Chapter Text
It's been 11 months since the Byers moved.
The world's continued spinning. The sun rises in the morning, and it sets at night. It rains, it snows, it storms, it shines.
Morning dew coats the manicured lawns of Hawkins, Indiana.
If you look at it on paper, everything is fine. Nobody is in danger. All known gates are sealed. Nobody's going missing, nobody's been killed in any "accidents."
In fact, everything is good. Everything is fantastic compared to what they've spent the last couple of years dealing with.
So as Mike Wheeler lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, he wonders why he can't seem to appreciate it. All the good things. The relative zen he's been granted.
His town is safe, his family is safe, he is safe. El, Will, they're all safe in California, about as far away as they could get without immigrating to another country.
And there lies the problem. Not their safety of course, but, their distance.
It's hard to get out of bed these days.
The rising sun pries through the tiniest gaps in his heavy curtains, painting thin golden streaks over his walls. Walls covered in junk. It's not really junk, but, the more time passes, the more it feels like it doesn't matter anyways. Staring holes through drawings and photographs won't bring them back. It just serves as a reminder of what he's lost.
And he feels terrible for thinking that way. That he's "lost" anything at all. His friends have all remained safe. He hasn't lost his best friend, or his partner, or his sibling. None of them have been torn to shreds by inexplicable, relentless evil. He has so much. And yet, here he is. Unable to move an inch from the bundle he's cocooned himself into.
Surely he's gonna be late if he doesn't get up soon, but, he doesn't move. He instead pulls the sheets tighter, and closes his eyes, ignoring the ambient hum of his satiated alarm clock.
When his eyes shut, all he sees is his reflection in the mirror. How long his hair has gotten. How his eyes carry the weight that his mouth never helps lessen the load of. How his clothes fit looser than ever. Not that he's ever been anything but a beanpole, but, it's really accentuated now. How his hands shake at every hour of the day, at their worst when he's been sober for more than a couple hours. He's heard it from everyone at this point, but, he really does look like shit. He's aware of that fact. But he can't really find it in himself to care.
The sheets wrap him in the closest thing he's had to a hug in months. Tight, suffocating warmth. He takes a long breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
He really needs to get up.
But he's so tired.
So. Tired.
He spent the night prior rereading a couple volumes from a comic he loved in 6th grade. Honestly, pretty harmless compared to other late night activities he's been up to lately. But it took its toll regardless. Before he knew it, it was 3am. Falling asleep an hour later and waking up at 7:30 gave him a less-than-ideal 3 1/2 hours of sleep.
He reminds himself that he's managed to make it to school through worse conditions. With a labored sigh, he props himself up on his side.
Reaching an arm out, he turns his alarm clock,
7:48AM
He wanted to see Eddie this morning, but, even if he gets up and hurries right at this moment, he'll probably arrive at 8:20, at which point Eddie will undoubtedly be busy with someone else. He'll just see him after school, then.
And so, he gifts himself the peace of a slow morning, being content to arrive at school a cool 90 seconds before the bell rings.
He takes a brisk shower, opting to skip conditioning entirely. Not to mention barely touching his bar of soap. He's never liked biking to school with wet hair, but he's found some sort of comfort in the invigorating nature of being sprayed with water right after waking up. Makes him more alert, at least temporarily. Something he definitely needs as much as he can get of, feeling like he has his feet glued down to the earth.
As far as clothes go, he's content to wear anything that covers his body. Preferably darker, preferably warming. He opts for a navy blue sweater, a bad idea when it's almost 70 degrees these days, but they always crank the AC too hard in school anyways. And faded black jeans, a holes ripped on the right knee. He'll patch it up eventually.
White socks, black converse. He grabs his backpack from beside the door and refuses to let himself attempt to mentally prepare himself for his mother.
God bless her soul, really. He does feel bad, he's not a monster. But she cares so much. And it's not something Mike wants to hear. Especially not when the sun hasn't even fully risen.
"Mike, you need to eat!" "Mike, that hole needs to get patched!" "Mike, are you feeling alright?" "Are you sure?"
As much as he wants to plug his ears and walk away, it'll only raise more alarms if he does that. So instead, he placates. Or supplements the truth with little white lies to pad his excuses to become genuinely believable.
"I'm not hungry this morning, I'll eat a big lunch." "I'm patching it soon, I'm just looking for the right patch." "I just didn't sleep well, I had a pain in my knee all night." "Really, I'm good."
