Chapter Text
Tuesday, November 18, 1997
Stephen Strange woke to the sound of his mother’s soft voice carrying through the haze of sleep. “Stevie, sweetheart, time to wake up,” Beverly called, her tone warm and soothing as the faint creak of the old farmhouse’s wooden floors announced her presence. “Happy birthday, darling. Seventeen today.”
Stephen groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. His mother’s words, meant to comfort and celebrate, only reminded him of the weight that pressed against his chest every waking moment—especially on mornings like this. He didn’t want to be seventeen. Didn’t want to face the milestone without her.
“Stevie, don’t make me come in there. Breakfast is almost ready, and you’ve got chores before school.” Beverly’s voice held a playful tone, though Stephen could hear the tinge of annoyance in her voice.
“I’m up,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“Good,” she replied with a satisfied hum before her footsteps retreated down the hallway.
Stephen sat up reluctantly, the thin morning light filtering through the curtains of his bedroom. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, but no amount of effort could dispel the heaviness that lingered. Today was supposed to be a celebration, but all it felt like was a cruel reminder of everything he’d lost.
It had been almost ten years since Donna died. Almost a decade since that bright, laughing girl had been taken from him. His baby sister, his partner-in-crime, the one person who had made this lonely, dusty farm feel like home. Gone, just like that and yet he was still here.
He ran a hand through his dark hair and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floorboards sent a shiver up his spine. But the shame and guilt that simmered inside wouldn’t be so easily dismissed. He’d been the one who had lived, and every year that passed without her felt like another year stolen from her memory.
Stephen glanced at the framed photograph on his nightstand. Donna, grinning ear to ear, her arm slung around his neck as they both beamed at the camera. They couldn’t have been more than six and seven, their faces smudged with dirt from a day spent exploring the woods behind the farm.
“You should have taken me,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he stared at her frozen smile. “Not her. Me.”
He’d screamed them at the sky so many times, cursed a God he wasn’t sure he believed in. If God was real, then why had He let Donna die? Why had He taken the best part of Stephen and left him with this aching emptiness?
“Stevie, come on!” Beverly’s voice called again, a note of exasperation creeping in.
Stephen forced himself to stand, dragging his feet as he crossed the room to pull on his jeans. He twisted around to throw on an old band t-shirt and flannel shirt. He caught his reflection in the small mirror by the dresser. Haunted eyes stared back at him, too tired for someone so young.
“I should’ve died,” he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, glaring at his reflection. “God, you’re cruel. You took her and left me. Why? What’s the point of this?”
He turned away quickly and was unable to bear the sight himself. As he headed downstairs, the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the air. The familiar scents tugged at something inside him, a faint reminder of what he still had, but it wasn’t enough to fill the void. Nothing ever was.
Then the kitchen smelled of butter and toast, a warmth that should have felt comforting but didn’t quite reach Stephen. He stepped into the small, cozy room and was immediately greeted by his mother, who pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Happy birthday, Stevie,” Beverly said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. Her hazel eyes sparkled with affection, though there was a shadow of worry behind them, as there always was these days.
“Thanks, Ma,” he replied, his voice barely above a murmur. He slipped into his usual seat at the table, keeping his eyes downcast.
Eugene Strange sat across from him, his presence as heavy and unmoving as a stone. He nursed a cup of coffee in silence, the lines on his face deepened by years of sorrow and bitterness. He didn’t look up and didn’t acknowledge Stephen’s arrival.
Victor, sitting beside their father, was busy fiddling with a fork, his youthful energy barely contained. At thirteen, he still had the roundness of a child’s face, but his sharp blue eyes seemed to take in everything. When he noticed Stephen sit down, he smiled faintly. “Happy birthday, Stevie.”
Stephen managed to give his brother a small smile, “Thanks, Vic.”
Beverly set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him with a carefulness that felt almost ceremonial. “There you go, sweetheart. Eat up. And happy birthday again. I love you, Stevie,” she said, giving him another kiss on the cheek.
