Chapter 8
Michael thinks he might be falling apart.
Gerry knows something. He has to know something, otherwise, how would he know what-how would he—
Michael’s pulse pounds in his ears as he gasps for breath, grappling to understand what exactly he just saw. Fumbling with his keys, he drops them twice before he lets himself into the castle, stomach turning as his eyes land on that goddamned painting that looks so much like-like—
The tiles of the bathroom are cool under his knees, the porcelain bowl of the toilet an anchor as he vomits up his dinner, tea, ramen and all. Acid burns his throat and nose, the image of the doorknob, the eye, his eye burned into his mind. Dry heaving at this point, he tries not to choke, spitting up saliva and stomach acid into the mess already coating the bowl.
“What the fuck,” he gasps into the bowl, tears streaming down his face, the room closing up around him as he wipes his mouth clean, fumbling for his phone, clicking the first number that comes up as he collapses against the wall, choking back sobs.
After a few rings, a sleepy voice finally answers with a thin little “Michael?”
“Ms. Craye?” He gasps in relief, closing his eyes, still dragging in labored breath after labored breath. “Berta--Berta Jeane?”
“Yes, it's me. Michael, are you alright, boy?”
“I—” he can't reply, too busy trying to catch his breath, he can’t-he can’t take a breath—
“Michael!” She finally snaps, voice sharp and concerned. “Take a breath, dear, in, out, with me!”
That shatters something, and finally, finally, he gulps down a lungful of air, releasing it on a sob.
“Good, very good Michael, another one.”
Breath after breath, his mind finally quiets enough to let him listen to her soothing murmurs across the line, her voice firm and warm.
“Just like that, you’re quite alright, my boy.”
Her boy, so grandmotherly and tender, Christ, there’s something wrong with him, a lump forming heavy and thick in his throat. Theres a moment of silence where he just focuses on making his lungs work before he finally whispers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-I wasn’t thinking…I’m sorry I called so-so late—”
“Shh, you’re alright, I was up anyways, getting myself some milk.”
“Ah,” Michael says after a pause, trying to steady himself, latching onto that little detail of milk, voice hoarse and shaking. “Is it any good?”
“Would be better with some tea. Do you have any tea at your apartment Michael?”
“N-no, I think I just ran out, why?”
“Shame…if only I had an unlimited supply of tea and a very nice sofa for chatting. Would you like to be alone right now, Michael?”
“Not at all…”
“Are you at that place of yours, the Castle?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to call a cab for you, to come over and have some tea?”
“It’s late, I don’t- I can’t impose,” he says, and it comes out as a whimper, clutching the phone up to his ear.
“No imposition if I invited you, dear, now would you like to come over or not?”
He’s quiet for a moment, breathing still a bit uneven, before he nods, curling tighter into himself. “Yes, I would.”
“Very good, your cab should be there soon, would you like to stay on the phone?”
Would he? No, he decides, he thinks he needs to brush his teeth and change his clothes before seeing her again. “No, I should hang up. I’ll see you soon, though.”
“Alright then, call me if anything happens, we can talk this out when you arrive, alright?”
“Alright, Ms. Craye.” He reaches to hang up before pausing. “And Berta Jeane…?”
“Yes, boy?”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” There’s a smile in her voice, soft and careful. “Travel safe, Michael, I’ll see you very soon.”
Hanging up, he slumps back against the wall, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes to shove back the tears. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He can’t get it out of his head, the pride in Gerry’s eyes, the way he’d been so excited to show Michael the painting of—
He can’t forget the way the earth slid out from under him as he looked at that goddamned piece of art, his own eyes looking back, remembers feeling trapped, drug in by that anguished gaze, can’t burn away the horrified look on Gerry’s face when Michael pushed him away.
A monster.
That’s what Michael is, and Gerry is not, will never be a monster, not like Michael is. Gerry is something bright, beautiful and burning, and bright, beautiful boys don’t fall in love with boys like Michael. Sunshine boys don’t fall for monsters.
Michael is going to ruin Gerry if they keep going like this.
Shoving himself off the floor, he flushes the toilet and stumbles to the sink to splash some water onto his face. He tries to avoid the mirror, watching the plug in the sink melt and twist, feels the hair prickle in the back of his neck, and it’s only then that he dares to think that maybe it’s not him who’s doing this. Looking up, he meets his own reflection in the mirror, eyes red rimmed, face tearstained, hair a mess. A shadow flickers behind him in the low, greenish light of the bathroom sink, almost like too-long fingers extending towards him. Whipping around, Michael is met only with his own shadow, plain, human, and by the time he looks back to the mirror, everything is normal once more and the sink plug is just a perfectly natural sink plug. Hands shaking, he pulls the loose hair back into his ponytail, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he avoids his reflection once again.
