Chapter Text
On day four, Mike woke up before the sun. He opened his eyes and groaned at his ceiling, wanting nothing but to go back to sleep. But after what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he gave in and got out of bed, hoping that walking around would be able to get him drowsy again.
Still in his pajamas, he grabbed his crutch and slipped out of his room.
The hallway was dim. The only light came from the small lights plugged into outlets in between each door.
Mike shivered. The hallway was colder than his bed, and his plaid pajama pants and graphic t-shirt were not nearly enough to keep out the air. He inched down the halls toward the bathroom, trying to sound as quiet as possible with his crutch. His socked foot padded against the floor.
Light seeped from the crack under the door. It was the only light that never shut off.
Just as Mike adjusted his crutches to push the door open, he heard a noise. A retching noise. Someone was throwing up. It sounded awful.
Mike grimaced.
For a second, he considered hurrying to get a nurse. But he decided to investigate himself first. After all, if he was in that scenario he would likely want to be left alone and wouldn't want someone to grab a staff member.
With this in mind, he swung open the door.
He glanced around the blindingly white room. It smelled like chemicals, probably from being cleaned overnight. He crinkled his nose.
And then the retching started again. Mike noticed that it came from the leftmost stall, which was occupied. After a short hesitation, he shuffled forward, his socked foot and his crutch padding against the bathroom floor. He knocked on the metal door.
"Hey," he said, his voice scratchy from sleep. "Um, are you alright?"
A sniffle came from inside. The toilet flushed.
The stall door unlocked and swung open. Mike's breath caught.
Will, the boy with the bowl cut, was sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall opposite the toilet paper dispenser. He was sweating, and breathing heavy, and his face was wet from tears.
"Is everything okay?" said Mike cautiously.
The boy shook his head. "No. Not really."
Mike gestured at the ground in front of Will. "Can I-"
Will nodded. His eyes were closed and he looked as though he was in pain.
After he sat down, Mike stared at him. He was trying to figure out where to go from here. He wasn't sure if he should ask what happened. On one hand, talking about your problems was apparently important, but on the other, he didn't want to trigger any possible past memories. He opened his mouth to speak, probably to reassure him, but Will beat him to it.
"I had a nightmare," he explained quietly. "That's it."
Mike paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Will opened his eyes and tilted his head back to it's normal position. He was looking at Mike deeply.
His eyes were hazel.
"I was... I was vomiting slugs. In my nightmare, I mean." He took a long pause. "When I was in seventh grade, a group of boys cornered me on my way home from school. They held my hands behind my back and forced fishing worms into my mouth. You know, the kind you use as bait." His eyes were glossed over, staring straight in front of him without blinking. "I went home crying, and my dad, he...." Will paused, clearly fighting back tears. "He..."
And before Mike could react, Will was leaning back over the toilet bowl and gagging again. Mike immediately started to panic, his desire to help trampled by his inability to figure out what to do. He just sat there, clutching Will's shoulder with support, hoping that it wasn't a weird thing for a total stranger to do.
When Will was no longer throwing up, Mike stood as fast as he could with his limited mobility. He grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink and doused them in cold water before limping back to Will. He sat down next to him.
"Can I touch you?" he asked, realizing that he probably should have asked before.
Will nodded and leaned back against the wall again. Mike pushed up the other boy's bangs and laid the cold towel against his forehead.
"This helps my baby sister," he said, trying to give reasoning.
Will was breathing shallowly. Mike just sat next to him, waiting for him to calm.
"I'm-I'm sorry," Will stammered. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
"Oh, of course not!" said Mike quickly. "No, I was already awake. Don't worry about it." He gestured with his hand. "My room is all the way down the hall, anyway."
Will gave him a small smile. Mike returned it.
"Is there anything you need?" Mike asked.
He shook his head. "No." He hesitated before adding, "Just... could you sit here? If that's alright?"
