dead.
he was dead, again. down there in the fucking pits of hellfire and smoke, swirling red god damn skies and the war crys of monsterous bats. eddie was by all accounts, a zombie, a reanimated corpse brought back for some fucking reason. he had still yet to figure it out, how he was alive, why he was alive. it pulled at him, ate away the thinning insides of his belly from refusal to eat, because eating meant getting sick, and getting sick brought on that worried look wayne wore so fucking frequently.
and he didn't want wayne to worry. no, he did that more than enough in his lifetime.
it was eddie's turn to worry, he figured. which might have been why on sunday night he found himself crawling into bed around midnight, coldness wrapping tight around him. he had left the light above the stove on in the kitchen, a soft glowing beacon he could make out from under the closed door. his heart beat fast in his chest, dead, dead, dead, dead. it no longer thrummed like the rest of the worlds, no. skeleton fingers rapt against it, knocked and ratttled against it to get the icy blood to rush and flow.
his tongue pushed against the roof of his mouth, inhaling deeply, smelling smoke and brimeston, and fucking... despair. tears were like pinpricks against the edges of his dark eyes. oh jesus fucking h christ, his brain yelled at him, his body jerking startled at the sound of movement in the trailer park around him. it wasn't vecna, it wasn't bats... it was just, just fucking... he gasped as he rolled onto his back, eyes boring holes into the ceiling.
it was normal people, living in their normal life, in their normal idea of hawkins. they didn't know. they wouldn't ever fucking know. tears, hot like flames, rolled down his angular cheeks, sliding into the thick curls of his unkept hair. he brought a hand up, pressing ringless knuckles into the pockets of his eyes, and his fingers weren't his anymore. no, they felt like fucking wet worms, slithering into his fucking skull.
he could feel their teeth chomping at his brain, eating away the thin goo, burrowing tunnels so deep he could feel them colonizing his cerebral cortex. nails left half moons in the flesh of his palm, deep and angry red appearing like little road maps. he lerched forward, chest heaving as bile rose in his throat. he gagged, sputtering around nothing, but it was for not. there was nothing to expel from his guts.
eddie was a mess, a fucking mess. more of a mess that he let on, more a mess then he allowed those closest to him to see. the blanket was flung from his body, a cursed vestment, or so it felt as he slipped from the bed and down onto the cool floor. his back ached as he pressed it to the frame of the bed. his eyes wet pools of melting brown, that closed tightly against the screams in his head.
the voices were nameless, black hooded beings that dwelled in the dark spirit he grasped onto like dying flowers. they were clergy members of the war torn gaps of his memory from being left in the upside down. they were him, he was them, they were both one in the same; eddie munson. the marked, unnamed devil in a special circle of hell that was hawkins.
how stupid and innocent eddie had been, when he thought of hell being under the rule of his father. how he wished to be some place else when the drunk man would put out cigarettes along his shoulders, when he would slap him so hard across the face his lip would split and bleed. or the time he had been pinned down, and blunt scissors were taken to his long curls, and it was ripped away from him like the pleading past his lips flew.
hell had been easier in those moments, years ago. a hell that was manageable, and one he could easily navigate through with his eyes turned down and his shaved head hid under a cap. and now here he was, begging for the abuse of an absent father and not the nightmares that plagued him. even when he was awake. his lungs trembled as he drew in for air, fingers pushing under the bed until they locked around a tin box.
teeth like blunt daggers ripped into the sensitive skin of his lower lip, the taste of copper wetting his drying tongue. he pulled the box into his lap, opening it up with a flick of his wrists as he pulled from it, a lighter and a prerolled joint. it found it's home between his lips, blood staining the filter of the spliff, but eddie couldn't be bothered to care. his thumb flicked the lighter, flame glowing in the darkness as he brought it up to the end and inhaled until it caught.
as smoke pulled into his weakening lungs, eddie kept the lighter alive, a glow. he inhaled until his skin flushed, until he felt like he was being smothered, and held it in some more. the joint was held between shaking fingers, quivering like that of a new born calves legs. swirls of smoke escaped his mouth, the heady feeling of strong marijuana dulling the ache in his bones, and laying invisible hands over invisible mouths in his mind.
as the lighter grew too hot against his thumb, eddie let it die. dead, dead, dead, dead, sang his heart as he turned the lighter upside down, and pressed it into the meat of his wrist. it wasn't enough for the stench of burning flesh to overtake him, but the pain that built there? it swelled like fucking butterflies in his clenched stomach. a sound like a sob came from him, eyes smeared with glossy tears, but eddie didn't need to see. no, eddie, he needed to feel.
and if the burning sensations that would scar over, and the memories of abuse, would remind him that he wasn't dead? eddie would place the glowing end of the lighter against his skin as often as he would need. because he wasn't dead. he was alive. he was alive.
liar, dead, liar, dead, liar. chirped his heart as he put the joint back between his lips, and once more, cast the room a glow in soft lights of the dancing flame. it would be hours before wayne would return from work; and in those hours, eddie could heal himself. because he was a lot of things... but dead wasn't one of them. not anymore.
