On My Own (disc.)

Can't Forgive, Can't Forget (6) **

LUKE

Michael bought me at least eight different band shirts, three pairs of shoes, four flannels, another eight more shirts and muscle tanks, and three pairs of skinny jeans - one with no holes, one hole on the left knee, and two holes on both knees. They were all kind of loose, but he said I'd grow into them once I got healthier. I believed it.

It had been a few days since the accident happened, and so far, I've been shaky, but on my feet again. My voice wasn't the slightest bit raw anymore, and I'd stopped crying in front of other people. Of course I was still in the disastrous state where everything is messy and jumbled together, but I was going back to school tomorrow. It might've been a bad decision, but Dad would've wanted me to.

Michael helped me take care of myself for a while, almost force feeding me for the first few meals, but it became a habit after two days. I had come to terms with the fact that I actually get first pickings at food, which was honestly a rarity for me before now. Michael seems to be curious why I was so surprised when he told me to get a plate first, but he doesn't pry. I liked that about him - he doesn't know my limits, and honestly, I don't either.

He did ask about my home life before the accident, though - what my childhood was like, what my dad did for a living, basic things. I could handle basic things.

"Why did your dad like trench coats so much?" He asks one day, and I smile.

"He went Christmas shopping one year, and it was really fucking cold out, and we didn't have many coats to help us stay warm. This old man offers us one of the trench coats that he was selling, and Dad was willing to pay, but he didn't have to. He got it for free, out of the kindness of that old mans' heart, and he gave me a smaller one that swallowed me whole, before Dad wrapped me up in his arms and carried me back into the mall until the wind died down so that we wouldn't freeze. His trench coats are kind of like a small piece of good and kindness for the both of us." I answered, reminiscing on the memory. "He bought more because I came up with that line - that trench coats were a small piece of the good and kindness of the world. He loved them."

"He seems kind." Michael said softly. I nodded.

"He was." I said, mentally kicking myself when my voice cracked a little bit. Michael instantly looked up, but I waved him off before he could ask anything.

I turned on the news, and instantly regretted it.

"In the case of the murder of Andrew Hemmings, the suspect, Liz Hemmings, has been found in Perth with a man named  Killian Jones --"

I changed the channel once they showed my mothers' face, anger bubbling up at the sight of her. But she was on every news station. Apparently this was big in the news industry, so I turned it off and put it down on the table. I knew Michael had questions, though.

"Go ahead." I said.

"Did she - your mother - actually..?" He trailed off, but I nodded.

"She pushed him down the stairs. Ran off once it happened and didn't say anything to me." I knew my tone was bitter and full of anger, but honestly - could you blame me? The bitch killed him. I'm pissed.

"Oh, God," Michael whispered, "when do we kill her?"

I laughed, and he smiled at me.

"I wish." I sighed, once I'd finally calmed down. "But I'd like to pursue my life outside of jail as much as possible." Michael rolled his eyes. "What about your mum? I haven't seen her around."

Michael's mood instantly sours, and his face morphs into an almost unreadable mix of pain, sadness, and anger. "She's not exactly in the picture."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know." I apologised, but he shook his head.