Behind the Cherry Tree, A Not-So-Short Story

4. Going Through the Motions

It had been two days since the incident. All the local news reporters are in town, all here to cover the incident. Mum and dad had taken me home. They didn't talk about it, they treated me as fragile as spun glass. I don't like glass.

I haven't been to the tree. It's normally really pretty this time of year, the blossoms are all out, soft and pink. They look like little fluff balls, sort of cotton-candy like where they clung to the spindly branches. I hadn't seen Mike either. Both facts sucked.

As much as I hate what had happened I still have to come to terms with it. I have to before I go to find Mike. It's a lot harder to figure out a way to see him because he's always surrounded, particularly by his oh-so-worried mother with her manicured hand on his shoulder who never left his side.

According to the newspaper, the story happened more or less thusly:

The family had been arguing, it still was unknown as to what the argument was about, but it had been a terrible arguement. Mike's mother had left in an upset, so concerned was she that she'd do something she'd regret. Oh how she wished she'd taken Mike with her. Oh how could she have possibly known?

Mike's father was an alcholic. The family's dirty secret. While poor mumsy was out driving away her angers, Mike's dad had gotten drunk and beaten Mike. Beaten him so bad that he had broken bones and torn ligaments, bruises that covered most of his body and emotional scarring that would take forever to overcome in therapy.

Mike's father had attempted suicide later that night, stabbing his body multiple times with a broken glass bottle in Mike's room. Will and his dad came out the heroes, the friend that had had a gut instict that something was wrong.

There was no mention of me. I'd been the only real witness. But I'm ok with standing in the wings for this one, it would take a heck of a lot more explaining as to why I was there in the first place than what I'd really seen. I want so bad to know what was true and what was a lie. I wanted to see Mike and make sure that he was ok. Yet at the same time I'm terrified. To see Mike as they described him in the papers... I don't think I could handled it.

I'm just completely torn, on the one hand, I'm his best friend. On the other, I'm scared. There was something so much deeper to this feeling of fear than the word gives meaning to.

As I lay in bed that night I thought it through and through and through. I would see him the next day. I would find him, banged up as he may be, and ask if he was ok. Maybe if his arms and hands were ok we could play xbox? 

The hours wore on and on, but I couldn't sleep. Pushing up into a sitting position I pondered what to do with my apparent insomnia. Inspiration struck and I got out of bed to begin my toil over the perfect get well soon card. It would serve as the perfect excuse for me to see him without arising suspicison and I could send him a message.

Any replies could be courriered through Will, the hero that spent every day with Mike as he recovered. How I envied Will. It should be me sitting with Mike, holding his hand and talking inanely about random bullshit. But no, I'm here at 4am making a card with scissors and glue and A4 paper and my coloured felt tips.

At 8am I collapsed, exhaused, into my bed. I could sleep in for a few hours and then I'd drag my sorry ass over to Mike's and drop off the card.