brows were furrowed and she was chewing on her bottom lip, clearly deep in thought.

       Esme still stood in the doorway, watching her sister with a concerned look in her eyes. She was a little bit unsure about approaching her, but she didn't know why. Nervously, she pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her hands before sitting down on India's desk chair. She turned toward her sister. "Why are you so obsessed with this?" she asked, frowning.

       India lifted her head, looking straight into Esme's eyes. "Why aren't you?"

       Esme raised an eyebrow.

       "Why aren't you wondering why Dad never talks about his work? Why don't you care what he does at that fucking lab? I mean — don't you think it's weird? Why is it such a secret? What is happening at the lab that he's making such a big secret out of it?" India gestured wildly with her hands, trying to convince Esme that there was definitely something going on at Hawkins Lab. "If it's some ordinary science stuff, why can't he talk about it?"

       She had a point, Esme thought while listening to her sister. The secrecy surrounding Usher's job was a little bit suspicious. However, the way India was talking about it made it sound like it was a— a bizarre conspiracy theory. She even had that crazy look in her eyes. Esme didn't say that, though — India would just get offended and mad, and Esme didn't want that to happen.

       "Maybe he thinks it's funny." Esme shrugged, a small amused grin on her lips. India gave her a look, and the grin disappeared. "Well..." Esme sighed. "What do you think he's hiding? What do you think you'll find in his study?"

       India stayed quiet, staring at the floor in front of her for a whole minute, thinking, before she looked up at Esme. A smirk crept up on her lips. "I'll tell you as soon as I know."

       Esme huffed. That was not the answer she was hoping for. But she shouldn't have expected a clear answer from India, they weren't her thing. India loved mysteries, and she loved being mysterious. So she didn't really care that Esme was anything but satisfied with the answer she received, and just walked over to her closet, starting to prepare her outfits for the next week of school.

       And while India compared a burgundy red blouse with a navy blue velvet shirt, Esme glanced around the room — the Madonna posters on the wall, the shelf full of vinyl records, and the snow globe with Santa Clause in his sleigh inside. The snow globe was pretty. Esme smiled at it. Then she spotted the golden jewelry that lay next to the pretty white jewelry box on top of the dresser that stood next to the window. Curious, she rolled her chair over there.

       There was a necklace with a pendant in the form of a bee, a pearl necklace, and a black velvet choker with a diamond (not a real one) in the middle. She recognized a pretty charm bracelet as the one Opal had given India for her birthday. Then her gaze landed on one of the rings, a gold one with a green gemstone. She picked it up. She knew this ring, India wore it often enough — it was one of Esme's favorite pieces of jewelry that India owned. And India owned a lot.

       She tried it on, sliding the ring onto her left index finger, and — it fit! Esme marveled at the ring, how the green stone reflected the light from India's lamp on the ceiling, how the gold framed the stone, and how intricate helixes were engraved in the ring band. She liked how it looked on her, how it hugged her finger perfectly.

       "Esme, which skirt for the blue shirt?" India asked, holding up a black pleated skirt and a brown corduroy skirt. Esme's head shot up, and she quickly took off the ring. India frowned at her hectic movements.

       "Um, the brown one," Esme said.

       India nodded and hung the black skirt, the one she didn't need, back into her closet. Then she turned back to her sister who was just putting the ring into the jewelry box. "You can have it," she said.

       Esme spun around, looking at India with wide eyes. "What?"

       "You can have it," India repeated.

       "No, no, it's yours." Esme shook her head. She couldn't just accept it, could she? It was India's ring, and she wore it pretty often, it wouldn't sit right with Esme if she just took it.

       India smiled. "But you like it, and I want you to have it."

       "But—"

       "See it as an early Christmas present." India shrugged her shoulders, a twinkle in her eyes and a grin on her lips.

       Esme smiled, then took the ring out of the jewelry box again, putting it on her finger. She looked at India softly, "Thank you."

       "Don't make such a big deal out of it," India said, rolling her eyes jokingly. "It's just a ring."

esme is this is me trying, anita is you're on your own, kid, and india is mirrorball

just putting that out there

hope you enjoyed! let me know what you thought!

also, we're getting steve next chapter :)