not dead.
he was dead, again. down there in the fucking pits of hellfire and smoke, swirling red god damn skies and the war crys of monsterous bats. eddie was by all accounts, a zombie, a reanimated corpse brought back for some fucking reason. he had still yet to figure it out, how he was alive, why he was alive. it pulled at him, ate away the thinning insides of his belly from refusal to eat, because eating meant getting sick, and getting sick brought on that worried look wayne wore so fucking frequently.
and he didn't want wayne to worry. no, he did that more than enough in his lifetime.
it was eddie's turn to worry, he figured. which might have been why on sunday night he found himself crawling into bed around midnight, coldness wrapping tight around him. he had left the light above the stove on in the kitchen, a soft glowing beacon he could make out from under the closed door. his heart beat fast in his chest, dead, dead, dead, dead. it no longer thrummed like the rest of the worlds, no. skeleton fingers rapt against it, knocked and ratttled against it to get the icy blood to rush and flow.
his tongue pushed against the roof of his mouth, inhaling deeply, smelling smoke and brimeston, and fucking... despair. tears were like pinpricks against the edges of his dark eyes. oh jesus fucking h christ, his brain yelled at him, his body jerking startled at the sound of movement in the trailer park around him. it wasn't vecna, it wasn't bats... it was just, just fucking... he gasped as he rolled onto his back, eyes boring holes into the ceiling.
it was normal people, living in their normal life, in their normal idea of hawkins. they didn't know. they wouldn't ever fucking know. tears, hot like flames, rolled down his angular cheeks, sliding into the thick curls of his unkept hair. he brought a hand up, pressing ringless knuckles into the pockets of his eyes, and his fingers weren't his anymore. no, they felt like fucking wet worms, slithering into his fucking skull.
he could feel their teeth chomping at his brain, eating away the thin goo, burrowing tunnels so deep he could feel them colonizing his cerebral cortex. nails left half moons in the flesh of his palm, deep and angry red appearing like little road maps. he lerched forward, chest heaving as bile rose in his throat. he gagged, sputtering around nothing, but it was for not. there was nothing to expel from his guts.
eddie was a mess, a fucking mess. more of a mess that he let on, more a mess then he allowed those closest to him to see. the blanket was flung from his body, a cursed vestment, or so it felt as he slipped from the bed and down onto the cool floor. his back ached as he pressed it to the frame of the bed. his eyes wet pools of melting brown, that closed tightly against the screams in his head.
the voices were nameless, black hooded beings that dwelled in the dark spirit he grasped onto like dying flowers. they were clergy members of the war torn gaps of his memory from being left in the upside down. they were him, he was them, they were both one in the same; eddie munson. the marked, unnamed devil in a special circle of hell that was hawkins.
how stupid and innocent eddie had been, when he thought of hell being under the rule of his father. how he wished to be some place else when the drunk man would put out cigarettes along his shoulders, when he would slap him so hard across the face his lip would split and bleed. or the time he had been pinned down, and blunt scissors were taken to his long curls, and it was ripped away from him like the pleading past his lips flew.
hell had been easier in those moments, years ago. a hell that was manageable, and one he could easily navigate through with his eyes turned down and his shaved head hid under a cap. and now here he was, begging for the abuse of an absent father and not the nightmares that plagued him. even when he was awake. his lungs trembled as he drew in for air, fingers pushing under the bed until they locked around a tin box.
teeth like blunt daggers ripped into the sensitive skin of his lower lip, the taste of copper wetting his drying tongue. he pulled the box into his lap, opening it up with a flick of his wrists as he pulled from it, a lighter and a prerolled joint. it found it's home between his lips, blood staining the filter of the spliff, but eddie couldn't be bothered to care. his thumb flicked the lighter, flame glowing in the darkness as he brought it up to the end and inhaled until it caught.
as smoke pulled into his weakening lungs, eddie kept the lighter alive, a glow. he inhaled until his skin flushed, until he felt like he was being smothered, and held it in some more. the joint was held between shaking fingers, quivering like that of a new born calves legs. swirls of smoke escaped his mouth, the heady feeling of strong marijuana dulling the ache in his bones, and laying invisible hands over invisible mouths in his mind.
as the lighter grew too hot against his thumb, eddie let it die. dead, dead, dead, dead, sang his heart as he turned the lighter upside down, and pressed it into the meat of his wrist. it wasn't enough for the stench of burning flesh to overtake him, but the pain that built there? it swelled like fucking butterflies in his clenched stomach. a sound like a sob came from him, eyes smeared with glossy tears, but eddie didn't need to see. no, eddie, he needed to feel.
and if the burning sensations that would scar over, and the memories of abuse, would remind him that he wasn't dead? eddie would place the glowing end of the lighter against his skin as often as he would need. because he wasn't dead. he was alive. he was alive.
liar, dead, liar, dead, liar. chirped his heart as he put the joint back between his lips, and once more, cast the room a glow in soft lights of the dancing flame. it would be hours before wayne would return from work; and in those hours, eddie could heal himself. because he was a lot of things... but dead wasn't one of them. not anymore.
not dead.