“Love you too, Ma.” Stephen said quietly, staring down at his plate.
The scrape of Eugene’s fork against his plate was sharp in the silence. Stephen’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the usual wave of resentment to come crashing down. His father didn’t speak, but the way his gaze flickered briefly to Stephen—hard, cold, accusing—was enough.
Eugene hadn’t forgiven him. Stephen doubted he ever would.
He remembered the day Donna died as if it were yesterday. The rushing water, his frantic screams, the overwhelming helplessness as he fought to save her and failed. He had done everything he could, but it hadn’t been enough. And Eugene… Eugene saw it as failure.
Beverly moved around the kitchen, humming softly as she worked. She was the glue holding the family together, the only one who still spoke of Donna with warmth instead of blame.
“Don’t forget to pick up the mail after breakfast, Stevie,” Beverly said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “And maybe take Victor with you. It’s a nice day out; you boys should get some fresh air.”
Stephen nodded, though the idea of leaving the house—especially with Victor—felt exhausting.
Victor nudged him under the table with his foot, grinning. “I’ll race you to the mailbox.”
For a brief moment, Stephen let out a small chuckle. “You’ll lose,” he said, trying to match his little brother’s energy.
Eugene’s fork clattered against his plate as he stood, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He didn’t say a word as he left the kitchen, his presence vanishing like a storm cloud.
The silence he left behind was suffocating. Beverly’s hum lowered for a moment before she regained it, her back turned as she tidied the counter.
Victor looked at Stephen again, his smile dimming. “Don’t worry about him,” he said in a low voice.
Stephen forced another smile,\“Yeah, don’t worry about him,” he whispered.
As he picked at his breakfast, Stephen’s thoughts drifted to Donna again. To her laugh, her bright eyes, the way she used to call him Stevie and jump on his back. He missed her so much it hurt, and that hurt only deepened the rift between him and his father.
Beverly sat down beside him, her hand brushing his. “You’re a good boy, Stevie,” she said softly, her voice was full of a mother’s love and an unshakable belief that he did not deserve it.
“Thanks, Ma.” he whispered.
Stephen stood in front of the mirror in his room, the cracked glass reflecting a version of himself he could tolerate—at least when he wasn’t at home. The eyeliner pencil glided over his lower lash line, steady and precise, the black bringing out his striking stormy blue eyes. He leaned back to inspect his work, smirking faintly. He might feel like a mess inside, but out here, he could look exactly how he wanted.
On his desk, a small box of jewelry sat open. Rings, chains, studs, and hoops spilled out in organized chaos. He selected a few favorites—a silver chain to wrap around his neck, a ring for his middle finger, and a pair of silver hoops he carefully slipped through his ears. At home, he usually kept the piercings hidden. His father wouldn’t have had a problem making his disapproval known. But at school? School was his escape.
Grabbing his favorite leather jacket from the back of his chair, Stephen slung it over his shoulder and turned to pack his things. His well-worn black backpack sagged as he stuffed it with notebooks, a couple of beat-up textbooks, and his portable CD player. He flipped through the CDs scattered on his desk, finally settling on The Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana .
Sliding his headphones around his neck, he headed down the hall. Victor’s door was ajar, and Stephen knocked lightly before poking his head in.
“You ready?” he asked, spotting his younger brother crouched over his Game Boy on the bed.
Victor glanced up, grinning at his brother. “Yeah, I just need shoes.” He tossed the handheld onto the bed and scrambled to the closet.
Stephen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Ma wants us out the door in five, so don’t take forever.”
Victor grabbed his sneakers and hopped on one foot to put them on. “You think Dad will be mad if we’re late again?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “He’s always mad, so what’s the difference?”
Victor snorted but didn’t say more.
Downstairs, Beverly was waiting in the kitchen with a smile. She handed them each a packed lunch, her hands lingering a little longer on Stephen’s. “Drive safe, Stevie,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
“I will,” Stephen promised, though the keys jingling in his hand made him itch to be out the door.
