lost [muke af]

3.0 - michael

slight trigger warning: mentions of abuse

3.0 - michael 

He was eleven, and his parents decided they were going to be a happy family. With forced smiles and teeth clenched, they bled their lies. 

What is happy? Happy is a feeling, an emotion. Happy is a state of mind. Happy is the sun rising on an early Saturday morning. Happy is opening eyes. 

Sad is realizing Michael has to keep his eyes open. Sad is knowing the sun is going to set. Sad is a function his mind tries to keep away, but sometimes it’s the only thing his mind knows. Sad is a feeling, an emotion. Sad is Michael. 

He can hear the sizzling of the frier downstairs, the strong smell of bacon filling his broken nose. Michael doesn’t like bacon, and his mother knows this. 

Mike’s bedroom seems so dark as he fumbles around his closet, trying to find a fresh pair of jeans. He remembers when he used to pick out his clothes every Sunday night, it took off a lot of time in the morning. Now, he doesn’t really change often. It’s just black denim and a somewhat clean tee shirt. 

He stepped into the bathroom across the hall, avoiding the mirror showing him the monster he has become. Michael splashed water onto his face, wiping his proper-fringe off of his cheekbone. He reached his cold hands to his face wash, quickly rubbing the soap over his forehead and chin.

He wanted to be cute, handsome. Any day he could bump into his soulmate, and he wanted to be ready. Even at eleven years old, he was overly prepared. His friends were starting to meet their other half—their neighbor, their childhood friend, their classmate, their stand partner. 

His greens eyes caught a glance of the purple bruise on the bridge of his sloped nose. It was a mistake, his dad promised. The older man didn’t mean to cause a mark on his son, it was the alcohol, one knows how I get around Jack Daniels. Michael accepted that this is his life, and this will be his life for a while. 

He doesn’t want to die, the thought has grown upon him and started to scare him. Michael just doesn’t want to feel a thing anymore. He doesn’t want emotion casted upon his eyes, he doesn’t want tears falling from his face like rain. 

The dirty blonde boy picked up the towel from the rod of the curtain, wiping the dripping water from his face. 

Once downstairs, Michael grabbed an energy bar from the cabinet. He often thought about skipping breakfast, the less calories the better, but he knew his mother would ask him about it. He did not want her to start sending him to a therapist like she always threatens. 

He rolls up the sleeves of his sweater. The L, the moon, the sad face, and newly a lighting bolt were all scattered upon his lower arm. He wishes they were somewhere cooler, but apparently the Gods wanted them lining his wrist. 

Michael sits down at the table, his father across from him. The only sound filling the breakfast area was the crinkling of the newspaper and the scraping of silverware. His father’s coffee was strong and Mike figured it was his third or forth cup. 

The brown eyes of his old man glanced at him for a minute. Michael hoped he felt guilty for the bruises upon his once perfect skin. But, he knew he did not. Even if it may sound terrible, seeing his father sad made Michael feel better. 

“They’re having a nice festival at Central Park today, so I figured we could walk around for a while,” his mother spoke softly. Her voice was the epitome of walking on egg shells. Even saying the nicest thing could upset someone in the room. 

Michael nodded, tearing apart the breakfast bar with his fingers, taking smaller bites until it was gone. 

They sat in silence, they knew they weren’t a perfect family. They knew they were the opposite. 

When he was seven years old, his eyes started to lose the color he once loved. They were empty, resembling the only thing he felt: nothing. When he was seven, he wanted to die, he didn’t know what dying really was. 

When he was nine years old, he watched a cartoon sad face appear on his left wrist. He was asleep while still being awake. Even knowing that there was someone out there for him, he still wished he wasn’t ever born. 

At eleven, he wondered if happiness was real, or maybe it was a figure of everyone’s imagination. 

(a/n) so i hate writing triggering things, sometimes i reach the line right below triggering, but in a few stories i cross it. i will always warn you when i feel something is crossing the triggering line. 

in this story (hate to spoil), mike has a touch family life, and there will be mentions of such behavior. i am not comfortable with writing any physcial harm, so there will be no graphic scenes.