Usually followed by a thank you, just to seal the deal that whatever cause for concern she's addressing isn't part of a larger pattern, just a one-off event. He's not sure she's actually buying it, but the nice part about all this is that it's really just a precaution. Because she won't push something if he insists it's fine.
My life is just so hard, huh?
As his feet drag down the steps, he's hit with the smell of fresh pancakes. Holly must've requested them, no way Karen would've made those on a Monday morning unasked for. Before he's even in the kitchen, she calls out to him. "Goodmorning!"
"Morning!" Whenever he wakes up with an amount of energy in his system greater than -10%, he makes sure to utilize it with punched up enthusiasm. It makes up for the mornings when he's not even sure if he's actually alive.
Holly looks up from her plate and smiles with her mouth full. "Goodmorning!"
He always has a smile for Holly, though. That never needs to be faked.
He pulls out the chair next to her and drops his bag by his side before grabbing a single dry pancake and tearing into it with his hands. "You ask for these?" He mumbles with his mouth full.
"Mike!" Karen must've seen that. Whoops.
Holly laughs at his barbarian manners and nods, confirming that yes, she did in fact make this happen. He limply holds up a hand, which she gladly high fives.
Karen places a mug of coffee besides Mike. She still thinks he's too young to drink it, but, she stopped arguing about it months ago. He appreciates the surrender.
"Thanks," He turns and raises the mug to his mom, who begrudgingly smiles in response. Turning back to Holly, "You got anything going on at school this week?"
She gladly babbles on about what she's learning lately. Conversations with Holly feel a lot easier than ones with his mom. She's a lot more ignorant to things, naturally, given that she's 9. So when Mike looks like shit, he just says "Don't worry, I'm fine." And she thinks nothing of it. Its refreshing. Not to mention it's nice to talk to someone whose biggest concern in the world is learning their multiplication tables. Sometimes it feels like the ignorance rubs off on you if you give into it enough.
"Okay guys, let's wrap it up, don't want to be late, right?"
Sure.
"Right!"
Mike grabs his bag and follows a much more enthused Holly to the front door. Karen follows, wiping her hands on her apron and helping Holly put on her bag.
"Okay, be safe you two." She kisses Holly on the head, and pats Mikes back. It throws him off balance a bit too hard.
"Love you mommy!" Of course, Holly gives Karen a hug before she follows Mike out the door. Mike offers Karen a rather unconvincing smile and a wave. She offers him the same.
-----
Parking his bike by the door, Mike wonders if he should just start taking the bus. Like Nancy. Biking has started to feel less and less like freedom and more and more like a thin layer of warm sweat on the back of his neck. There's no reason not to take the bus, but, it's just such a routine to bike that at this point it'd feel sacrilegious. He doesn't let himself think about it too hard before entering the front doors.
The school provides a nice layer of chilled air, immediately cooling him. He shakes off his now mostly dried hair and readjusts his backpack as he makes his way to his first period. His head hangs low, and he refuses to look at anyone he passes. He knows among these people there's Lucas, Max. Probably not Nancy, or Dustin, they try to get to class early, but, still. The risk is always there. And he feels terrible considering it a "risk."
It's not like he doesn't want to see them, he just doesn't want to see their reactions. If he could walk up to them and talk about bullshit like nothing even happened, he would. But he knows he can't do that, not after all this time. He hasn't turned on his radio in 2 months. They've barely spoken outside of Hellfire, where they're more like coworkers than anything else. Lucas is getting along with the basketball team, Dustin seems to keep himself busy with maintaining his grades and passing the difficult classes he's given himself, and Max. Well... She's more like Mike.
She's slowly fallen off from the party too. Mike feels like he rotted away and fell off from the group like a gangrenous limb. He wonders if she feels the same. She shouldn't. She has every reason to be miserable. It makes him feel stupid for managing so extraordinarily poorly. She seems to at least look okay. No noticeable signs of physical unwellness, that's gotta be worth something. But she's not quite there, just like him. He thinks about talking to her the most, but, it's not like they ever really got along anyways.
He swings into his first period right as the bell rings, and takes his rightful seat in the back row.
The lecture is long, and he hears maybe 2 words of it. Chemistry as a first period class is brutal. His teacher told him he's barely passing, which, should concern him, but... passing is passing. He said as long as Mike gets above a D on the final, he should be fine. Now that he's got upperclassmen friends (who are more or less delinquents,) he's sure someone can hand him an old test to reference.
