hoax

Stood on the cliffside
Screaming "Give me a reason"
Your faithless love's the only hoax
I believe in.

Sleep was the hardest part. Every time he closed his eyes, the memories would creep in, vivid and unrelenting. He would wake in the middle of the night, his heart pounding in his chest, drenched in cold sweat, his mind racing to separate the nightmare from reality.
Every morning, He stood in front of the mirror and practised his smile. It had to be just right—not too wide, not too stiff. A perfect balance between warmth and indifference, something that conveyed just enough cheer to seem genuine but not so much that it drew attention. He had become an expert at it, crafting his expression like an artist with a paintbrush, layering on confidence and ease with each stroke.

But underneath the practised smile, his stomach twisted in knots. The unease was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, a constant reminder of how fragile the facade really was. He could feel it tugging at the edges of his composure, threatening to tear it apart at any moment. But he couldn't let that happen—not today, not ever.
Sometimes he wondered if anyone would even notice if he stopped trying, if he let the cracks show. But that thought scared him more than anything else—the idea of being seen, truly seen, for what he was feeling. So, he kept it hidden, buried deep inside, where no one could reach it. Because that was easier than explaining, easier than admitting that he wasn't okay.

Blood spilled from the chillingly flawless cuts on his wrist,ones only a well practised person could make.The mirror only highlighting the flaws he so desperately hated and the feeling burrowed deep inside him, gnawing at him like a parasite that fed on every insecurity, every mistake he'd ever made. It whispered in his mind, a relentless voice he couldn't silence, reminding him of all the things he wasn't. Not enough. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not anything enough. It didn't matter how many times he challenged the voice in his head otherwise—the voice was always louder, always cruller.
Evey cut stinging,searing and sharp pains that shot up his arm as the wound became deeper.Sitting on the bathroom floor he wondered who could actually care?He was a jerk,a bad friend,a nuisance who could never do anything right and he couldn't even tell El he loved her even though he'd done everything else right?He loved her,but he couldn't be good enough for her.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from it,the blood—the way it oozed and spread, like ink spilled on paper, soaking into the cracks, marking its territory. There was a strange beauty to it, something mesmerising in the contrast of life and death, the way something so vital could so quickly become a silent testament to the end.
It was odd many people said they were afraid of dying.Mike wasn't.Even within mere seconds of his own death it wasn't fear- it was relief.
He would never have to bother any of the party,never been yelled at or ignored for being a failure of a son,never become a burden,be called:
Controlling,rude,mouthy,mean,weird,bossy,frog face,freak,ridiculos or a coward.

Max would never glare or make a snide comment whenever he helped El with something or explain it in a way Mike knew she would understand or Hopper berating him if he did something somewhat wrong assuming he never asked El about kissing her first or helping her.Never again would he have Lucas or Dustin ignore him when they or any of his other friends had a fight,always assuming he was the one in the wrong before even knowing what happened.Nancy would never yell at him for being ignorant about how his friends were feeling,like his own never mattered,they never did,not to any one.Will would never make Mike feel unknowingly guilty and turn most of the party against him whenever he showed his romantic interest and Mike never knew how to respond-he couldn't help he didn't like him back, he loved El.Somehow it was always his fault,he never meant it to be,if he could be someone else he would be.He hated himself as much as everyone else did.

Jealousy.He felt it every time Max and El were getting on well,when Dustin and Lucas did not give a shit for being judged when they went their ways in high school or whenever Nancy got recognized for her talent by teachers at school or was praised by their parents,something he never got.It didn't help that his parents constantly compared him to Nancy.He felt it whenever he went over to Lucas house and saw how in love his parents were and how supportive they were of him.He felt it wherever Max and Lucas were acting like a couple and didn't get any glares from their friends or berated by their parents.He was jealous of Nancy,Dustin,Lucas and Max and he hated himself more and more for it.The jealousy tasted sour, like bile at the back of his throat. It poisoned everything, turning even the smallest gestures into something more sinister. Every time they touched him, he flinched inwardly, the sting of rejection searing through his veins. It was a quiet, desperate longing—a yearning to be seen, to be chosen, to be the one who mattered. But he wasn't.

He hated how every part of him felt wrong. His body wasn't just flawed—it was an enemy, something foreign he was trapped inside. His skin felt too tight, his limbs too awkward, and each curve, each angle seemed exaggerated, out of place. He always tugged at his clothes, trying to make them sit differently, trying to hide what he hated. But it didn't work. Nothing ever worked.His mind replayed the insults he had heard, real and imagined, until they became a part of him, etched into his memory like scars he couldn't erase. Every glance he caught from others, every passing comment—innocent or not—felt like confirmation of what he already knew: his body was wrong. He was wrong. The disgust he felt for herself was so deep, so pervasive, that it lingered in everything he did. Every time he moved, every time he sat or stood, he was acutely aware of how his body looked, how it felt, how it failed him.

He was an imposter, a liar, a freak, a facade hiding whoever he really was, a disgusting abomination and a person who others had to simply tolerate his existence.
The pain in his arm stopped and then, for the briefest of moments, there was nothing. No pain, no cold, no fear. Just a quiet darkness that enveloped him completely, cradling him in its void. It was an absence of everything he had ever known—no light, no sound, no weight. Just nothingness. And in that nothingness, there was a strange, fleeting sense of relief, as all of the burdens he had carried for so long vanished as he did.
Yet, as the blood cooled and began to dry, its brilliance faded, leaving behind only a sticky residue and the faintest hint of red. The life it once carried was gone now, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake upon the bathroom floor.A cold and pale corpse would be found the next morning.