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Mike’s writing letters when an unfamiliar song catches on his radio. The tune’s upbeat enough for him to tolerate it, so he lets the song play.
It was a love letter. To whom? He was unsure of. But it had the distinct bits of words and adjectives that pointed to one childhood best friend, his first and his greatest. Someone he can’t have.
He grips his pen, fingers pressing hard enough to have the ink almost explode all over his palm.
He can’t concentrate like this, not with the withdrawals. He’s been trying so, so hard to stay clean for the past three weeks, but the constant mood swings and night terrors were starting to get to him. He can’t help himself. The entirety of Mike’s flesh and bone was itching for a line of that sweet (albeit temporary) relief.
His pen drops to the floor, the voice of an angel plays behind him, ‘It’s fine, it’s cool.’ Mike skids across his kitchen, neglected and dirty counters, dishes piling in the sink, his knuckles turn pale as he grips his fridge handle. A blast of cold air hits him immediately, ‘You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth.’ Something in his chest stings, he doesn’t understand if it’s guilt or self-pity.
A fresh block now sits in front of him, he knows he can’t be doing this, he knows it’s wrong.
‘And I guess, I’m the fool.’ Mike listens. It’s been a while since he’s heard a song like this, she reminds him of Cyndi Lauper.
The pads of his fingers trembled against the flimsy piece of rolled up paper he held up to his nose. It’s assembled in five perfect lines. One, two, three shaky breaths later, he snorts the first line.
There goes three weeks clean. ‘With her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof.’ A pit in his stomach immediately forms, deep and hollow.
He promises he tried.
Mike sniffs, dusting his nose off. What would El think? Her old friend, slumped against his desk, books cluttered and neglected, life just as fucked as his career, a crackhead. God, what would she think?
‘I don’t wanna call it off,’ His head starts to fog, he doesn’t know if it’s the cocaine taking its effect or if it’s because of how stressed he’s been lately, ‘But you don’t wanna call it love!’ He never said it back, did he?
Another line.
‘You only wanna be the one that I call “baby!”’
Mike feels like throwing up, the world is gray, the skies are dim, there’s no hope for Michael Wheeler. He was born a loser, and he was going to die a loser. Lucas would probably kill him if he ever found him like this; off the rocks, self-destructing, and on the brink of mania.
Lucas Sinclair is a good friend, one Mike does not deserve. Letters sent from him pile on his kitchen counters, invites and regular check-in’s. He doesn’t bother responding.
‘You could kiss a hundred boys in bars,’
He’s hunched over his toilet, lungs swelling up. His throat starts to burn with his sins, and beads of tears line his eyes.
‘Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling!’
Today, Mike made the mistake of looking in the mirror. His face was pale, cheeks sunken in, hair a greasy mess, eyebags from carrying years of burdens.
He feels gross.
The cloth that was supposed to be covering the glass now draped over his bathroom sink.
He needs another line.
‘You can say it’s just the way you are!’
He props his head up on a pile of books on his desk, eyes drooping. The sun glares at him with disdain, the rays threaten to burn his skin off. Ugly sobs litter the air, Mike’s sleeve is stained with snot and tears.
He can’t keep living like this, he knows. He promised Nancy a long time ago he’d go to rehab. But he never brings himself to stay clean for any longer than a month.
She takes care of him.
He grabs the drafted letter, tears blurring his view, “Dear, El,” He crumples the letter away, the thought of her only leaves him a mess
‘Good luck, babe! Well, good luck, babe!’
It suddenly shakes within him how dense he’s always been. Who was he kidding? El deserved better than him. She never needed Mike, she was just too nice to let go. just never knew better.
His hand subconsciously finds a framed photo above his desk. Mike flinches from the cold metal frame, he brings the photo close. Three figures stand side-by-side; Mike and El lean towards one another, arms wrapped around each other, beside El is Will, he holds her hand, and they’re all smiling.
His eyes start to burn, his throat closes. He’s lost two of the most important people in his life. El’s gone, dead or alive, he knows she isn’t coming back. And Will? They haven’t spoken in over a decade. Mike can’t bear to break the no contact. Will’s happier without him.
Mike stares, and he yearns, he wants them back so badly. Living isn’t worth anything without the two of them. But he looks a little too close, he squints, until he’s over-analyzing every detail of the photo.
God, how come it never hit him before? El and Will could pass as twins. Mike’s bottom lip trembles in grieving guilt. Make up your mind, Wheeler. The freak or the fairy?
He feels like throwing up again.
‘You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.’
Will Byers. Sensitive, kind, compassionate. Mike could kill him. He hates it. He always understood Mike the most, yet Mike could never understand him enough.
He’s probably living the life in New York, an established artist, with a nice well-kept apartment, and a partner.
Mike feels the pit in his stomach deepen at the thought of him, as if it's Will himself digging with a shovel coated in Mike’s self-loathing and envy.
His heart squeezes in his chest, and he wishes it’d gush inside him. He hates Will Byers, he hates him so much. He hates him for moving on without him. For leaving him here. Stuck, forever unmoving.
‘I’m cliché, who cares? It’s a sexually explicit kind of love affair.’
Another line.
‘And I cry,’
Mike’s breath is shallow. The ceiling spins above him, he’s on top of the world, reaching for meaning. Maybe had he tried harder, she’d still be here.
‘It’s not fair.’
Giggles erupt from his lips, the pain feels good. Comforting. The nostalgia of it hits him like a brick, it crushes his ribs on impact. Things would be easier if he could just go back in time. Feel the pain the way it used to hurt back then, feel each sting and ache. Fuck, he wishes he could.
Something twitches inside of Mike, an urge. He sets up another line, it exceeds the usual dose he goes for, but who’s really counting?
Minutes pass. The angel vocalizes in his ear, he hates her too.
He’s crying again, the wasted years of longing, trapped in time, streaming down his cheeks. He really could’ve had it all.
A wife, ‘Oh, when you wake up next to him–’ a kid, maybe three? ‘In the middle of the night, with your head in your hands–’ A successful, award-winning author. Mike blinks. He thinks he’d be happy. Happy to have rid himself of his disease.
‘You’re nothing more than his wife.’ Another line. He’s going too far, maybe. But what is there to live for? ‘And when you think about me, all of those years ago–’ He hates her. ‘You’re standing face-to-face with “I told you so.”’ Fuck.
Then that’s when it snaps. He’s going to die.
Mike’s lungs tighten, they’re crushed under the weight of his burdens. He can feel his heart beating loud and unwilling against his chest. Every neuron in his brain is sparking panic signals, each instinct triggering hysteria. Bile begins to rise from his throat, and it burns like hell.
“Will–” He calls, but he knows he’ll never come. He’s tried.
‘You know I hate to say it, but I told you so.’
Soon enough, he’s shaking in his chair, barely able to gasp for air. His and the singers' breathing sync up in imperfect harmony.
He can’t speak. He can’t call for help. He’s locked.
He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as the song's cadence carries itself in the air. This is it for Mike Wheeler. His lips pale out into a familiar blue, and he can’t breathe.
‘You know I hate to say it, but I told you so!’
He can hear the blood rushing in his ear to his head the longer he stays limp on his chair. Mike shivers from the cold, yet his head feels as if it’s on fire.
Michael Wheeler, pronounced dead on the 10th of April 2019, 3:12P. The world isn’t fair to people like him.