Mike nearly falls asleep, but is woken up by the slap of someone's binder. Now the teachers handing out final review sheets, which Mike promptly stuffs in his backpack to go over with Dustin later. He does a little game where he badgers Dustin until he gives in and lets him copy his work. On one hand he feels bad, on the other he thinks Dustin just cares too much about something that does not matter at all (academic integrity).
Soon enough, Chemistry ends. Then comes Art, then comes lunch. He barely makes it though the doors of the cafeteria, he's practically seeing double with exhaustion.
He and Dustin sit with Hellfire, Lucas with his basketball bros, and Max with some people she doesn't talk to, but sits with so she won't be subjected to bullying for sitting alone. Or at least that's what Mike assumes she's doing.
Dustin tries to make small talk with Mike, which fails almost immediately. Mikes not hungry. He's tired, he's irritated, he's shaky, and he doesn't want to be here. All of which Dustin can and does pick up on, this is in fact his attempt to make those things better. It's a futile task, but, he goes at it valiantly nonetheless. Which in turn only irritates Mike further. Eventually, it becomes genuinely unbearable.
Dustin's rambling on about the new piece of gear Suzie sent him. He's so earnestly thrilled about the whole thing. She managed to plan a whole escapade around making it to the post office after school, and making it home on time as for her family to not get suspicious, and how it's exactly what he was looking for, and how happy he is to have her, and it's all too loud, and he feels cold, and hot, and his clothes don't feel right on his skin, and this whole room smells like shit, and he just-
"Hey Dustin?" Mike says with not-so-thinly veiled anger.
Dustin's smile slowly shrinks.
Mike doesn't need to finish what he was going to say, that was enough.
The expression then turns sour. Dustin looks down and pokes at his food.
Mike feels bad.
The rest of the tables gone quiet. Including Eddie, who was in the middle of his own spiel. He takes it upon himself to address the disruption.
"... Wheeler. You feeling alright?"
Mike looks up beneath exhausted eyes. The look expresses everything Eddie needs to know before Mike even opens his mouth.
"-Okay. Yep. That kinda day. Let's take a walk, shall we?" Eddie stands and extends his arm towards the entrance of the cafeteria. Mike grabs his bag and follows, effectively avoiding eye contact with everyone at the table while doing so.
They dip into an empty classroom, where Eddie sighs as he closes the door behind them. Mike climbs up on the unused teachers desk and drops his head in his hands. "You don't have to tell me I was being a dick, I know I was."
Eddie hops up on a desk opposite him and crosses his legs, clasping his hands over his lap. "Well no shit. That's not what this is about."
Mike pulls his hands over his face as he looks up. "... Then what."
Eddie kicks a leg out, ever the jittery bastard, and looks at the ceiling as he gives his best attempt at gentleness. "You're just- yknow... You look, like, strung out, man."
Mike can't help rolling his eyes. On one hand, that's annoying. On the other, he should be appreciating that he's talking to the one person he can totally level with about his admittedly frequent drug use.
Eddie continues, "Not my business, I know, but... please tell me you aren't coming down off anything, like, serious."
No, I wish.
... No I don't.
"You're my only dealer, Eddie, if you didn't sell it to me, I'm not on it..." He remarks dryly.
"Okay, cool. Uh- cool. Just want to make sure you're not like... getting too lost in this shit."
"Okay- I'm not the dealer here so correct me if I'm wrong, but, it seems like bad business to tell a client to buy less."
His face scrunches in confused anger. "Client? Well, I also think of you as, like, a friend, so..."
Eddie throws his arms as he scoffs and stands up. "Whatever, sorry for giving a shit."
Mikes looks out the window. It's sunny today.
He hears Eddie reach the door.
"-Wait."
He hears him turn.
"... Yes?"
Inelegantly, Mike slides off the desk and follows him to the door. He squeezes into the doorway and looks at him with his exhaust-laden eyes, "... Can I still buy tonight?"
Eddie hangs his head, and looks to the side, and looks up, and looks back to Mike, only to look away again, all wrapped up in a sigh. "Why are you so fucked up today?"
"I was up really late reading comics."
Eddie laughs and leans back against the bricks. "Yeah? Just reading?"
"Just reading."
"Yeah?"
Mike raises his eyebrows but keeps his face dead, as to say, 'Really?' Eddie crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, as to say 'Yep!' His eyes are locked on Mikes. They hang there for a moment, just waiting. Mike is the first to look away.