The old 1970 Ford F-100 Ranger was parked in the gravel driveway, its bright red paint gleaming faintly under the pale morning sun. Stephen had spent the better part of a year restoring it when he was fifteen, his hands black with grease and his knuckles bruised from stubborn bolts. He only had to read through the manual once. It wasn’t perfect—the engine still made a strange clicking noise sometimes—but it was his.
Victor slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut with a grin. “Shotgun!”
Stephen rolled his eyes as he was climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the key. The engine roared to life, and he couldn’t help but smile.
Beverly waved from the front porch, her arms crossed against the morning chill. “Have a good day, boys! Love you!”
“Love you too, Ma,” Stephen and Victor said in unison, though Stephen’s voice was quieter.
As they pulled onto the long dirt road leading to the main highway, Stephen popped his CD player open and slid in The Smashing Pumpkins’ Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. The opening notes filled the cab through the small adapter he’d rigged to the truck’s ancient radio.
Victor bobbed his head along to the music, a grin spreading across his face. “This is way better than Dad’s country tapes.”
Stephen chuckled, the tension in his chest loosening just a little. The music was blasting and the sun was barely rising over the Nebraska fields. Stephen pulled into the school’s front drive, the tires of the old truck crunching against the gravel. The building stood like a blocky fortress, its bricks weathered by decades of Midwestern winters. Students milled around the entrance waiting for the school day to begin.
“Alright, Vic,” Stephen said, glancing at his younger brother. “This is your stop.”
Victor hopped out of the truck, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Later, Stevie!” he called as he jogged toward a cluster of kids his age, already laughing at something one of them said.
Stephen waited for the door to slam shut before pulling away, heading for the student lot at the far end of the school grounds. He parked in his usual spot under the shadow of a big oak tree, the old truck looking a little out of place among the newer sedans and pickup trucks.
He sat there for a moment, collecting his things. His headphones went back around his neck, his CD player safely tucked into his backpack. He grabbed his notebook and the beat-up medical textbook he’d been poring over for the last week—an old hand-me-down from a neighbor down the road who used to be a nurse.
A tap on the driver’s side window startled him, and he turned to see his best friend Corey Lewis grinning at him, his round face practically glowing with energy. Corey was short and stocky, his broad shoulders straining against his football letterman jacket. Despite his reputation as the team’s powerhouse, he always had a big, goofy grin plastered on his face.
Stephen rolled down the window, smiling back. “Hey, Corey.”
“Hey, birthday boy!” Corey said, reaching in to pat Stephen on the shoulder. “Happy birthday, man. Seventeen, huh? One more year and you’re free.”
Stephen chuckled, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as he climbed out of the truck. “Thanks, Corey. Free’s a strong word, though.”
Corey snorted. “Fair point. Hey, you hear back from Columbia yet?”
Stephen shook his head, locking the truck and pocketing the keys. “Not yet. They said I should know by Christmas.”
Corey gave a low whistle, impressed. “You’re gonna get in. No way they say no to you. Graduating early, top of your class—hell, you’re like a genius in disguise, man.” He jabbed Stephen’s arm playfully. “If I didn’t know you, I’d never guess.”
Stephen laughed, his smile a little sheepish. “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly scream ‘future doctor,’ do I?”
“No, you scream ‘guy who listens to Nine Inch Nails in his truck and stares at the stars,’” Corey teased, earning a mock glare from Stephen.
“I do not stare at the stars,” Stephen said, though he couldn’t entirely suppress his grin.
Corey laughed, clapping him on the back. “Alright, maybe– maybe not. But seriously, man, you’re gonna kill it. Columbia won’t know what hit ‘em.”
They started walking toward the school entrance, the crowd thinning as the first bell was to ring soon. Stephen kept his pace even, his outward calm hiding the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind. He was ready to graduate early because he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting more time here. Not when he could be doing something that mattered.
