Chapter Text
Twelve days before Christmas, a freak snowstorm would hit New York. Eight days before Mike Wheeler was set to go back to Hawkins for the holidays, he went missing.
A notebook full of frantic, unintelligible ramblings and the occasional doodle of a cat remained under his bed.
His desk, covered in shards of glass and black fur.
Nothing was taken, besides barely enough clothes to survive in normal snow. No signs of a struggle, either. Even the glass sat arranged in perfect spirals, the only fingerprints left on them being Mike's.
Rumors, as always, would spread fast.
A young author gone mad, wandering into the snow on a suicide mission.
And yet.
Something else was easier to believe.
After all, they'd dealt with the supernatural before. Monsters from other worlds and kids with superpowers.
Will knew, deep down, that it could all just be an attempt to cope with the fact that Mike was missing. He didn't want to imagine the eyes that had shone so bright mere months ago, talking about his books when they met up for Lucas’ birthday, now either the wild eyes of a madman or dull and lifeless.
He hated feeling like he might've missed something when they called a week ago. The idea that Mike was going crazy and he didn't even notice scared him.
So maybe it wasn't quite right to drive up to New York to investigate for himself. Maybe it wasn't right to take that notebook. Maybe the one overnight room booked for the night before he'd start searching was a little incriminating and bad for his already suffering financial situation.