"And... I finished off the bottle you sold me."
Eddie nods and scratches his jaw. "Alright Mike, you bought that how many days ago?"
Mike reaches for the door. Eddies hand slams down over his, holding the door closed. He's still staring Mike down.
Mike feels like a little kid right now. He feels bad. He feels sick, and... guilty.
Eddie lifts his hand, and steps back, allowing Mike to swing the door open, and storm out. He heads back to the cafeteria-
"-Mike!"
Not wanting to, he turns. He stands in the middle of the empty hall, looking, frankly, like he should be heading to the nurses office. He communicates to Eddie a non-verbal, exasperated 'What?' with his stance alone.
"5:30. Don't be late."
-----
The quiet sounds of the world around him nearly send him to sleep. Despite being on a bike.
The crunch of the gravel beneath his tires, the howl of the wind passing his ears. The leaves brushing against one another, the occasional car passing by, a dog barking, a bird tweeting.
He approaches the Munson trailer and halts to a slow stop. He looks across the street. He wonders if Max ever sees him over here. He wonders if she'd ever want to join one of their hangouts. Getting blasted and watching Rambo. It's not exactly luxurious but it's hard to care about things like that when the ceilings spinning. Fun is fun.
He rests his bike against the side of the building and lets himself in, he's been here enough to know that Eddie almost always leaves the door unlocked if he's home. He steps into the familiar trailer and wastes no time before making himself a drink.
"Wheeler, that you?"
Mike unscrews the cap off the- he checks the label- 'Old Overholt.' "No, you're getting robbed, sorry."
Eddie laughs from his room, before coming out with handfuls of items. He's quick to make an unamused face when he sees Mike shamelessly drinking his uncles alcohol. "Okay, rude. Really couldn't wait 10 more seconds?"
Mike puts the glass down and swings his backpack around to his front, where he unzips it and opens it as wide as he can. He shoots him a look that says 'Just put it in.'
Between school supplies Eddie shoves in 2 bottles of the cheapest vodka the liquor store had, two packs of Marlboros, and a relatively dainty looking eighth of weed.
"There you go sweetheart." Eddie smiles. Then he holds out his hand.
Mike blows air as he fishes through his now stuffed backpack for the cash. He takes a moment to pocket a pack of cigarettes. "Are you ever gonna find it in your heart to just not charge me one day? Like a frequent flier type of thing?"
Eddie scoffs "Yeah, get a rewards card. Maybe I'll start making coupon books. Buy two bags get one half off."
Mike laughs and drops the crumpled bills in his hand. "There."
Eddie counts the bills and nods. The bottle clinks against the pins Mikes stuck into his backpack as he swings it back over his shoulder. Their eyes meet as Mike picks his (Eddies) glass back up, finishing it off in one gulp.
"Your manners are just- admirable."
Mike curtsies his fake tutu as he heads for the door, pulling the pack out of his pocket. He turns and tosses the plastic coating in the nearby trash can before opening the door. The warm air is unpleasant. "God- why isn't it cooler?" He mumbles.
Eddie comes from behind and holds the door open, following him outside. "I don't mind it. Better than freezing our nuts off like we were a couple weeks ago, right?"
Mike cracks open the pack and picks one from the top left corner. "Guess so."
Eddie sits on the steps. Mike is about to close the pack before he sees Eddie smiling at the sky. He wonders what he's got to smile about. It's not like he's living a great life or anything. Super senior, drug dealer, social outcast, lead of an unpopular band in a small town. But he's still smiling.
Mike picks an extra cigarette and hands it to him. Eddie shrugs with a coy smirk and snags it. "You flatter me..."
Mike shrugs back, with a much softer, playful smile.
Is this the realest friend I've got right now?
Eddie pulls out his own lighter. It's got a skull engraved on it, of course. He hands it to Mike, who wordlessly appreciates it. He flicks it shut and hands it back. Eddies still looking at the sky. So Mike follows.
The sky's... blue as ever. A couple of thin, wispy clouds stretch over the atmosphere. Pretty standard. His mind wanders.
"Eddie?"
"Yea?"
"What are you smiling at?"
Mike asks in earnest. He really wants to know. What's so great about the sky? These puny clouds? What's there to smile about right now?
Mike's still looking at the sky, but he hears Eddies head shift a little, before looking back up and taking a puff.
