Sincerely, Mike

09: Between a Prideless Father and His Son

The passing of what was roughly a week saw no positive change in Mike's mentality or condition.

With no word from the rehabilitation center on Billie's condition and an ardent desire to avoid even indirect communication with Tré like the plague as a result of the consuming, nagging guilt he felt for freaking out on him with no explanation, the lugubrious man had entered peak depressive mania.

His wife had, of course, taken keen notice of that.

Wondering since the night her husband had trudged through the front door for the first time in two days sopping wet with holes in his clothing, infected gashes on his knees, and a fractured frown on his face what on Earth kind of outrageous conflict had arisen between him and his friend and not being able to procure an answer from the dour Mike himself to save her life, she had been quick to turn to Tré for answers, learning from him the details of the incidents that poor Mike had the displeasure of suffering through during his unannounced disappearance from home as well as the lack of anger that he felt towards the man who had already driven himself insane with false perceptions of it.

Upon enlightenment, Brittney had tried for six long days in a fit of unprecedented worry to speak with Mike about the occurrences, understand what had prompted the episode, perhaps comfort him, or at least get him out of the darkened bedroom he had made his permanent dwelling place and pry his bleary, bloodshot eyes off the television screen, but her efforts had ultimately proven all but effective.

Today, she assumed, would be no different from any other day.

Slowly, she would scale the stairs and crack the door of their bedroom open to find Mike lying in the dark in the same t-shirt and boxers he had been wearing for the past three days, eyes unmoving and glued to the glowing blue screen before them as if entranced. She would attempt conversation, and he would refuse to respond. She would taunt him with food, and he would mumble an incoherent negation. Desperate to at least get him to look at her, she would sit next to him and coddle him until he either pushed her away feebly or was lulled to sleep by the warmth of her touch. Frustrated with his stubbornness and continuous, adamant abnegation of her offer to provide him with relief, she would leave him to his own devices, trying futilely to distract herself with frivolous hobbies and housework until her ubiquitous worry sent her stomping up the stairs once more.

Just as she had so many times in the past week alone.

But when she did indeed bring herself to slowly scale the stairs and crack open the bedroom door, she was admittedly surprised and borderline confused to find her husband steadily asleep with the television turned off for what must have been the first time in days, his face tinged a deep red and large, fresh tears streaking his cheeks.

Heart touched by the sight, she momentarily debated waking him, wondering if it was perhaps better to just let the poor man sleep.

Unable to fully dissuade herself, she decided after a moment's thought in vexation against leaving him, reaching a hand over and gently shaking him awake.

"Mike...Mikey..." she whispered, caressing the side of his flushed face gently. "Come on Mike, wake up."

Groaning weakly, Mike slowly pried his eyes open, leaning into his wife's gentle touch.

"Come on, Michael, get up," she repeated, this time more sternly. "Get up and get dressed. It's your little nephew's birthday. Tré invited us for dinner, and you're going whether you want to or not."

Mike groaned his disapproval, his face contorting in what could only be described as fear as he watched her rise from her spot next to him and flick the lights on.