But god damnit, he was going to take any chance to figure this out. He knew what it was like to be targeted by terrifying monsters better than anyone should. He still didn't want to spend like, ten hours of the day driving, though.
Which brought him another day closer to his own trip back to Hawkins. Hours of driving spent forcing himself not to get too curious. He couldn't save Mike if he crashed his car trying to decipher everything written in a notebook.
All of that had to wait until late afternoon, when Will finally got back to where he was supposed to be.
Finally, finally, he could scratch the surface of what Mike might've been dealing with.
The first few pages actually looked… pretty normal. With it, stood the only note that had a date attached. A date written in a different handwriting.
Found a cool piece of glass! Everything looks a little weird when I look through it. Dustin could probably explain how it works. (December 7th)
Between tiny snippets of a yet unfinished book sat small notes and observations. Things he saw, things that made him think of his friends.
Saw a weird cat today. Will could probably paint something cool with the way it looked like one of its eyes was pink.
The first thing that looked off was the multiple empty pages after that note.
And then…
n̵̦͔̓̅̇̀̌̊̓͊o̷̧͎̝͇̝̬̒̈́̄̕͠r̶̢̥͉̬͖̬̈́̍̓͐̐͆̔ͅt̴̡̢̳̱̳̥͗̃̀͘̚h̴̢̨̖͙̙̞͒̑̔̀̇̓ȩ̷͈̙̪̻̝̙̏̉͋̂͆͂̋͜r̶͈̻̻̄͛͝ṅ̶͚̞̅͌l̴̡͍̞̫͈͙̼̗̂͊̅̔̄ḭ̵̡̧̛͇̗̹̦̀g̷̢̮̚͜ͅȟ̷͚͇̥̠̫̜ṱ̷̩̊̊̆̾̑̽͊ ̵͕͋́͌͜w̶͚͎̘͓̘̌͒̀̒̔̽ī̵̡̜͍̝͉͍̒̽̀̇̀̚ͅl̴̗͇̒̿͛͆̎͘͘͜l̵̛͇͂́͐͂͘ ̴̨̬̭̙͋̅̈́͗̒̾̆̀m̷̛̼͖͎͍̠̜̗̗̾̉̏a̶̖̝̹̳̳͗͆̉̋̅̾̒͝k̸̰̼͆e̶̦̦̥͖̬͒́͆̓̽͂̀͘ ̴̧̛̘̝̈́̅̈́́͘͘i̵̢̨̠̹̐͠t̷͓̍̂̓̅͝ ̵̫͇͓̗̪̮͊ͅr̷̗̬̕i̸͈͊g̷̭̖͔̿̓͆̾͊͘͘͘ḩ̵̘̟̤͖̾̔͋̕ͅt̴͍̤̦̦͈̍̀̋͜ͅ
