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Father had been acting… odd lately. Drinking and staying out late into the night. Muttering to himself.
The oddest since Elizabeth went– well…
Michael felt like he was watching a train wreck in slow motion nowadays; floating in grief and loss of things that hadn’t even happened yet, and wholly unable to do anything but watch.
He knew it wasn’t healthy, that he was supposed to talk to someone about that– but who, who exactly is he supposed to talk to?
His dad? No, not gonna happen.
Not when the old man was usually either drunk, actively ignoring Mike or at work.
The mere thought of trying to make conversation made him cringe.
Still, some small, pathetic side of him really wanted to talk to his father about it, about everything. Maybe to salvage something out of this poor excuse of a family.
… Maybe it would make it easier to breathe, make it easier to sleep.
But it was difficult when the man rarely was home anymore.
Michael supposes he doesn’t have much of a reason to…
He pushed the thought away, deliberately staring into the darkness. The shadows started to dance in his eyes the longer he looked at them– watched them.
It was nothing, it was. He’s just being stupid again.
But… it didn’t help that he had been… hearing things lately.
Not like insane things– apart from the seemingly never-ending beep sound that he never could track where it came from– and the dark figure behind his window that stared–
Michael tried to force a breath in.
He knows how it sounds; no need to remind him.
But he can’t help how… familiar the stare felt… It lingered in his mind when he was at school– when he was skipping– when he was trying to fall asleep… almost like the eyes wanted him to… follow… them…
Right.
He had yet to mention any of it to his father.
No surprises there; that really could be the final nail in the coffin (Michael can already imagine the disappointed sigh that would follow that revelation) and Michael wouldn't even be surprised if his father just left him at the side of the road were Michael to mention any of it to him.
Michael sighed.
He wouldn’t be surprised if his father had noticed something was off about him anyway; his dad could really be perceptive when he got his head out of his ass and didn’t have a bunch of kids to manage.
Well, “manage”.
The rain continued beating against the roof and the soft tapping sound somehow got more insistent; if not plain annoying.
Michael’s pretty sure they had a leak somewhere; he probably should mention that to father.
Or try to fix it himself.
One or the other. Whichever comes first.
Michael closed his eyes again– and tried to concentrate on the steady drumming of the rain. But frowned when he felt a cold breeze travel through his room and steal his attention.
Like a window or a door was left open…
He frowned and sat up, peering through the darkness– squinting at it. Trying to remember if he had–
There was someone in the house.
He could hear them moving around in the living room; slow steps sliding against the floorboards, like they were really trying to be quiet– but failed horribly.
The cold dug into the flesh of his feet as Michael bolted out of his bed.
His eyes wide as his heart hammered in his chest, he had no clue what he was supposed to do– they’re in the middle of nowhere for crying out loud– yet he flew out the door anyway.
He ran down the halls as quietly as he could, working his way around each and every loose board he knew of as he approached the sound.
A light was on, the one by the front door that flickered, but it was too dim to make out who it was.
A sniffle broke the silence and Mike’s heart stopped its hammering. If only briefly.
He frowned at the strange familiarity in the foreign sound (feeling a pang in his very soul as his mind forced the image of his brother to the forefront of his brain, like the sound was even comparable in the first place, he quickly forced it back down).
He began to stalk closer, his feet feather light, holding his breath until he could finally make out–
His father; just his father.
Michael let out a sigh of relief at the realization; and despite the short stumbling steps, it didn’t seem like his father was drunk either.
Not drunk yet, considering how hard his hands were shaking.
Like they were freezing cold. Like they were itching for something to hold.
Mike didn’t even need to ask to know it wouldn’t be him.
His father shoved something into his pocket with a low mutter (something long and red, satin-like, Michael didn’t like what it reminded him of– whom it reminded him of) and turned around, cursing quietly to himself.
He froze when their eyes locked.
They stared at each other, both silent and perfectly still like neither of them quite knew how to talk to the other anymore.
Michael probably would have found the look on his father’s face comical, if only he had the energy for that sort of thing anymore.
That joy had been sucked out last summer. And whatever was left had been beaten into the ground by mid-autumn.
So they breathed, softly, visibly– like they both had startled the other. William’s straight bridge of his nose stained with something dark, his nostrils flaring lightly with his inhale. Michael’s own was more crooked, mostly from when he had gotten into a fight last week. Mostly.
The longer the awkward silence went on, the more different his dad began to look– small differences that weren’t there last Michael had seen him at the principal's office.
Like the way his cheekbones jutted out of his face, or how sickly pale– almost greenish– his skin was.
It’s probably the light, Michael rationalized, trying not to worry. He’s not just gonna drop dead, dumbass.
But then Michael’s eye caught something even more off-putting.
A wet sheen over the empty stare and a slimmer of red at the corners.
The worry took hold; Michael hoped nothing bad had happened.
“Michael–” His father finally gasped out, his silver stare glistening harsher in the dim light.
“I thought you were in bed.”
“Couldn’t sleep– I thought you were working?”
