You & I~Muke

-Michael-

it's getting hella hard for me to update this

because like

it's

not exciting

being in hopsital is not exciting (for michael not me lol) and being depressed isn't exciting so it's not anything glameruous, and i apologise if i bore your asses

sorry aboyt the long ass a/n at the end paha 

-

When I wake up the next day, there's a breakfast in front of me but not a Luke.

I sigh, quietly, and lay back down.

I'm not getting out of bed, I'm not going to eat and I'm certainly not sure why I thought Luke would stay.

The sun is rising, so it must be early morning, maybe 6 or 7, and I can see immediately that it's probably going to rain today.

That's okay.

I like the rain.

It makes me feel in my small world of numbness.

Day two out of the rest of my life in this fucking hospital room, I think, as I try and try to sleep even though that's no going to happen because now I'm awake, my mind refuses to let me go back to sleep, to return to safety.

"You should eat."

It's my mum.

I would recognize the voice that talked me to sleep every night of my child hood anywhere in this world.

Opening my eyes, I allow myself to properly look at her; Mum's eyes seem a different shade to what they used to be, heavier and more tired.

Her skin is smoother, but engraves with thick stress lines.

Her hair is still blonde and it reminds me of Luke.

Emotion refuses to register on my hollow features and I'm glad, because I won't give anyone the satisfaction.

Not yet.

"Please," and then. "It'll make you feel better."
of course.

Of course it'll make me feel better.

And maybe I want to shake my head.

Maybe I want to scream and cry and shout and bleed and collapse to my knees and throw things and tell the first person who left me that it won't make it better.

I'm afraid nothing ever will. To be honest.

I'm afraid I'm going to be stuck in this room, in this hospital and in this same old mind for the rest of my days, because nothing changes.

Not where we are from, and not where my mind is.

When there's another long silence, maybe ten minutes, but maybe three years until she leaves again, slowly clicking the door shut behind her.

Of course she's gone again- it seems everyone leaves, everyone goes.

They leave me alone with my thoughts and come back questioning my tears.

Silly people.

The next person to come in is also female.

"Hello Michael."

I don't recognise this coice.

"I'm called Samantha, I'm going to be you're therapist from now on." I stare at the lady who seems to be a middle aged lady, 45 or 50, the lady who as so quickly inserted herself a slot into my life, not even asking before shoving a lot of other people out the pictures, not asking if even want to talk about my feelings.