" 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 "
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IN WHICH jordan davis runs away from his shitty home in the city and finds himself in hawkins - alone, frustrated and falling desperately in love with someone he...
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( i think you're asking to be put in a true crime documentary on small town disappearances )
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tw : mention of sa/coercion of a minor/grooming and brief mention of death by overdose and abortion
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JOYCE HAD tried to talk to him about what he had seen multiple times but he had denied it time and time again, assuring her that he hadn't seen anything.
She gave up eventually and muttered something about going for a smoke, and he had yet to see her again since.
Jordan felt bad for lying to her, he really did, but it was wrong to be feeding into all her fantasies when he was unsure if they were even real himself.
So the next hour found Jordan scribbling away in his journal, playing a Ramones album on Jonathan's turntable, scratching Chester's ears as he curled up on the end of the bed, and doing his best to forget it had ever happened.
He usually cramped his illegible ramblings onto whatever free space there was on the already near-full page - which was how he had managed to only use up half of the pages in three years of ownership - and if there was no space, he overlayed and retraced and drenched the corners in correction fluid so he could draw and write over that.
Jordan started a fresh page today. It felt like a fresh page kind of day.
Ten minutes into his mindless sketching he realised he had been recreating the motion he had seen behind the wall and the pen broke in his hand. He stared down at the blotches of ink staining his palms and then to the shadows etched onto the page and swallowed hard, tearing the parchment from the spine.
He crumbled it up, set it on fire, tossed the remains of it into the trashcan in the corner of the room, and turned the volume on the turntable up until it was almost deafening.
Jordan itched for something to soothe himself with - a drink, a joint, a cigarette. But he had nothing with him other than the pack of pills he had crammed into the front pocket of his bag, which he had only taken with him because he wasn't counting on staying with people that he actually didn't feel like disappointing or becoming a burden to.
Maybe he could just take one or two, just enough to keep him going, to keep his hands steady; he could slip out the bedroom window, hide himself away somewhere else until it wore off.