̸̡͓̰̯̊̌͐̐ṋ̶͇̠̦̭̤̤̐o̸̢̺̬͙̗͔̹͛r̶͔̫̆͗̿t̴͍̐h̸̰̺̅̈̄̚̚ë̴̪̺̬͔̩̣́̃̊͝͠ŗ̴̰̳̹͖͎̦̳̐̍̈́̀̎n̸̛͇̬͇̗̈́̃͛́̂͐ ̵̧̮̤̬̥̾͂̊̾̎͜͝ͅļ̶̢̦̮̤̹͈͕͝į̷̪͈̜̂͋̌̔g̶̭̏h̶͍̹͗̈͌̈́͒̇t̸̥͍̖̠͔͎̝̀̀̇͝š̶̡̢̫̯͖͎̳̋̀͗͘͜͠ ̵̡̛̬̟̩̳͚̜̼̆̎͌̽w̴̢͎̖͓̓̐̀̈̍̈́͐͝į̴̡͖̝̩͉͓̽͌l̵͖̺̯͎̩͗́̏̅̃l̸͍̠̭̽̔̽͜ ̷̳̖͇͑͐̉̍̑m̸̨̮̰͕̪̯̲͓̏a̵̲̲̽͂̄̊k̶̨̓̀̀̿̊͑ȇ̴͕̯̿̑͊ ̴̫̬͍̈́̂̃̈́̾i̵̡̥̥̙̲̔̅̊̊̈́̑t̶̞̺̚ ̴̙͔̺͕̅̿̃̎̈̐͘͠r̶̞͕̙̹̬͚̝̍̒̽͗͛̇̚͜͠i̴̢̜̲̳͛̈͋̀͂g̵͎͇̼͐ẖ̵͑̍ţ̵͇̠́
̵͖̞̼̦̟̐̔͒͝͠n̶̻͐͂͗͝͝o̴͓͍̼̫̿͆̓͠r̶̫͔͙̩͕͚̓̀̄̂͜t̴̢̮̫̖̻̞̗̹̉̓͂͛́̋͝ḩ̸̧͔̔̈ë̴̖̓̉̽͊̑͆r̸̢͕̳̫̣͖͖̯̔̓͒͐̉͘n̷̞̖͍͍̪̲̳̅̽̾̑̅̍͑l̷̫̳̑͒̃̾̂̽̎͝i̶͈̻̹̓̏̉̽̿́͠͝g̵̦̜̱͛̆̀͐͐͊͠h̵̪͙̼̹̘̀t̸̢̼͖̼̳̗̐͌̀̐̈́̎͝ ̸̩̬̼͒̔͠͠w̶͖̜̰͕͔̙̯̘̿̿͊̈́̈́i̶̢̡̟̇̊̓̉l̵͚͖͚͎̒̍̆̑͠l̵͓̠̥̬͒̇̋͗ ̶̱̟̖͇̠̖̣̠̅͌͑̋̅m̸̳̑̄̈́̊̄ḁ̴̣͖̄͆̀͛̐̂̈́͗k̸̟͍͕͉̲͇̏ͅe̸̝͊̅̋͝͠ ̶̨̭̹̾͂̓̏̓í̶̱̦̥̭̱t̷̨̻͓̜̙̬̫̜̿̔̿͗ ̸̗̟̝̙͕́̅̔́ŕ̴̞̻͙̀̏̎͋͝ḯ̶͖͚̖̣͍̍̿̔͝g̴̪̈́́̑̀͛͑̃͜h̵͚̒t̴̳̃
̷̡̦̰̳̣̞́͗̉̚̕n̵̛͕̱̘͚̮̙̙̍̀̈́́õ̸̦͐̂̑r̴̰̙̘̮̮̠̘͂̒ẗ̷̟̈́͆̑h̴͖̰̀͆̆̈̚ë̶̢̪́̀̅̑̀͑̈͝r̵̭̤͎̱̪͎̈̓̕͝n̶̡̠͛͘͘ ̶͇̈́͑̑̀͘͘̚l̵̹̳̘͒͛̓͆̓͘͘i̴̫̟͓̾̊̒̓͗͜ͅĝ̴̟̖̻͕̥̫̈́͛̇̉̃̕h̵̞͑́̎͒͛̉ẗ̶͈̜̯̠̭́̅̕ś̸̡̥̐́̇̇̚͜͝ ̸̠̱̹̺̫̱̒ͅw̸̯̳̰͚̻̓i̸͖̟̪͙̩͔̬͐l̴̼̯͖̀̄́̚l̶̹̤̥͇̭̀͘ ̶͔͔͉̌̃̿̈́̈́͝m̷̧̙̻̲̪̃̌̂̾̈́̀͋a̷̢̨͙͙̟̹̳̋̅̃̚͜ḱ̵̡̜̣̱̬̭̑́̀̓̈́̎̑e̸̲̎͑̓̃̑͆͐̕ ̷̢͕̳̙̮̈́i̸̝̪͖̹̮̮͌͆͛͆̍̋͗͘t̴̮̗̖̟̫̋͛̐͋̍́̕ͅ ̸̼̗̍̂̀͠r̸͚̋̑i̵͚̇̕͝g̶͖͔̺̞̈͒ḫ̵̗͕̌͂̓̏̕͝t̷͇̱̱͇̻̹̫̀͐͑́̌͝ͅ
̴̡̪͉̮̀i̴̖͕͖͋̏̅n̷͔͚͙̞̉̔͛̓̆̇́ ̷̛̥̪̼̺̳̪̅̿͗t̵͖͆̍́̏̄̕͝ḩ̶͚̯̆̄̍̔̔̃͌e̸̜̭̹̤͑́ͅ ̷̫̺̱̠̺̇̃d̶̩̲̥̻̫̋̋͛̇ạ̵̦̼̭͌̑̈̽̆͂̋͋r̸͈̯͖͍̖͎̽̍̕k̵̢̧͍̞͔̆̄͠n̷̨̖̈́̒̈̕͠ẻ̵̮̦̺͈̙̊̆̈͊̕s̷̘̠̻̆̆͌̓̈́s̸͎̬̠̥̟̮̈̌̅̿͌͝ ̷̤͈̖̮̳̽ͅi̵̩͖̗̭̇̆͌͋͋̈̅̔n̸̙͈͎̺͚͇̩̓͌͒̈́̈̔͊͜ ̴͈̖͉̺̈̀́̅ẗ̴̨͉̫̲̭́̌̂̑h̸̨̧̜͔̠͓̙̿̃̑̀͌̂̎̕ẹ̴̢̧̬̺̼̯̮̆̐̂̉͒ ̵̢̠͍̭̿̕ṋ̵̀͛̒́́͂ỉ̸̢̖̲͇͓̬̖̕̕ģ̸̛̆́̌͊̈̇h̸̹̦̤̟̟̪̿͐̋͝t̷͙̗̑̇̾̈̑