"... Well, I think that's a silly question. Why wouldn't I be smiling?"
"What reason do you have to be smiling?"
Eddie leans back against the door of his trailer, shoes scraping beneath him as he adjusts, "... You don't think I have a life worth smiling over?"
The air suddenly feels a bit cooler. Mike scrunches up his shoulders as he turns, "No, I mean- Sorry if it came out that way- I just mean, like, what's so good that you're smiling? I'd consider it a good day if I smile, like, 2 times in a day."
Eddie ashes his cigarette and looks out to nothing. His expression is contemplative, he's looking for the words. He sighs and looks back up to Mike.
"It's a choice. I choose to smile. I mean- it's not like my life is exactly glamorous, I've got plenty of things to frown over, but... So what? I can't be happy because my life doesn't look like what the man thinks success is? Naaah..." And he smiles again. "I like who I am."
Mikes brows knit. He doesn't know why. But he just nods. And looks back up at the endless expanse.
-----
Slogging up the front steps, Mike leans into the door as he opens it.
He's recently come to realize how grateful he is that he's in a house with the steps right by the front door. He couldn't imagine having the stairs in the back or something, or not having stairs at all. Having to see or speak to his parents every time he came home. His usual routine is to walk in, announce that he's home into whichever room has a light on, and scurry upstairs.
Which is exactly what he does today.
The front door opens with no resistance, the door only gets locked after everyone's home. Karen's in the kitchen, he shouts her an acknowledgement of his own presence and lets himself upstairs. She shouts about dinner, he 'Uh-huh's.
Closing his door behind him, Mike tosses his bag on his bed, where he unzips and unloads everything into his closet. About as obvious as hiding spots go, but, it's not like anyone would go snooping through his stuff. That's just not the kind of house the Wheelers are.
The sun sets, dinner comes and goes, and Mikes back to laying on his bed.
The sun is no longer shining through the window. A soft red glow from his clock is the only thing lighting the room. The ceiling remains frustratingly bland, not to mention hard to even see in the dark. Can't even see the soft texture of the paint. This gives his brain freedom to take the reins and lead him wherever it so pleases.
It takes him to visions of California. He hasn't been, but he can imagine. Palm trees that scrape the clouds, the sun beating down on you like it's got a mind of its own. Boys and girls dressed in understandably tiny clothes, walking and skating down boardwalks by an overpopulated beach. He sees Will and El stopping by a shop to get ice cream. El gets a strawberry waffle cone, Will gets two scoops of chocolate in a cup, since he doesn't like cones. Finds them unnecessarily messy.
A tiny smile pulls on the corner of his mouth.
He rolls himself over. The alarm clock reads, 7:14PM
Well, now would just be a ridiculous time to go to bed, wouldn't it? No way in hell he'd sleep for over 12 hours. But he's bored out of his fucking mind.
Maybe I should get a job. Be able to afford more, and keep myself busy too. The thought washes over him, not really absorbing that it's a completely reasonable and logical thought that would in fact be helpful to pursue.
He glances over at his desk. It's messy on the top, with a coat hanging over the chair. Pens and pencils sit in a cup, the lamp stands unlit. He rolls his head back to the ceiling. Now thoughts pry their way in.
He hasn't written El back in 3 months. And Will stopped writing a couple more months back, but El's kept trying, despite Mikes below average response time.
How fucked up is it that he can't even find it within himself to write a single letter? To someone who he cares for more than he can ever even describe? He can't find the stomach to give El anything more than half-truths, or to apologize to Will. God, he's really burned that bridge, huh?
No way in hell he'll ever forgive him for this. Taking his sickeningly heartfelt letters and stuffing them in a drawer, not being able to say anything in response.
He thinks about the doodles on the corners of the paper, how Will simply mustn't have been able to resist the urge to scribble. And how he drew things that correlated to Mike. He drew a little D-20, swords, bikes, and a rather detailed knight, with a face covered by a helmet. But Will clarified that it was still him, with an arrow pointing from the words 'That's you!' with a smiley face beside it.
Mike throws his arms over his eyes.
The last letter Will sent was after Mike hadn't replied to the last two. It was longer, much less enthusiastic, with a single doodle of a nondescript cassette tape in the corner. Mike can't scrub the last words out of his head.
Writing sucks, I know. I wish I could just bike over and tell you about my day, and you could tell me about yours, and we could watch a movie in your basement, like when we were kids. Wouldn't that be nice? Or am I just a big sentimental baby who can never let anyo anything go, haha...
