there’s something so beautifully violent about you. i can’t figure out what it is. is it your vacant eyes? your sharp teeth? or your blood—stained hands?
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He misses the ocean. On days hot as this one, there's a primal need for the salty air in his lungs — but none of that exists in Hawkins. That was long ago. Now he's just confined to the park bench, fingers fidgeting with a shell necklace he made when he was ten.
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he was told he couldn't smoke. ‘nicotine impairs healing, william,’ said the nurse who last saw him out of the icy hospital room. he can't help it, though; the grimy aftertaste in the back of his throat is exactly what he needs to coax the pain. the park looks fine today.
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drawing his cigarette again for the sixth time; his right hand mindlessly picks at the bandages through his white tank top. they've been growing itchier by the day — apart from the suffocating feeling of a glued torso and limited mobility. what a sick joke.
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misunderstand. he stands from his side of the bench, bruised knuckles clenching in his urge to defend——against someone who paid him no mind until he did. how idiotic.
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as if the winds shifted gear in warning, billy notices him——the surging need to get on his feet and flee. however, the anger encases him into something indefinite. fidgeting hand falls on lap, hiding away the habit while he whisks nostalgia to the back of his mind.
&.
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Harrington was too distracted to notice who was sitting on that bench. He only had a can of Coke in his hands, his mind probably somewhere far away from Hawkins. He sat down at the opposite end of the bench where Billy was and let out an almost inaudible sigh.
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“are you fucking following me?”
his voice draws out, almost grating with the fact he hasn’t exactly spoken much since the incident. it hurts to do, and beyond that, speech attracts unwanted flies. but now? he wants to ward off a peculiar pest; billy seems to
&.
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