̶̛͍͐͛͝͠ṋ̷̨̨̱̪̃͗̐ǫ̸̖̤̺̳̤̭̻̈́̂͠ŕ̷̛̟̩͚̺̇̀̔̈́ţ̷͚̥̖̜̤͍̪̀̎͐̊͝h̴̫̻̘͑ȩ̴͑̌͂r̵̩͆̉͌̍̎͝n̸̡̻̠̤̫͕̯̉̀̕͜ ̴̛͓͙̆͝l̴̞̤̺̗̂͊͜ì̷̻̯̙̻̮̣̟̈̃̑̅́̕͠g̵̲̏h̵̹̫̭̾̆̍͛̚̕͝t̷̤͇̭̊̑͌͂̿̀͠͝ ̵̧̰̘͛̈́w̸̫̏i̶̢͍̯̝̿l̵͎̝̲͖̺͙͎̔̄͜l̸̮̥̩̗͇̤̥̖͑͊̿͝͝ ̸̡̧̧͎̹̮̌̌̆̇̒̀̃̚m̷͖͕͔͚͋ͅa̷̭̣̝͉͉̖͖̓͂͆̎͊̇ḵ̶͚̆̋̊é̶͖̲͓̹̖̟̲͋̒̊̓ ̵̙̗̙͚̩̻̄̿í̵͓̬̮̞̤̟̣̊̿͑̇̕̚͘t̵̘̜̪̎̃̈́̎̈ ̵̲̮͕̥̱͉̭͛̈̆̄͒͜r̵̼͒i̸̮̜̳̯̿̋g̸̡̛̙̓̇̊͜͝ḧ̷̛̙̺͚̘̥͌t̵̼̖̀̔͝
̵̟͙̺͆̌͊́̋̂͝i̶̗̞̋n̶̙͙̜͛̋̍ ̸̘̺̇͐͆t̶̳̽͊̈̄̿̔h̶̬͖̾̚e̵͓̮̍̇͗ ̶̗̠̫̯̣̣͌͋̀͆̈́̚͘ͅd̷͇͎͙͌͑́̕͘ȧ̶̡̬͙̾̀̂͗̾͊͂r̵̳̪̉̒̒̒̒͋͝͝k̴̙͕̯̼̄͊͆̏ņ̴̢̣̮̭͖̄͐́̎̆̓ę̸̩̪͎̱͉̞̌̈̋́͜͝͝s̸̙̻̞̳̞͉̋̓̓̏̾̀̆̌s̷̝͉̜̤̾̊̅̾̓̇̈́̃ͅ ̸̝̯̽ī̴̖̫͔͐̒̇n̶̫͎͇̼̻͑́͑̏̀̋̉ ̶͍̯́̐t̵̩͋͠ḣ̶͓̘͖̳̪̈̃̔̈́͘ė̴̝̪͑͒͒́͂͐͛ ̴̠͓̰͍̾̑̀̓̓͜d̶̦̬̞̳̼̜̕à̷̛͕͕̮͖̣̉̍̓r̷̟̭͎͔͌̿̕͜͠k̴̞̟̱̼͂ͅn̴͇̎̌̌̃̚ẻ̶͚̬̰̓͂̈́̑̀͝͝ͅs̵̭̭͇̻͔̞̻̺̆s̶̢͕̫̟̱̗̠̯̽̇̉͂̏ ̸̺͗̈́̉í̵̛͕̞̗̐̓̈́̒̀͝ņ̶͈̗̪̥͒́͌͠ ̸̧̞͉̮̰̀̓͌͑t̸̪̟͓͍̯̍̀͐h̵̡͙̤̼͛͘ȩ̸̼̙͉͙̜̇̾͆͝ ̵̺̜́͒̑̉̈́͝d̸̢͓͕̗̤͚̈́̓ȧ̶̝̣̙̜͚̯̫͍̅̃͑͐ȑ̷̛̖̮͂͗k̴̮̹͉̮̫̄̊̓̍ņ̶͕̹̰͚̜̹̱͛̌͂̓̾e̴̮̹̳̭͉̒͌̈̿̂͂͋̊ś̸̗͎̗̋͂̀s̵̨͙͕̦̫̝̥̈́ ̵̨̡͚̯̤͎̖̯̅͑̈̋̊́͠͠i̴̻̻̪̳̹̲͌̃ͅn̷̙͇̣̦̍̍͌͜ ̷̫͋͗̓̈́̈́͐͘ţ̵͂͗͌͛̒̐̚ͅh̴̨̫̣͍̘̣̃e̷̹̗̣̅̕͜ ̸̛͍̰̐̄͌d̸͚͂a̸̠̳̠͎̓̉̔͊̀̏r̵̡͋̈́̑k̵͓͙͋̈͌͝n̵̛͔̦̓̐͝ę̸̨̲͇͚̬̬́s̷̫̟̃́̽s̶̨̢͇͈̘̆͑͛͝
Every word so perfectly scribbled over that it was still readable, though it took a bit of effort.
It didn't make sense. If it was meant to be crossed out, it was far different from the meticulously done black bars of before. The readability seemed so intentional, too.
What had Mike gotten himself into?
e̵̫̟̻̭̩̐ͅd̸̙̟̬͚̮̞͉̒̓̃̂̀͒̉̐g̴̛͚̼̹̫͓̦̭̩̑̀͗̏̔͌͋e̶̢̡͖̱̻̰̾̽͒̀́ .
̵̬̜̩̬̣̉̈̍l̴̀̈̒̌͘͜e̸̛̩̟͓̜̗̋̀̿d̸̨͎̩̤̫̬̜̥̀̎̉̊́ .
̷̙̬͔̥̟̗̾̉̊͋́m̷̖̓̓̇̈͊e̶̡͙̪̐́͛̂͒͝͝ .
̶̨̢̧̥̪̆͆̿̑͝o̸͓̺̊̇̅f̷̩͘ .
̵̡͖̞̠̩͇͕̻͛p̵̞̜̾̍o̸̲̭͎̠̩̎̍i̷̼̎̇͌͘͠n̶̡̛̯͉̖̲͋̉̓͛̒̅̚͜t̶̗͎̬͇̤̼̀͆͋́͌͂̉͘ë̶̞̤̻̤̹͈͔́̍͜d̷͍̘͎̀̑̂̉ .