“You’re alright,” he whispers, bracing himself against the cold ceramic basin, white knuckling the edge. “You’re alright.”
He repeats this mantra over and over until his cab arrives, leaving his vomit and sweat soiled clothes on the floor by his cot, swearing to clean it all up when he gets home later and changes into a pair of sweatpants and a too-big pullover. The ride to the Craye house is silent, and he loses himself in the blissful black outside the window. Michael has never been afraid of the dark; it’s always been a solace, a protective cloak, a shelter where the daylight left him exposed. As a child, he used to hide in cupboards and closets, shoved blankets up to the cracks, just to get a little peace, a little sleep when the nights became too much, when angry foster fathers would come home during the late hours with pungent, alcoholic breath and too heavy hands, Sometimes, Mchael thinks that the darkness is all he’s ever truly had.
Tipping the driver, Michael limps up the long, white pebbled driveway, knocking on the back door as the front is always deadbolted and dead to outsiders until at least 9 o’clock the next morning. Berta Jeane answers almost immediately, ushering him inside, looking every inch the stereotypical old lady, her hair in pin curlers and her body swathed in yards of soft, cozy looking fabric, the color a muted purple, lived and loved. Before he can say anything, she’s shutting the door and hugging him, her frail little arms tight around his ribs. Despite himself, Michael’s eyes sting as he hugs her back, bending down a bit to rest his forehead in the space between her neck and shoulder, his hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Pulling back, she pats his face with one wrinkled hand, her skin smelling of baby powder and just as soft. “Are you alright, Michael?”
Nodding mutely, he soaks up the contact, her warmth soothing his aching soul.
“Good. Now, make us some tea and then we can chat.”
Giving her a weak smile, he moves to set up the kettle, clearing his throat before speaking. “Thank you for letting me come over, I know it’s late. I just-I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s called a panic attack,” Berta Jeane says sagely, and Michael has half a mind to assure he knows exactly what those are but holds his tongue as she’s been incredibly kind thus far, and it’s a wonder she even let him inside this late. Glancing at the clock on the stove, he grimaces at it. 9:43, that’s nearly three in the morning by Berta Jeane’s standards, the woman goes to bed at six every night.
“You were quite good at helping me manage it,” he says, giving her another smile, this one more genuine.
“My husband was an army medic, he used to get them quite often when we were younger.”
Curiosity piqued, Michael gives her a questioning look but doesn’t ask. Afterall, she rarely mentions him, and Michael assumes it’s a sore subject, so he never pushes, merely files the tidbits of information away. Berta Jeane sighs. “They were quite like yours, actually, he couldn’t breathe, he often just needed a bit of instruction to get him back going. Then they started producing medicine and such for those sorts of things, and once he got on some pills for his anxiety, things got considerably better for him for awhile.”
“Yeah? That’s good, I’m glad he got those.”
“Do you take anything like that, Michael?”
Michael tries not to wince as he remembers the last time he tried to get his hands on something like that, the way his foster parents had dumped the things down the toilet. By the time he’d grown old enough to get them by himself, he’d learned to manage his mental health well enough that he assumed he didn’t need them anymore. “No, I don’t, Ms. Craye.”
Compartmentalizing, that’s the word Emma had used, sneering and smug. Dissociation.
Management, is what Michael had told himself it was later, after googling what those meant. It was a way to manage his emotions, nothing more.
Ms. Craye merely hums, looking thoughtful as Michael adds tea leaves to a steeping ball and drops it into the kettle. There’s a silence in the kitchen as he finishes the tea, pouring it into two mugs and adding the fixings. The well-practiced routine soothes his frayed nerves long enough for Michael to carry the cups to the couch in the living room, taking a seat at one corner and letting Berta Jeane take the other.
“There we go,” he says, sliding her the mug. “Just how you like it.”
“Thank you, dear.” She accepts the cup, taking a slow sip before speaking again. Her dark blue eyes are intent as she watches him, her brow furrowed. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened earlier to cause such a reaction in you?”
“I—” how exactly does one tell their employer that their ex-crush now crush again (god, crush is such a stupid word, he’s 35 for gods fucking sakes) somehow created a painting portraying his past self that was possessed by insanity incarnate and it triggered what was potentially one of the worst panic attacks of his life? You don’t. “I was out with a friend and I just-I saw something that just set me off. Something that reminded me of something that happened a few years ago, you see? It’s something I don’t like thinking about much, something I’ve been trying to move past for a while now.”