As they stepped inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the familiar sound of lockers slamming greeted them. Stephen adjusted his backpack and let himself fall into the rhythm of the day.
Stephen settled into his seat in the back row of his science class, thankful for a brief reprieve from the usual noise of the hallways. He flipped open his textbook, letting the printed words draw his focus as the teacher fiddled with the old radio perched on the counter.
The morning announcements crackled through the ancient speakers, a mix of school updates and awkward jokes. Stephen barely paid attention—until he heard his name.
“And a big happy birthday to Stephen Strange!” the cheerful voice announced, followed by a chorus of static applause sound effects.
Stephen froze, his eyes snapping up from his book as the class turned toward him. A few students grinned and waved, while others chimed in with scattered “Happy birthdays!”
“Happy birthday, Stephen!” called one of the girls in the front row giving him a wink.
Stephen felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He waved awkwardly, managing a faint smile before burying his face back in his textbook. He could feel their eyes lingering for a moment longer before the teacher cleared her throat and called the class to order.
The next hour crawled by, though Stephen couldn’t shake the unease of the spotlight being turned on him. Everyone seemed so sure that he was destined for something great, but he wasn’t convinced. Yeah, he had the grades. He had the test scores. His 1597 on the SAT—a single point shy of perfect—was still the talk of the school. He had driven all the way to Omaha to take the test and had aced it on his first try. But none of that erased the restless ache inside him, the feeling that no matter what he achieved, it would never be enough.
When the bell rang, Stephen packed up quickly, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But as he reached the door, a voice over the intercom called him to the guidance office.
The guidance counselor’s office was small and dimly lit, a poster of a mountain peak with the words “Keep Climbing” peeling slightly at the edges. Mr. Caldwell sat behind his desk, a kind but tired-looking man in his forties.
“Stephen, come on in,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Stephen sat down, resting his backpack on the floor beside him. “What’s up, Mr. C?”
The counselor folded his hands on the desk, studying Stephen for a moment before speaking. “I just wanted to check in with you. It’s your birthday, and I know this time of year can be tough for you. How are you doing?”
Stephen hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the chair. “I’m fine,” he said, his tone even but guarded. “Just... ready to be done with high school.”
Mr. Caldwell nodded, his expression neutral but understanding. “I get that. You’ve had a lot on your plate, Stephen. Between your academics and your personal challenges... it’s okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” Stephen said quickly, though the words felt a little too sharp. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m fine, really. I’m just focused on what’s next.”
Mr. Caldwell leaned back in his chair. “I see. I assume the next thing is college. Columbia’s your top pick, right?”
Stephen’s face softened slightly. “Yeah. I should hear back by Christmas.”
“I’m confident you’ll get in,” Mr. Caldwell said, smiling. “The school’s already covered the costs for your trip to visit this past summer, and they were impressed by you. You’re an incredible candidate, Stephen.”
“Thanks,” Stephen said quietly, looking down at his hands.
Mr. Caldwell paused, then leaned forward and looked at Stephen. “You’ve come a long way, Stephen. I know the past few years haven’t been easy, but I need you to know that we’re here for you. If there’s ever anything you need to talk about, my door’s always open.”
Stephen gave him a small nod. “Thanks, Mr. C. I appreciate it.”
As Stephen left the office, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing down on him. The whole school seemed convinced he was destined for greatness, but his father made sure to make him feel quite the opposite. He just wanted to be better. He wanted to save lives. All he could do was keep moving forward and hope that wherever he ended up, it was far away from Nebraska.
The rest of the school day dragged, the minutes ticking by as Stephen tried and failed—to keep his mind on his work. Donna’s face kept surfacing in his thoughts, her laughter echoing faintly in his ears. Tomorrow would have been her sweet sixteen.
It hit him all at once in his third-period math class: she would never get that milestone, never blow out candles or open presents. She would never grow up. His chest tightened, and his hands started to shake. He clenched them under the desk, trying to keep steady. By the time the final bell was about to ring, his panic had bubbled to the surface.