Mike nodded. "Yeah, totally."
They both tore their eyes away from each other, staring at the wall. Will took a shallow breath.
"So," Will asked slowly. "How'd you end up here?"
For a second, Mike pondered his response. He still was entirely unsure whether he trusted the kids here. They seemed nice enough, but Mike had barely ever even had a friend before, let alone a kid his age that he talked about his emotions with. It was entirely new to him. Plus, for all he knew, Will was a lying creep on meth.
Mike glanced at him.
He didn't look a lying creep on meth.
One, two, three, four five.
Mike shifted his gaze back to the wall across from him. Will had been open with him, so, he decided, it was only fair that he be open back. He took a shuddered breath.
"I, uh..." he hesitated. "Two guys told me to jump off a cliff. And I did. Apparently it wasn't as far of a jump as we thought it was."
"Apparently," Will echoed. And then he looked down at Mike's hands, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. "Oh, you're bleeding."
Mike followed his glance down at his thumb. His cuticles were ripped and bleeding. He must have been pulling at the skin subconsciously throughout the conversation.
"Oh," said Mike. "Sorry. It's... um, it's a bad habit."
He wiped at the blood with the edge of his shirt, planting a small red stain on the cloth. He hoped it would wash out- it was one of his favorites.
A moment passed.
"What about you?" Mike asked in return. "Why're you in here?"
Will shrugged. "My dad," was all he answered.
Mike glanced at Will. He definitely looked better than he had before. His face was less pale and most of the sweat had been wiped off his forehead. His breathing had slowed. The bruises on his neck that Mike had noticed the day before had faded.
"Does this happen to you a lot?" Mike asked.
"It was worse back when Chrissy was still throwing up," he said. Mike frowned in confusion. Will met his eyes and then explained, "She has anorexia."
"Oh." A moment passed. "How long have you been in here?"
"Um, seven days, I think," said Will. "Or maybe eight. I'm not sure. Time kinda runs together."
That was true. Mike had already given up on keeping up with time and dates, deciding that the nurses could track of all of it for him.
"You're in high school?" Will clarified.
"Yeah. Junior."
Will smiled. "Me too. So is Lucas. But I think everyone else is younger. Except for Chrissy- I think she's, like, nineteen, but she's in here anyway."
"What are they like?" asked Mike.
He shrugged. "They seem fine. I knew Max a little bit before I got here, 'cause she goes to my school. But I don't know the others that well."
Will opened his mouth to say something else, but right as he did, the door to the bathroom swung open.
Mike's heart jumped to his throat. For some reason, he didn't want anyone to see him and Will like this. But he didn't move.
It was Lucas who stepped into the room. He was already dressed and carrying his toiletry bag.
When his eyes caught Mike and Will, he stopped.
"Are you guys alright?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.
Mike looked to Will, who smiled slightly and nodded. "Yeah, we're good. Just... couldn't sleep."
Lucas groaned. "Man, me too." He set his bag on the sink. "My parents are visiting later and they're bringing my grandma. It's insane."
The other boys hummed in agreement.
If Mike's parents brought his Nana, he'd probably tell them he was feeling suicidal again just so they'd put him back in isolation.
As Lucas began brushing his teeth, Jim Hopper stepped into the room. He was a security officer- a tall, heavy man with a mustache and a five o-clock shadow. He was frightening, but gentle, and he didn't carry a gun, so he was already nicer than the safety officers at Mike's school.
Hopper looked to Lucas with a stern face. "Is Michael in here?"
Mike rolled his eyes. "It's Mike!" he said, poking his head out of the stall so that Hopper could see him.
The officer looked down at him, his face hard, but kind.
"The nurse is looking for you," he said gruffly.
"Alright, alright," said Mike with annoyance. He used the handle on the stall to push himself to his feet and grabbed his crutch.
He made eye contact with Will.
"Feel better?" he asked softly.
Will nodded with a small smile. "Yeah. Totally."
