Terrible Things || muke || malum

alone

I don't have a problem, Michael thought as he popped the lid to another bottle of liquor. I'm not the problem. Luke is. I didn't die mid fucking sentence and leave him wondering what the fuck I was gonna say. He did. I'm not the problem. He is.

The glass shards of picture frames reflected against the light cast from the TV. Michael still hadn't bothered to clean up the glass, yet he cared enough to wear thick socks when he was in the living room, just to make sure no glass went into his feet.

He didn't want doctors looking at his feet when the real problem was in his head.

Michael wasn't sure why he was drinking right now, but it might have to do with the fact that he took a different, longer way back home and found a 24 hour liquor store. That was a possibility. Or the topic of conversation topic at the meeting a few hours ago. Drugs And Alcohol Are Not Coping Methods. Bullshit. The vodka that he was chugging supported him more than that group. He thought so, at least.

That was a stupid topic anyway. All they did was describe what alcohol exactly was and what kind of toxins you were putting in your body when you did drugs. How it did more damage than good.

Well, Michael was feeling slightly lighter than usual with the small buzz in his veins and he decided that Warren was a bullshitter who must've never had alcohol before.

He took a long drink from the clear bottle, the vodka burning the back of his throat and hitting his stomach like a ton of bricks. He sat it on the floor, curling into the couch.

 Michael was never a happy drunk. In fact, he was probably the most irritable and depressing drunk ever. Especially after Luke was diagnosed. It was as if drunk Michael took a harder hit than sober Michael (both Michael's knew that wasn't true but drunk Michael was definitely more open about his depression).

Did he have depression? Did he even qualify for that He couldn't be that sad, right? Maybe he was just grieving and not handling it the right way. Even if drinking was a right way to handle it in his book.

Michael's phone ran next to it and he answered it on the third ring, not saying anything to the caller. 

"Michael? Michael are you there, mate?" Calum nearly shouted.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God, you didn't answer any of my texts or my calls and you ran out of the group meeting and I tried to find you and God, I'm glad you're okay." He rambled and Michael was almost positive he could see him pacing.

"Yeah. I'm alive. Bye." Michael removed the phone from his ear and was ready to end the call when he heard the faint objections from the other line. He took a deep breath and pressed the phone back to his ear. "What do you need, Calum?"

"Why did you leave early?" The dark haired boy asked much quieter this time.

"I felt like I needed to go for a run." Michael sneered.

"In the middle of support group?"

"Does it really matter to you?"

"Yes, it really really really matters to me."

"I didn't like the conversation." He snapped, reaching for his bottle.

There was a dull buzzing from the quiet line. Michael quite liked the sound. It was better than the pestering from Calum. Too bad Calum can't stay quiet for long.

"I'm not a fan of this conversation either."

"Then why don't you hang up, for fuck's sake?" 

"I don't want to leave you alone."