Stephen couldn’t take it anymore. He gathered his things quickly, scribbling a note for Corey as he walked out of the building.
Corey—Can you take Vic home? I owe you. Thanks.
He left it on Corey’s windshield in the student lot, then climbed into his truck, his movements quick. He cranked the engine and sped out of the parking lot, heading not toward home, but into the vast, open countryside.
The November air was crisp, the gray skies heavy with clouds that could produce snow. The fields stretched endlessly on either side of the road, barren and brown, mirroring the emptiness in his chest. He drove for what felt like hours, though it was probably only twenty minutes. His mind raced, thoughts of Donna flooding in faster than he could push them away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Finally, he pulled over onto the shoulder of the road, the truck’s tires sinking slightly into the muddy ditch. He turned off the engine, the sudden silence deafening.
And then, he broke.
Leaning against the steering wheel, Stephen let out a sob, his body shaking as the grief he’d been holding back poured out of him. Tears streamed down his face, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He cried for Donna—for the years she didn’t get, for the memories they didn’t make, for the guilt that gnawed at him every single day.
“It should’ve been me,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking.
The words hung in the air, raw and jagged. He had replayed that day a thousand times in his mind, wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have saved her. But no amount of wondering or wishing could change the fact that she was gone.
Stephen leaned back in his seat, staring at the gray sky through the windshield. He felt hollow, like a shell of himself. The tears finally slowed. He didn’t know how long he sat there, the world outside growing dimmer as the afternoon faded into evening. All he knew was that the pain felt as fresh as it had the day Donna died.
When he finally started the truck again, he wasn’t sure where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t go home—not yet.
Stephen pulled into the parking lot of the small florist shop on the edge of town, the bell above the door chiming softly as he stepped inside. The shop was warm and smelled of fresh blooms, a stark contrast to the cold November air outside.
“Can I help you?” the elderly woman behind the counter asked, her kind eyes squinting at him.
Stephen nodded, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket—the last of the birthday money his Aunt Ellie had sent him. “Just... something small,” he said, his voice low. “For a grave.”
The woman nodded knowingly and picked out a simple arrangement of white daisies and baby’s breath. Stephen stared at the flowers as she wrapped them in tissue paper, his mind blank.
After handing her the money and mumbling his thanks, he climbed back into his truck, the flowers resting gently on the passenger seat. The drive to the cemetery was quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound as the world outside seemed to grow still.
Donna’s grave was in the corner of the small cemetery, marked by a simple headstone. Her name was etched in clean, careful letters:
Donna Marie Strange
1981–1988
"Forever Loved, Forever Missed"
Stephen knelt down, his breath fogging in the cold air. He placed the flowers at the base of the headstone, his hands trembling.
“Hey, Donnie,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Happy almost-birthday.”
The words caught in his throat, and he wiped at his face, smearing what was left of his eyeliner. “I, uh... I miss you. Every day. God, I wish you were here. You’d be turning sixteen tomorrow. Sweet sixteen. It’s not fair, you know? You should be here.”
He sat back on his heels, the cold from the ground seeping through his jeans, but he didn’t care. “Things are... things are changing. I’m waiting on my college admissions letter. Columbia. I know, crazy, right? Me, at an Ivy League school. You’d probably laugh and call me a nerd. You always loved doing that.”
A sad smile tugged at his lips as memories of Donna teasing him while he explained science facts or recited obscure trivia played in his mind. “You were the only one who actually liked hearing me ramble about stupid stuff. Nobody else gets it like you did.”
His voice cracked, and the smile faded. “Dad still blames me, you know. He won’t say it outright, but I can see it every time he looks at me. I can feel it. I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, but... it does. It always will.”
The tears came again, spilling silently down his face as he rested his forehead against the cold stone. “I love you, Donna. I’ll always love you. I just hope—” He paused, his chest heaving. “I just hope I’m making you proud, wherever you are.”