̸̠̠̅̍̌́ŝ̸̙̗̱̙̂͌͆̚ḩ̷̢̬̹̳̫̣̜̔̄à̶̧̻̲̝͓͐͛̃̽͑͛̅d̷͇͎͉͈̈́̊̈̅͋̏ȯ̷̝̻̠͔̱̀̀͑̋͒͘͘ͅw̴̛̤̾̅̀̀̆̚͠.
̸̜̰̺̺̿̀̽̄̅t̵͍̪̰͕̰̐̅̔̄̀̔́̊a̵̢̬̜͈̼͕̠̥̅͛́̇͆̇͝ĭ̷͇͓̬̈͒̚l̶̳̳͛͛͠ .
̴̨͎́̐̾̎̆̿͝ţ̵̞̺̝͔̭̂̈́̂͗̊́h̸͙̮̭̰̎̒̀͝ͅe̸͉̯͇̱̻̼̝̜̎͋̇̇̇͝ .
̷̢̦̺̳̇̽̓̔̅̒̊̚t̴̹̞̖͎̺̼̎̓̅̔́͛h̷̝̮̩̞̺̠̏̏͊̇͂̉̽̕ͅe̴͙̭̯̍̌͜͝ .
̵̢̧̝̞̼̈̎̍̚ţ̴̺̞͔̗̰̏͐̉́̓̚͜ỏ̶̡̘͈̩̩̘͆̇͆͊̈́͝ .
Will was pretty sure he saw one of the cats on the page blink at him, as he tried to reorder the words into a sentence. He'd take a break after the next page. He couldn't help if he was seeing things.
i̴̦̿ ̴̝͠d̴̝͆o̶̫͋n̸͉̒'̸̹̚t̵̠̀ ̷͔̅t̶̉ͅh̵̭͂i̸̠͆n̵͔̈́k̶̥̕ ̴̜̊ȋ̸̖ ̷̢͑ẁ̶̭ȃ̵͈s̴̗̀ ̵̛̹s̷̫͛u̷̢̿p̸̤̓p̴̦͘ö̸̱́ś̶͚ĕ̶͔d̵̨̄ ̶̲́t̵͔̚o̵̹̿ ̸͚̆ŝ̴͎ě̷͍e̶̎͜ ̴͛ͅi̶͙̒t̷̯̅.̴͉͛
̷͍̒i̶̙͒ ̶͕͗n̸͎̿ẻ̵̢ȅ̵͙d̸̩̽ ̷̙̆ţ̶͊o̶̗̅ ̵͎͛t̸̟͂e̷͖̿l̶̻̒ļ̴́ ̶̫̍s̶̼̚o̷͔͛m̸͖̀e̵̙͑o̷̰̾n̷̝͝e̸̺̋.̷̩̓
̴̱̌i̷͈̋m̷̩̋ ̸̧͐s̶̙̀c̸͈͛a̷̜̍r̵̻̈́ē̷͔d̶̖̀.̸͕͒
̵̬͐i̷̥͂ ̵̛̞d̸̨̑o̵̩͑n̶͔̋'̶̳̿t̷͎̀ ̵̨͘k̴͈̔n̵̗̈́ó̸͈ẘ̸͜ ̶̬͂w̷̺̅h̶͎̑a̷̬̓t̶͚̊ ̷̖͂ï̶̝t̴̳̑ ̵͈͐ẅ̷̰́a̴̡̾ṉ̵̄ẗ̵͚́š̴̻.̶̭̈́
̴̱͊i̶̮̎t̴̡̆'̴̰̋ś̵͉ ̷̺͛s̶̛̪ò̶̮ ̶͍̚d̷̈́ͅa̷̼͊r̷̩͗k̶͙͐.̶͚̍ ̴̥͠w̷̭̆h̴͉͆y̴̳̽ ̶̙̄ï̵͚s̸͚͗ ̸͕͝ỉ̴̪t̷̘͘ ̴̬̈́s̷̘̀o̶̺͌ ̵͈͑ď̵͚a̸̭͠r̸͎͑ḳ̵̿?̸̧̀
👎︎⚐︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ☟︎✌︎✞︎☜︎ ☞︎☼︎✋︎☜︎☠︎👎︎💧︎
Will got up, turning away from the notebook and his own scattered papers.
Mike needed help, and nobody noticed. Nobody came to save him.
The worst part?
It was Will who could've helped. It was Will, who came home to the last rings of the phone. Will, who told himself he'd call Mike back in the morning.
A call never answered, because Mike was already out in the snow.