Berta Jeane nods, expression softening. “I do see. Would you like to talk about it?”
“No,” Michael says, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. He’s most likely already lost Gerry, he’s not willing to lose Ms. Craye now too. Her hand lands on his knee, gentle and soothing, and he drags in a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “No, I-I’d rather not think about that now, if that’s alright with you…?”
“Alright. Would you like to talk about this friend you were with?”
“Oh. He-he’s complicated too.”
“Good complicated or bad complicated, Michael?”
If only he knew himself. “Both, maybe. I think I might be the problem though.”
“Maybe you’re complicated too. That doesn’t make you a problem or a burden, Michael. It just makes you human.”
Looking down into his tea, he blinks hard to hide how his eyes are stinging. God, he’s such a mess right now, isn’t he?
Poor, disposable Michael. Weak, worthless Michael. You’ll never escape you pointless existence, will you? You’ll always be cast aside. You’ll always be a nothing.
The voice in his head sounds like Helen, sounds like Cary Brewer and his meek, silent wife who was just like Michael, sounds like he himself and Emma Harvey and Gerard and Gertrude and—
“Yes, perhaps.” His voice is soft, fingers tight around the handle of his mug. Ignore the voices. Manage.
Stupid boy. You think you can leave us behind?
“You’re a good person, do you know that, Michael?”
Good.
Michael’s never been good.
Michael has been so many things in his life, many wretched, terrible things, but he’s never been good; that was reserved for other people, better people than himself, people with potential and promise, not someone doomed from birth to be the fallback, to be the one forgotten. No one remembered Michael after he was Gone.
He wonders if anyone remembers him even now.
“Michael?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
Berta Jeane has this sad look in her eyes now, like she can read his thoughts and doesn’t like what she sees. “Nothing, just—”
“Yes?”
“You remind me of him. My husband. Always thinking, always so serious.”
Michael nods, taking a longer drink to avoid replying. The truth is, he doesn’t know what to say to that, to the fact that he reminds Ms. Craye of her dead husband. He wonders if it pains her to see the resemblance, or if she keeps him around to cling to that little piece of his past.
“Have you ever been in love, Michael?” Startled by the sudden change in subject, his eyes flick to hers, and she smiles. “I’m merely curious, my boy. I married my high school sweetheart, so I fear I don’t have much experience in the romance department.”
“That’s very romantic actually, and-I don’t know. I don’t know if it was love or not. I know he did not feel the same way, though, but I cared for him, very much.”
“What happened to him?”
“He—” Christ, here he goes again, throat clogging up and eyes stinging, he’s so fucking emotional, he needs to get a handle on himself. “He passed away a few years ago. Brain cancer. It was—” Clearing his throat, Michael blows out a heavy breath. “It wasn’t-he didn’t go quick, but he was strong about it.”
Gerry was so fucking strong at the end, he’d only clung to the bedsheets as silent, bitter tears leaked down his face, Michael remembers it like a ripple, like a dream, something he’d seen in one of his Mirrors, vague and ruinous even now.
“Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry.” Her hand squeezes his knee, and he gives her a watery smile.
“Thank you, Berta Jeane.”
“Of course. I think we’ve done enough chatting for tonight; we can talk more in the morning. You’re welcome to sleep on the couch, of course, and the guest room is also available downstairs.”
Nodding, Michael stands, pausing as Ms. Craye touches his elbow. “Sleep well, Michael. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, alright?”
Michael hesitates before leaning down to gently kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Berta Jeane. For-for everything, really.”
Berta Jeane gives him a warm smile, patting his arm. “Of course. Now you get to bed, alright? It’s quite late, and I suspect you’ve had quite the day.”
Michael has, this morning feels like a lifetime ago, helping Gerry with his tumble and buying Olivia beverages a million miles away in his mind. Giving her one last smile he doesn’t feel, Michael heads downstairs to the bottom floor, the air down here cool and dry. Locating some fresh sheets, he makes the bed up in the guest room, ignoring the room full of antiques, and garage, and the laundry area, instead locking the door, kicking off his sneakers before curling himself into bed. Moonlight shines through the singular window high by the ceiling, the walls painted a dull, minty green, the room filled with a soft, muted anguish that seems to leak from the walls.
Michael doesn’t mind; he’s accustomed to things steeped in tragedy, he himself is a creature made of such things. Turning away from the light, Michael tugs the blanket up over his head, cutting off the moons gaze.
It’s a relief when darkness finally swallows him up, leaving him empty, blissfully numb as he’s cradled to sleep in the arms of the shadows.