Time slipped away as Stephen talked, his words pouring out in a stream of grief, guilt, and longing. Donna had always been his confidant, his greatest supporter, and now her grave was the only place he could feel close to her. When he finally stood, it had been nearly two hours. His legs were stiff, and the cold bit at his skin. He wiped at his face, his fingers brushing against the smeared eyeliner under his eyes.
Looking up at the sky, Stephen let out a shaky breath. “What kind of joke is this, huh?” he asked bitterly. “What’s the point of keeping me here when you took her? She deserved to live, not me.”
As if in answer, tiny flakes of snow began to fall. The first flurry of the season danced in the air around him, catching in his hair and melting on his skin. For a moment, the world felt quieter, softer. Stephen stared up at the gray sky, his breath clouding in front of him. Maybe there was no answer. Maybe there never would be.
He turned back to the grave one last time, his hand lingering on the headstone. “I’ll see you later, Donnie,” he whispered. As he climbed back into his truck, Stephen started the engine and drove off with the flurries swirling in his rearview mirror.
The sky had darkened by the time Stephen turned his truck onto the long gravel drive leading to the farm. The house glowed softly in the distance, its warm light cutting through the cold night. His stomach twisted as he realized he wasn’t sure if he’d missed dinner—or how much trouble he might be in for disappearing like he had.
Pulling up to the house, he killed the engine and sat in the silence for a moment, the heater clicking as it cooled. With a deep breath, he grabbed his backpack and headed inside, bracing himself for whatever awaited him.
To his surprise, the kitchen was quiet. Beverly sat at the worn wooden table, a plate of food and a small cake set in front of her. She looked up the moment he walked in, her face softening with relief.
“There you are,” she said, standing quickly. She pulled him into a tight hug, the scent of her lavender lotion instantly comforting. “I was getting worried, Stevie.”
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Stephen mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands resting gently on his arms. “Corey brought Vic home. He left me a note saying he didn’t know where you went, but he was worried. You should give him a call later.” Her eyes softened further as she studied him, noticing the streaks of black smeared across his cheeks.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. “You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you?”
Stephen nodded sadly.
Beverly guided him to the table, sitting him down in front of the plate she’d kept warm for him. “Here. Eat something first,” she said softly. “Then we’ll talk.”
Stephen took a few small bites, though his appetite was gone. Beverly sat beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.
Finally, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Setting down his fork, he leaned into her, burying his face in her shoulder as the tears came again. “I miss her, Ma,” he choked out, his voice muffled. “I miss Donna so much.”
Beverly wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. “Oh, Stevie,” she said, her voice warm and soothing to him. “I know you do. We all do. She was such a bright light in our lives, wasn’t she? Always laughing, always making us smile.”
Stephen nodded, his sobs shaking his body. “She should be here,” he said brokenly. “She should’ve had a sweet sixteen tomorrow. She deserved it. Not me. Not me.”
“Stop that,” Beverly said gently but firmly, pulling back just enough to cup his face in her hands. She wiped away the smeared eyeliner and tears with her thumbs, her touch soft, tender, and full of love. “Don’t you ever say that again, Stephen. You deserve to be here just as much as anyone. Donna wouldn’t want you to think like that.”
“But I—”
“No,” she interrupted,“You listen to me. Donna loved you, and she was so proud of her big brother. I know she’d still be proud of you now. You’ve worked so hard, Stevie. She’d want you to live your life, not feel guilty for it.”
Stephen’s tears slowed, though the ache in his chest remained painful. Beverly pressed a kiss to his forehead and smoothed his hair, humming softly as she held him close.
“I love you, Stephen,” she said. “No matter what. And I know Donna loved you too. You’re going to do great things, sweetheart. I can feel it.”
They stayed like that for a while, the small kitchen filled with quiet sniffles. Eventually, Beverly coaxed him into finishing his plate and even lighting the single candle on his cake.
“Happy Birthday…Stevie.” his mother sung to him.
Stephen blew out his candle in hopes of a better future.