The uncertainty was the worst thing, to him.
Had Mike been desperately grabbing for one last lifeline? Or was it already too late, the madness brought on by whatever he saw settled too deep?
Did it matter if it was a cry for help or a goodbye, if the outcome remained the same?
—
.-.. --- ... -
—
December 9th, 19**
Mike stared at his notebook, the symbols that showed up out of nowhere confusing and unfamiliar.
Except…
He'd seen them before, sprayed onto dumpsters and carved into discarded bits of broken furniture.
He didn't want to use that stupid piece of glass too much, didn't want to see the towering beasts in the dark that sent his heart racing. A little translation work wouldn't hurt, though, would it?
DO YOU HAVE FRIENDS
Mike sighed, pushing the notebook and glass aside.
He didn't have to answer. He didn't care what otherworldly entity decided to mess with him, he wasn't going to give it any of the information it wanted.
Sure, he'd already admitted his fear, but he could pretend it was a bluff. He needed to.
December 10th, 19**
It was colder today.
Under his desk sat that same unusually large cat. He knew by now that the one pink eye wasn't just a trick of the light.
Neither was the way it would smile too wide with teeth far too human.
Another page in his notebook was filled out with symbols. Another page to stare at and translate.
MICHAEL
I HAVE SEEN YOUR WORK
YOUR STORIES ARE FASCINATING
YET YOU HAVE RUN OUT OF STORIES
AN ADVENTURE THAT HAS REACHED ITS END
I CAN GIVE YOU A NEW STORY TO TELL
I ONLY ASK ONE FAVOR IN RETURN
It was, maybe, a little tempting.
Mike had written one book series, one decently successful. One finished but not fully released. The final entry, set to release early next year.
El Jane's story was over. There was nothing left to write for it.
But he still couldn't afford to let it all get to his head.
He didn't have a way to know whether those books could keep him afloat for the rest of his life.
He was the only one who didn't find some form of higher education. Dustin, off in some fancy tech school. Will in art school. Lucas and Max… he hated that he couldn't remember.
He talked to them the least, updates and reminders of what they were doing few and far between.
God, maybe he was a bit of a selfish asshole. Too busy trying to find his next big idea to remember what his friends were doing.
Would any of them even miss him?
It's not like anyone other than Will ever reached out first.
And Will was just too nice for his own good.
What do you want?
For a while, he just stared at the pages in front of him. Hoping, somehow, that he'd see the symbols appear.
They never did.
Only after he finally decided to go eat something did he return to find something new.
I HAVE SEEN IT IN OTHER WORLDS
THE POSSIBILITY OF MAKING IT DARKER THAN DARK
I WANT TO FIND OUT IF YOUR WORLD IS LIKE THAT
IF IT CAN BECOME SO DARK THAT YOU CAN SEE AGAIN
IF YOU CONCENTRATE YOUR WILL
AND STRIKE THE EARTH WITH YOUR BLADE
PERHAPS THE DARKNESS SHALL GIVE YOU SIGHT
THAT IS THE FAVOR I ASK OF YOU
It felt too easy.
It felt stupid.
He felt stupid.
Except…
If he was already losing his mind, which he probably was, what would it change?
Writing to himself in codes and forgetting. Hallucinating monsters and weird cats. Was it more likely than any of this being real?
Probably.
Still.
Hands trembling, he gripped the very knife he'd eaten with.
Focus, Wheeler.
As he raised it, he felt powerful. The air shifted, like it was anticipating something-
The door opened with a wild slam.
His roommate was home, and the air settled far too fast.
He couldn't do this.
What was he thinking?
He needed sleep.
December 11th, 19**
Mike woke up at his desk late in the night, a second notebook he swore he didn't own filled with pages and pages of plotlines. A story about three heroes destined to save the world from eternal night.
His body ached, and exhaustion pulled at his mind.
He'd figure out what this story was about in the morning
December 12th, 19**
He needed to get rid of the new notebook.
Dreams of ice and snow and thorns had tormented him in the night.
YOU WERE USED UP
The whispers clawed at his mind, fear of the stories they told.
Of another path, where the ice mage was forced to do terrible things.
The ice mage, who reminded him far too much of far too many of his friends.
He could just copy over the parts that didn't make him want to break his own hands. Then, tomorrow, he'd get rid of the rest.
Then, tomorrow, he would disappear into snowfall so heavy, it would be hard to see anything at all.