Chapter Text
Water, food, bullets, candles, pencils…
Well, the last one is optional; it’s not like he needs them, but rather he would be happy if he found them. To have something to distract his mind.
He sighs, keeping on repeating the list in his head as he walked, since he didn’t have any more pencils to write it.
Water, food, bullets, candles, pencils…
He doesn’t need pencils, let’s be real, if you were trapped in the middle of hell with nothing but death for miles, would you rather have something to eat or something to draw with?
Oh, he’s getting lost again. Come on, he thinks to himself, stay on topic.
Water, food, bullets, candles, pencils…
Great, he lost it.
Oh well, he will take anything useful he can find, as always. It happened last month as well. He had written a list that time, but he forgot that he had done it, so he tried to remember what he needed that wasn’t already in the house. He walked by a corner shop, so he took some (a lot) of lighters, thinking he could use them since the place didn’t have electricity. And when he got back, he found out that he didn’t need any more lighters; in fact, he had a lot of them, because forgetting was becoming a common occurrence.
This place was cold, really cold. So it was like anytime he shivered the same tought hit him, do I have something to keep myself warm? He did, but walking around with an open torch would make him a target to...
Well, to someone, if it really is important, he will remember eventually.
At the end of the day, it was better to have more than to have less. This way, he could split everything he had into distinct locations. So to have a place to escape to that wasn’t empty in case he was found. His favourite place to hide was his house, which always brought him a sense of comfort. He took turns sleeping in his brother's bed and sleeping in his mother's bed, surrounded by their stuff like they were there with him.
Sometimes he even sat in his usual spot at the table, when he could remember it, to eat and put two plates down on his mother's and his brother’s spot just to feel normal for a bit.
He had grown too big for his clothes, so he had to start using the ones in his brother’s closet. Those were big too for a bit, but as the months and years passed, he now found them perfect.
The other spots where he used to hide were: Castle Byers, which he quickly abandoned because it was too exposed, the police station, his mom’s workplace, and occasionally another house on Maple Street. He doesn't remember why he thought about going there the first time, but every now and then, when a name that he now finds hard to remember echoed in his mind, his legs, like muscle memory, always took him there.
His memory, to be blunt, was shit. There are times when he can remember everything perfectly, and then there are these times.
He sighs. Fixing his backpack onto his shoulder, repeating in his mind again.
Water, food… lighters? Wait, no, bullets?
He finds a supermarket in front of him. That’s his first stop for water and lighters. No, stop with the lighters; he has lighters, he needs food.
Half of the shelves in the front were empty. He came here before, apparently. He’s not picky; he can’t afford to be. It’s rare to be able to go out like this. But, he doesn’t know, or maybe doesn’t remember, why, but the creatures are not bothering him right now; maybe they are busy being Henry’s little pets, so it was the perfect time.
So he takes everything that could fit into his backpack without taking up the rest of the space that he needs for the rest of the stuff. Canned food, tuna, spam, cookies, and honey… and water, where is the water?
He has a lot of bottles of water in the house, but that’s one thing that could never be enough, so he keeps on taking more anytime he does one of these trips. This hell doesn’t have water, so he has to do everything with drinking water.
He’s not impressed to find the water isle empty, the only thing left are some big bottles of sparkling water. He can imagine why he didn’t take those; first of all, he hates sparkling water, and second, those one-liter bottles take a lot of space in the backpack.
He takes one; more than that would make the backpack too heavy, and he doesn’t want to risk having to leave it behind in case he needs to run.
As he looks up, closing the backpack, he sees a tiny sign on the wall, ‘Restroom Employees Only’.
He opens the door and finds himself in a tiny bathroom, and doesn’t know what he was expecting. When he turns around, there’s a mirror just at eye level. He tries not to look at himself too often, but this time he can’t help it; he forgot what he saw the last time he looked.
The mirror was fogged over, the glass smeared with moisture from the damp air. He lifted his hand and wiped a clear line across it. The boy who stared back looked wrong in ways he had grown used to.