I hope you're doing okay.
- Will (... Byers)
Mike scrunches his eyes shut beneath the fabric of his sweater.
... Fuck this.
Guided by the hot glow of the alarm in his rather blue-feeling room, Mike gets up and approaches his closet. With a meekly creak, he pulls it open.
Behind bins of junk he hasn't touched in years lies his stash. Given he's just restocked, he's got all the choice in the world. An unopened bottle he could crack open, one of the two joints he has left, the weed he just got, and a leftover baggie of friendly white dust.
Alcohol's a given at this point. He's spent the last few months unable to go to bed without a nightcap. Or two. Or three. But, it's not really about that tonight. You don't get fucked off nightcaps.
Nothings ever really stood out to him as the best, they're all just different ways to not feel sober. All of them have their pros and cons. If he was going off the state it puts him in alone, he would probably go with alcohol. It blends his brain into mush. Which is exactly what he's looking for. But hangovers are a bitch. So then there's weed, but that smells, and being high always makes his mouth so fucking dry. And coke is only if he's in the mood to be hopped up, which is pretty rare. Plus, that's a slippery slope. He's already concerned enough about his alcohol intake. (At least I'm self aware...)
Joint and nightcap it is.
He takes the joint, thanking his past self for being kind enough to pre-roll for his future self. And he grabs the bottle, it clinks against the other as he pulls it out.
He sets up his desk chair by the window, which he opens as wide as it allows. Peeking his head out into the cooled night air, he looks around at the neighboring houses, where everyone seems to be inside. He wouldn't put it past these god-fearing do-gooders to tell his parents they saw something.
As Mike goes to sit down, he pauses, and looks back over to his desk. He straightens his back, and swallows. Without thinking, he goes over and rummages through the piles of miscellaneous papers, ending with him pulling out a bland, black and white spiral-bound notebook. He grabs a pen, and goes back over.
Now sitting down, he situates himself. Kicking his feet up out the window, lighting the joint, paging through the notebook, and clicking the pen above an empty page, lit by moonlight.
His hand hovers.
His brows furrow as he tries to think of anything. Like any mere words would be able to express how he feels. But he gives it a go. It's either this or nothing, and nothing is worse, right?
He tightens his grip, and puts pen to paper.
Dear El,
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. I'm not sure what's up with me, if we're being honest.
I hope you don't worry about me. Things aren't so bad over here.
He bites his lip. He continues.
I wish I had more to update you on, but, life's been pretty dull. School is school. Everyone's doing okay. Do you write to Max anymore? I think she'd appreciate it.
Really I just hope you're doing okay. I wish you were here! Because being with you in person is so much easier, you know what I mean? It's hard to say the right thing in a letter. Guess that makes me a pretty shitty writer, huh?
Again, sorry there isn't much more for me to say. Tell me about your life! How's school going? How's
Mike bites his cheek.
your family?
Your family.
He taps the pen on the side of the notebook.
I feel like I'm rambling. Sorry.
I hope you're thriving.
From, Mike
He clicks the pen off. This is stupid, he thinks.
He reads the letter back. It's fine. Sorta short, but, something's better than nothing, right? Maybe he'll send it.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes.
His minds begun to float with each pull of the joint. It's hard for him to dodge his own thoughts when his brains so disoriented.
He rolls his head back down and flips to an open page.
He starts writing.
Dear Will,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry and I don't know what else to say besides that.
That's all there is to it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I've been ignoring you. It has nothing to do with you, it's a me thing. I don't know what it is, but something about me just isn't right. I feel like I'm not even alive. Like I'm missing limbs like I'm missing organs.
He hunches forward as his writing gets faster, messier.
I'm so mad at myself that I let this happen. You're my best friend and I took you for granted and now I'm a total mess. I'm a total mess!!!!! I haven't had an actual conversation with anyone, maybe besides my dealer/dungeon master Eddie Munson, in months. Do you even know who he is? I don't know if you'd get along. Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't, it's not like I've kept up with you, what do I know!
He flips the page.
You deserve so much better, I hope you've made new, better friends over there.
I hope you, and El, and Jonathan, and Joyce are enjoying your lives far away from this misery vortex of a town.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
He comes back to his senses at this point. He doesn't sign it, he knows he's never going to send it.
The wind breezes by, scraping at the frame of his window.
Mike picks up the bottle.