Michael Afton x Reader ~ The Boy on The Bus

Chapter Nineteen - Do It

Michael woke up to another bloody nose. He had no idea how long he had been bleeding, but it must have been for a good long while because there was a huge stain on his pillow. He cringed as he sat up and a few more drops of dark black blood dripped out of his nose and onto his shirt. He really hoped that this would stop soon because it was just getting annoying.

He hadn't even realized that he was asleep or that you were already gone at work. He sighed, grabbing the pillow off of the bed. He decided that he would throw it out along with the rest of the trash. He would go out and buy a new one before you got home.

As Michael stepped outside of your apartment, blood soaked pillow and trashbag in hand, he started to recall the events of the day before, frowning at the memory of the fight you two had fought. He was starting to feel so insanely guilty about everything. The lying, not coming home, and almost dying business had gotten a little out of hand, and now he had sucked somebody else into it? He didn't want anybody else to worry about him or anything he was doing, especially if it was you.

He threw the trashbag and blood-soaked pillow into the dumpster and started to walk back to your apartment, sinking deeper into thought. There was the issue of your brother, Gabriel, who his father had killed. How were you going to react when you found out that Michael had been lying about his whole identity for the entirety of your relationship? Not to mention, his father was the murderer of your dead brother? He was pretty sure that conversation would not go well.

He walked back into your apartment, and sat down on the couch. Then there was the fact that he was dead. How would you feel if he told you he was dead? Would you even believe him? He was sure you'd throw him out or try to get him to check in to the local mental hospital. Michael sighed. He knew he would have to come clean eventually.

He got up, catching a glimpse of himself in the black screen of the TV. Frowning, he moved closer, staring at his face. He didn't even look like himself anymore, and if he was being honest, he almost looked terrifying. No wonder he was getting so any weird looks when he took out the trash.

Michael started his way to the bathroom so he could see himself in a proper mirror with good lighting. It had only been a few days since the scooping, and he was surprised at how fast he seemed to be decomposing.

Baby had started to speak to him less, her whispering becoming fainter and fainter in his head, but now, as he was staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he could hear her louder and clearer than ever.

He looked at his eyes, and they looked worse than yesterday. A constant urgent reminder of his situation. Maybe if his eyes weren't there to distract from the rest of him, he would look more alive. He was just a little pale, that was all. He leaned closer to the mirror, widening his eyes.

"Do it," He heard Baby speak, those two words clearer than the rest of the jumbled mess of whispering that had been bouncing around his brain, "Do it."

He wasn't in control of his body anymore. His arms and hands and fingers moved on their own. He watched the mirror in horror as his hand rose shakily to his face. He couldn't close his eyes. He couldn't move his hand away.

Piercing pain split through Michael's skull as his own finger plunged into his eye socket. Blood dripped down his face, soaking his shirt and pooling in the sink. Baby urged more fingers into the socket, wrapping around his eyeball. Michael couldn't help but grit his teeth and scream in pain. He tried to keep it quiet because you had neighbors.

He felt the eyeball get ripped from the socket, he felt every little nerve and muscle tear, and he felt the unnaturally cold blood running down his face. His blood-covered hand dropped his eyeball into the sink. The white-hot searing pain was unbearable, but Baby wouldn't let him stop or pass out.

She reached up to his other eye. Somehow, he could see out of his freshly empty eye socket. He watched as more blood trickled down the side of his face. The pain was unbearable at this point. Your neighbors must have thought somebody was getting murdered with the amount of commotion coming from your apartment. He pulled out his other eye, dropping it in the blood-filled sink. He felt himself gain control of his limbs again and promptly passed out on the cold bathroom tiles.

=======

Michael woke up confused and with the worst headache of his life. He could hear you banging on the bathroom door, but all he could do was stare at the blood that was pooling on the tile. He remembered the eyes in the sink, then remembered that those eyes were his. He got up and knocked over the small fake potted plant on the counter.

"Michael? Are you okay in there?" Your voice muffled through the door. He didn't remember locking that door, let alone closing it.

"Yeah, um, just brushing my teeth." He replied though the pain was evident in his voice.

"Michael, you've been in there for like, an hour."

"Oh. Um, oops." Was all he could force out of his mouth. He looked down at the sink, and his eyes stared back at him. He frowned and picked up his eyes. His hands were completely covered in blood.

"Michael, seriously, what's wrong? Open the door!"

"I can't right now! Come back later!" He said, panicking. He wrapped his eyeballs neatly in toilet paper and threw them in the bathroom garbage. He didn't want you to see them. He started running the water in the faucet, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing pain in his head.

"If you don't come out within the next half hour I'm breaking the door down. I need to shower and you're being suspicious!" You said, and Michael sighed a breath of relief. He had plenty-ish of time to clean up, right? Thirty minutes is totally enough time, right?

Michael scrubbed at the floors and the sink, trying to get the blood stain out of the tile. Eventually, with enough hand soap, it did come out. Now he just had to worry about his face and his shirt. Scrubbing at his face was enough to get the blood out, and he could just throw his shirt in the hamper, but what was he going to do about his empty-looking eye sockets? He could either try to convince you that his eyes were always like this or come clean. He decided the latter.

He walked out of the bathroom, his head still pounding, and into the living room.

"Michael, there you a-" You stopped mid-sentence, staring at his face with horror.

"So, like, my eyes." Michael started. He had a huge pit in his stomach.

"Yes, Michael, your eyes. What the hell, where are they?" You were in shock. You stared at him with wide eyes.

"I uh-" He tried to say that he ripped them out, but he just couldn't. He couldn't tell you any of this, "They're still there. It's just um... a tattoo?" Even he didn't believe in himself.

"What?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it. My eyes were just really bugging me with how weird they looked lately. I know I should've called you and got your opinion but I kind of acted on impulse. I can see fine, I just have a little bit of a headache."

You stared at him for a long time, wondering if you should even believe him. You decided that you'd rather just believe whatever dumb lie he had just made up than argue again.

"Yeah," You replied, trying to keep your cool, "But it's cool, I guess. It is kind of sick looking."

Michael tried his best to smile at you, "Thanks I think. It's really okay? It's taking me a while to get used to them."

"Yeah, it'll take me a while too, but yeah you have cool looking eyes." You smiled back at him softly.

He was glad that he got away with it. He knew you didn't fully believe him, but he was just happy that you weren't yelling at him again.

Despite his headache, he smiled at you again, "Want me to fix you up some dinner? I'm not too hungry right now but I can make something for you, love."

"Oh, yeah, that'd be really good. Can you just make me some mac n' cheese." You asked.

"Of course." He gave you a small peck on the top of your head before wandering into the kitchen.

After cooking and eating and watching some stupid TV show, the both of you were pretty tired out. It wasn't until after Michael laid down that he realized he forgot to buy a new pillow.