That day was Mike's first real visit with Dr. Owens. He had been dreading it since the first day he got there, and his expectations were abysmal.
Owens' office was small and cramped. The cinder block walls were white and blank. The only wall decor were a few diplomas. Bookcases lined the white wall. On the left wall, closest to the door, were three metal chairs. The only other furniture was his desk and an armchair for the patients.
The armchair was itchy. It seemed to be the same material that patio furniture was made of. Mike was sitting with his sleeves over his hands and his hands under his thighs, because he didn't like the way that the fabric rubbed against his jeans. His good leg was shaking up and down repeatedly.
Mike glanced up at the clock. 8:41 A.M.
For the past thirty minutes, the room had been near silent. Dr. Owens had attempted a few questions, but Mike was intent on keeping his mouth shut.
He never liked talking about his emotions. It always seemed to get him somewhere that he didn't want to be. Stuck in the school counselor's office, grounded by his mom, serving detention.
Instead he was impulsive—acting out instead of speaking up. He was mouthy, he knew that. Everyone knew that. So he spent his time arguing—with his teachers, his parents, his sisters, his doctors. Picking fights with people who were even more aggressive, even more loudmouthed—fights that, despite rarely being much more than just crude words and shoves into lockers, he rarely won. Carving lines into his skin, lines that were evenly spaced and neat and proper, because nothing else about him was.
He didn't answer questions. And he certainly didn't speak about himself.
The wall behind Dr. Owens' desk held a clock. It was about the size of both of Mike's gargantuan hands. It was ticking, and Mike found himself distracted by the sound. He wanted to punch it.
"So, Mike," Dr. Owens said, trying again to make conversation. "What would you like to get out of this experience?"
Experience. As if the goddamn mental hospital were an art gallery or a science exhibit. Mike refrained from rolling his eyes.
"A cruise vacation," Mike answered numbly. "Winning lottery tickets, maybe?"
Dr. Owens peered at him. "Do you enjoy being contentious?"
Mike glared back. "I have no idea what that means," he said, even though he very well did.
"Do you like starting arguments?" he clarified.
He shrugged. "I'm good at it."
Dr. Owens tapped his pen against the table. He seemed deep in thought.
"This could very well be a stretch," he said. "But could it be that you feel as though people will inevitably dislike you, so you preemptively decide to dislike them first?"
The words cut deep into Mike's psyche. He hated it. He felt seen, as though someone was peering into his soul.
"I don't know," said Mike.
Dr. Owens only looked at him in response.
"So," Mike added after a few seconds of silence. "What's the deal with everyone else?"
"I'm afraid I can't answer that," the doctor said. "My patients have a right to privacy, and I can't give that up."
Mike leaned forward, subconsciously closer to the already uncomfortable experience.
"Seriously?" he asked. His leg shook against the floor.
"Haven't you ever heard of patient-doctor confidentiality?"
Mike just frowned.
"What about Jane?" he said after a moment.
"What about her?"
"Dustin said she doesn't talk. What's that all about?"
Dr. Owens folded his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. He looked at Mike with deep eyes—intense and searching. Mike wished he could figure out what the man was thinking.
"All of the patients here are here because, for whatever reason, their brains prevent them from functioning properly," said Dr. Owens. "My job is to help provide stability and comfort so that they can go back to living normal, average lives. Your job is to focus on healing, rather than meddling in the other patients' business."
A few seconds passed.
"My brain is stable," said Mike, even though he knew he wasn't.
Something in the doctor's expression changed. He looked like he had cracked a winning geode.
"Do you think that stable people want to kill themselves?" he asked simply.
The words struck a cord in Mike's ribcage. He couldn't gather a response.
The clock chimed. It was 9:00.
"Well, I think it's time for you to go back to your room," Dr Owens said. "But please think about what we discussed, alright?"
Mike nodded wordlessly in response.
Thank God that was over.