Haunted by a Ghost

Chapter 2: A Fair Question

Another day, another bottle of whiskey. At this point in his life, whiskey was quite possibly the only thing that actually served Michael De Santa in the way he needed—a cold, bittersweet, pungent drink to drown himself in as he reminisced the past—sitting on the edge of his bed. Perhaps he never really moved on, he recognized earlier that day, when his long lost 'friend' Trevor Philips appeared in his kitchen. Upon viewing him, Michael went white as a ghost—in fear of... Hell—in fear of what?

Truthfully, he didn't know what he actually feared at the thought of Trevor. Of course, he had internalized his fear that he might come murder him and then consume him in some cannibalistic fury. Or, more realistically, maybe his true fear lied within the memories that plagued him—dismantled him—to the point of unreality. Trevor was a psychopath, but when they were young, he was always good to Michael's family. Hell, the old man couldn't recall how many times the two of them would kick back on the couch with a couple of beers; five-year-old Tracey sitting on 'Uncle T's' lap while Michael cussed at his shitty box television that never seemed to have reception. Or even the many times that Trevor would take her out to play in the snow while Michael stared out the window—a bittersweet memory. Trevor would do anything for those kids, and as much as he couldn't stand Amanda, he would've taken the shirt off his back for the Townley family.

Perhaps the true fear was in recognition that Trevor was no longer the man he once was in North Yankton—no, he was something far worse—as if that was even possible. Seeing him in the kitchen earlier that day brought everything into a perspective too realistic, too uncomfortable to fathom. The Trevor Philips he knew was destructive and would raise hell at the sight of whatever he wished, but he was also kind and tender when he wanted to be. And yet, the Trevor Philips that stood in his kitchen was anything but tender. The darkness in his eyes told a story of someone who had been fucked over one too many times—too many times by 'yours truly.' The guilt was gnawing at his insides and plucking at his thoughts.

Trevor was no longer in his prime, that was for sure. The man Michael knew when he was younger was thin as bones—lanky and tall, with a couple tattoos. His hair, a mullet, and his face freshly shaven like a young boy—always a beer in hand. The man that stood in front of him was—was... A fucking mess, to say the least. His hair stuck out every direction, covered in grotesque tattoos, blood and grime under his nails, random scratches littering his body, and the smell—good God—you could smell him from a mile away. On his upper arm, track marks fell in random lines down in miscellaneous patterns—what kind of fucking drugs was this guy on now, anyway?

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his thoughts—trying not to remind himself of the events from the past day. He heard his phone vibrate on the night stand—a notification from 'Trevor' popping up. "Good fuckin' grief," he murmured, eyes scanning over a text that read, "Good 2 see u again, u miserable fuck!!!" Michael immediately ignored the text, placing his head in his hands. What in God's name did he do to deserve Trevor fucking Philips back in his life? Was this God's way of punishing him? Although he'd done a lot of things, resurrecting Trevor in his life was the epitome of hell. "What, u too good 2 even answer now?" Another text ignored. Michael needed sleep.

Peeling back the covers, he was just about to get into bed when Amanda came in—refusing to even look at her husband. Nowadays, that had been pretty common, but it still hurt. It was easy to remember the old days when he was young and in love, back when Amanda was strikingly beautiful, and he was a real charmer. As lovely as his wife was now, she just looked... Sad, to say the least. And for himself? God only knows what he looked like after years of post-traumatic stress, alcoholism, and pure, unadulterated, self-loathing. "Hey, Manda." He stated. As much as he hoped for a reply, he knew that he probably wouldn't receive one—as per usual.