Connected

Chapter 2 ~ Michael

"Michael! I've asked you three times! Get out of bed and come downstairs to help me pack the boxes in the kitchen! The moving men are coming in an hour!" My mum yelled, breaking through the hazy barrier of sleep that swarmed over me. I pried open my eyes slightly, only to be met with the bright light of the sun making them snap close once more. My mind begging me to let sleep take over and just forget about the world for the next few hours as I drift around in my own dream world.

"In a minute mum..." I mumble, burying my head further into the pillow. Fucking moving day. Mum has had it marked on the calender for months, each day getting crossed of with a big fat X as it moved towards the massive red ring with too many smiles saying moving day. I fought against moving in the first few months. Refusing to pack anything, unpacking all the things she packed, getting into screaming matches with her, I even broke a few things if I remember right. That all stopped when I came home at 4 in the morning on one of my 'rebellions' to find my mum having a breakdown in her room, saying that she's sorry she's a horrible mother, asking why I hated her and how her not being able to give me what I wanted was pushing me away from her. That was the moment I got my fucking head into gear. I held her in my arms as tears ran down her face, sobs wracking my own body as it dawned on me how much I actually hurt her. I mean, I made my own mother think I hated her. She came downstairs in the morning to see me packing up the ornaments that dad left us without saying a word. We've had a silent agreement since that day that I'll move, but I won't always be happy about it during the process.

"Mike please!" She calls. I groan and pull myself out from under the sheets, the cold air hitting the bare skin of my chest harshly while I walked over to the crooked desk chair that my dad built for me when I was 6. I grab my Metallica shirt and dark skinny jeans with my boots, pulling on each item before stumbling downstairs.

"Morning sweetie, got a new hair colour I see?" She smiles while ruffling my newly dyed blood red hair.

"Mum stop! I'm not a fucking baby..." I grumble, whilst picking up the silver crockery set that lay separated on the kitchen table.

"Language young man." She says, a stern tone coating her usually light voice. "You'll always be my baby, no matter how old you are or what you do, but watch the language, that's all I ask."

"But my colourful language always brightens up your day; you can't take that luxury away from yourself." I smirk, sarcasm oozing from every pour of my body.

"Ha ha, where did I get such a hilarious son so I can give the company you came from a 5 star review." She questions, her sarcasm matching my own.

"You'll have to read the manual I came with." I grin, placing the freshly wrapped crockery in the pale brown box that has been scribbled over in only a style that my mother can achieve.

"I wish I had a manual sometimes." She laughs. "How's your arm this morning sweetie?"

I look down at my arm automatically, as my mum looks it over with concern. Ever since I turned 18 a month ago she's been hyper aware of my brand and the pain it causes me, even though it's hardly noticeable. I shift slightly causing my sleeve to roll up and reveal the cursive E.V.B embedded into my skin, another thing my mum worries about. When I asked why I had more initials than my friends when I was 4 she had no idea what to say, causing her to do much research into the soulmate system. What brands mean, why we have them, what happens if there were three initials. It turns out I'm the only one on record, as far as the system is concerned every single person has always had two initals and that will not change.

"Fine mum, nothing out of the ordinary." I mumble, running my free hand through my hair.

"You need to start looking for her sweetheart. You know I'm here to help you, I can get you the list of people who are around your age who live in the major cities to start with." She says, placing the plates into another brown box.