brutal ━ mike wheeler

one. scarred palms and ticking bombs

ONE━━━━
SCARRED PALMS AND TICKING BOMBS

stranger things;
season 2 ep 1

ADRIAN JUMPED FROM HIS bed, covered from head to toe in a cold sweat. He heaved as he struggled to slow his breathing, eyes darting across his room as if he were looking for one of those monsters you see but they're really just a pile of dirty clothes that you're too lazy to wash. He turned his head and peered over at the numbers that were displayed on the clock perched on his bedside table. 3:11 AM.

Frowning, he threw his blankets off of his body, his feet swinging over the side of his bed and eventually landing on the soft carpet that covered bleached wooden planks. He pushed himself off of his bed and stumbled into the bathroom across the hall, flicking on the light.

The light flickered for a moment as if it was trying to prepare itself to be on for quite some time. Adrian cursed at his faulty electricity but still closed the door behind him with a creak. His palms met with the edges of his sink as he looked into the mirror in front of him, the bags that surrounded his eyes only seemed to get worse by the day.

He let his head hang before he rubbed the haze of sleep away from his eyes, looking back into the mirror.

For a quick second, he could've sworn he had seen someone standing right behind him with all of their black-haired glory. Their skin was bruised and bloodied and their eyes barely held any light, ad if they had been drained of life.

Quickly, he turned around, shoulders moving up and down as he breathed heavily. But. . . he saw absolutely nothing. He chuckled sarcastically, reaching up to tug on his hair. "God. I'm going crazy." He mumbled, turning back around. The grabbed the edge of the mirror that hung on the wall and pulled at it, revealing that it was actually a door to a medicine cabinet. He scrambled to grab some sleeping pills and Tylenol, two of each.

He shoved all four pills into his mouth at once and swallowed frantically, closing the caps to the bottles of medicine as he did so, shoving them back into the cabinet. He shut the door and turned to the bathroom door that had paint chipping from it at every corner and edge. He opened it, flicking the light off as he did, before he walked back into his room, now wide awake.

He swallowed thickly as he stopped walking in front of his dresser. He grabbed ahold of the fake gold handle of the top left drawer and pulled, the drawer coming out with ease. He dug through the clothes that were in the drawer until his hands wrapped around a rough cardboard box.

He yanked his arm back up and looked down at the box that was now resting on his palm. Cigarettes. Ones he had stolen from his old drunk of a father. He sniffled and looked out of his window, a frown resting on his face.

Shaking his head, he grabbed a lighter from the drawer as well and climbed on top of his bed, unlocking the window above it. Carefully, he climbed out onto the roof that covered his porch — which was luckily underneath his window. He sat down, folding one of his legs under the other as he looked up at the night sky.

The harsh October wind pricked at his cheeks, forcing them to turn a rosy shade of pink. He unfolded the top of the box and grabbed one of the cancer sticks, placing it loosely between his lips. He shoved the box into the pocket of his sweatpants before he brought the lighter up to the end of it. He cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind, allowing the nicotine to light up in different shades of red, yellow, and orange.