“I was, “ His father assured, his voice already settling into something more normal; calm and even, soothing in a way that really wasn’t.
Like a cold cup of lemonade on a freezing winter morning– or a cup of steaming hot cocoa on a sunny summer day.
Michael’s brows furrowed but his dad didn’t pay it any mind, he usually didn’t, instead prying off his jacket.
“I just needed to take a break.”
Michael dubiously eyed the drenched clothes his father was wearing while the man poked around his pockets for something– the garage keys? – before letting out a confused sound.
His dad paid the sound no mind, instead patting through his clothes with increasingly more frustrated mutters.
Michael, after carefully considering his words for a brief second, said, “In the rain?”
His father’s jittery movements came to a stop, his hands freezing in place as he finally looked back at Michael again. Then with a puzzled look he glanced down, as if only now noticing how obviously wet his clothes were.
He blinked down at them, before clearing his throat and offering his usual stiff smile.
“Merely a drizzle.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Right…” he said, didn’t bother to insist on it, usually his whines about the weather were met by father’s long tangents about the shittiness of the English weather instead.
No need to beat that dead horse.
His father stared at him a second longer– as if assessing him– before shaking his head and leaning down.
Michael’s eyes trailed down with the man as he started to pry off his shoes– sneakers of all things, in a color that probably once was yellow (why would anyone own a pair of yellow sneakers of all things? Since when did they own a pair–)
Michael frowned when his eyes fell to the hands.
Or more accurately, the sleeves of father’s shirt that were coated with dark, wet mud.
He had clearly tried to wipe them clean with not so good results; it was spread everywhere. And when Michael’s eyes trailed a little to the side, even his blue jeans– Michael didn’t even know his father owned a pair– were coated with the same stuff in huge dark patches.
The stains only started a little above his ankles though, like he had attempted to wear something over them; the shoes themselves looked weathered and wet, but not muddy.
Michael didn’t say anything as the mostly clean shoes were left on the floor, his father stumbling past him, and Michael instinctively followed him.
He stopped at the doorway while his father continued his way around the kitchen table unsteadily.
His father’s hands were firm, forceful even, as he pulled open one of the cabinets. The one where his father stored a bottle of whiskey.
The one Michael was supposed to pretend wasn’t there.
Michael frowned; he tried not to.
Something was wrong. That much was obvious; father usually at least attempted to keep the location of the bottle a secret.
Obviously, it never really had been one– his dad was rarely ever at home and Michael had too much time on his hands.
It wasn’t like his dad even noticed if some of it was gone either– but Michael had been pretending cluelessness for his father’s sanity.
Especially after…
“... Mike, “ His father started, taking another swig of the whiskey and startling Michael. His voice was low, breathless in a strange kind of way, his back turned to Michael as he leaned against the counter, gripping his bottle tightly, “you should go to bed, you have school tomorrow.”
Michael’s frown furrowed in displease at the mention of school. He didn’t move to leave though. The tenseness of his dad’s shoulders made him want to hesitate.
They shook lightly then. Like breathing itself was becoming a difficult chore his dad couldn’t perform anymore.
Michael bit his tongue.
“Okay, “ he whispered and turned on his heel.
He quickly made his way back to the door of his room.
But he paused there, his fingers drumming a beat into the doorframe as a childish kind of hope flared in his chest.
Mike glanced back at his father. He could see the hunched back and the outline of the bottle.
Michael cleared his throat. Or tried to.
“Goodnight, “ He whispered, barely breaking the quietness of the house.
Silence passed in slow seconds, the grandfather clock ticking slowly upstairs.
His father might not have heard him– or just plain ignored him; he did that sometimes. But just as Michael began to close his door, he heard the whiskey roughened voice of his father break the festering silence.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
The door to his room closed and Michael stood there for a second, mind blank yet screaming, not exactly leaning against the door but it was a close thing.
Father rarely answered those sorts of things anymore. Barely acknowledged him anymore. Michael felt worry grow over the potentiality of bad news, felt it fester and storm in his gut.
He still hoped for a peaceful morning– begged for it– doubt screaming in his ear.
No more bad news. He doesn’t think he can handle them anymore.
No more bad news…
Though there usually was.
Michael heard something break in the kitchen and he winced.
There usually was…
He sighed and finally climbed into his bed, pulling back his blanket as he heard something else break– it might have been a glass– as he curled under covers and laid down.
His eyes fluttering closed to the sound of his father stumbling through the house, muttering half-finished sentences as he passed Michael's door.
And then, returned, the footsteps freezing by his door as the mutter came to a stop.
There was an eerie moment of silence before Mike heard the small mechanical release of the door handle.
Though the door itself didn’t open.
Another moment of silence and the footsteps began again, the sound quickly growing distant as his father walked away.
Michael rolled his eyes and burrowed further into his blanket, sighing heavily when the ruckus started again.
But despite the unnecessary noise, Michael found it easy to finally fall into his usual restless slumber.
After all, even if Michael was familiar with silence, he was more used to uncomfortable noise.
Because silence, silence, was stifling in a way noise never was.