The Broken

Sixteen: Flip the switch

"And what is an 'instant' death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart bursted and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous."
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The road was long, silent, suffocating. Despite her being drunk, she didn't miss any bit of what happened, but she didn't dare talk about it, not yet. But her mind made it impossible for her to focus on one thing. Too much happened tonight, and too many info were worthy of keeping.

Jason, he loved her still; he held onto her like there weren't anything or anyone else that mattered. She felt it in his touch, she saw it in his twinkling eyes, she was still his one and only, and there were no doubts on her still being his. However, she still couldn't fathom the fact that he was with another girl. Did he make love to her after they left? Did he do it like he used to do it with her? Like his flesh and bones were set on fire and her body was the only extinguisher? Like her body was a temple and he was the only worshipper? Like he only managed to breathe in that one moment they were two souls in one body? Or did he just fuck her senselessly, angrily, because of tonight's blow? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

On the other hand, if she wanted to believe what Michael had said, what would that make her? In love with a criminal? A murderer? But how? He was her little innocent Jason, the lost boy mourning his mother's death. He never mentioned anyone else dying that night. He sure mentioned another car, but never gave more details about it, which made her never ask. She didnt want to pressure him in opening wounds that never healed. But maybe she should've. She should've; she should have. But she didn't. And now her only source of information was Michael. The angry, hurt, cold, and quiet Michael.

After taking a cold shower to sober up, she decided it was time to get some answers. She searched the villa for him when she suddenly heard growls coming from the gym that she haven't entered yet.

There he was, shirtless with just his sweatpants, and his body dripping wet from the constant fists he was throwing to the swinging punching bag. It was his therapy. Whenever he felt out of his mind he just lashes out in his custom made gym. He used to throw punches and kicks until his body goes numb resulting in him falling flat on his back. Just exhausted. It was his way to cope with anger; inflicting more pain on himself until it just stops, until it all just stops; the physical and the mental pain all together.

"Can we talk?" She said, cocking her head to stare at his muscular body.

He didn't even look at her to begin with, let alone talk. He picked up his pace almost as if he was battling for his life against the swinging bag. He wanted her to feel threatened, to be scared of him, in the hope of her leaving him to his demise. But that wasn't an option. He was emitting pain instead of power, weakness instead of danger, and she sensed it well.

"Michael," her voice came out as a shout. But it wasn't an angry one, it was just to bring him back to reality.

"What?!" He shouted back, holding the punching bag while resting his head lightly on it.

"I deserve to know. You owe me an explanation."

"Fuck off Pamela."

"No. I'm not leaving before i hear the truth. I know you're in pain, i feel the same pain everyday. And i've always wished for someone to incite me to talk about it, but no one did. So here i am, asking you to just talk."

He lied down on the floor with his chest rising and falling wildly from the intensity of his activity. Closing his eyes, he wondered why can't he simply shut her out like he does with everyone else. It was his speciality. What changed since the day he completely broke her heart? Why is she weakening him? He wasn't sure he wanted the answer.