Only one eye followed him.
The other was cloudy, pale at the center, with a scar that moved from above the cheekbone to the beginning of the eyebrow. It never focused. It never blinked. The skin below the eye sagged slightly, as if the socket itself had been damaged.
Oh, right, that was the one Henry took from him. Not in anger, on purpose. He has a hard time remembering names or really anything at all, but for some reason, he can't seem to shake that one out of his mind, even if it's the one he most wants to forget.
He doesn’t remember why he did it right now, but as he brings his hand to touch it lightly, like he was not sure if it was still fresh, a wave of memories washes over him.
The creature pinned him down and tore into his face with its long nails. He remembers how he screamed and how much it hurt. When it was over, his vision became broken and distant. He brought one hand to cover the healthy eye just to test it. He saw most of all black but also shadows, and lights, but nothing more.
Thin scars crossed his face in uneven lines. None of them was clean. They were made by claws, thorns, rough stone, and his own hands when panic drove him to tear at himself.
They healed badly. There was never medicine. Never clean water. Infections burned through him more than once, leaving pale seams behind.
One scar cut from the corner of his mouth, pulling it slightly downward. It had split his lip and never closed right again.
He remembered how it happened. That was his fault. The vine had been forced down his throat, alive.
He had grabbed it and pulled. Hard. Desperate. His lips tore before it released him. Blood filled his throat, but he escaped. The scar stayed.
He tilted his head, exposing his neck.
Dark, uneven bands wrapped around his throat like fingerprints. Some were faded. Others were still red beneath the skin. The vines had strangled him more times than he could count. They always went for his neck first. Matching marks circled his arms and legs, where he had been held in place, suspended, dragged.
His skin looked fragile. Too pale. Too thin. Years without real sunlight had drained it. The air here was polluted. Wounds stayed open longer than they should. When they closed, they left evidence.
His hair hung in rough, short, uneven pieces. He had cut it himself with whatever sharp thing he found. Long hair was dangerous. The vines could grab it. Creatures could grab it. Everything here could grab it.
He stared at the reflection in silence.
Just a boy who had learned how to survive in a place that never wanted him alive.
Before too many memories could catch up to him, he looked away.
But changed his mind immediately after. He looked back up and touched his dirty skin with both hands along every scar on his face, making sure everyone of them was closed.
After, he reached back into the supermarket to find soap and a towel.
To go back into the bathroom, he walks past the pharmacy section. And stops, not sure what he’s looking for.
He sees those adhesive eye patches for kids with colorful designs on them; he wouldn’t mind them, but maybe they’re too small for him? He rummaged through them, not caring about making a mess, and finally found white eye patches for adults. He supposes he is one now, so he takes them back into the bathroom with him.
Back into the bathroom, he placed the soap on the sink and the towel on top of his backpack that was still on the ground, and raised both his sleeves before turning on the faucet.
Right, he remembers, no water.
Then he takes one of the sparkling water bottles left in the aisle. He debated with himself for a minute.
Whatever, this will have to do.
He looks at himself again for a moment before putting some soap and water in his hands. He washed his face carefully, thinking that if he went in too hard, he could reopen some wounds.
He washes every bit of soap away from his face; the sensation of the sparkling water isn’t great, but finally, his face is cleaner.
He gently taps his face with the towel before looking back at the reflection. Some drops of water fall from his hair, and he shivers, but it’s not too bad.
His face is clean, now the scars don’t look too bad without all the dried blood and dirt on them. They are still very marked and visible, but… it could be worse, right?
He remembers the eye patches and proceeds to apply one, not really knowing how to, just following the way the woman on the package has it on.
He looks back up, and he finds himself surprisingly comfortable now that the cold hair is not hitting his damaged eye anymore. The scars are still visible outside of the area that the patch covers, but at least he can spare himself the vision of the eye.
He sights. Putting the rest of the patches in his backpack before closing it and putting it back on his shoulder.
Now, where was he? Right, he needs lighters.