Chapter fifty-five – Taking Control

**Trigger warning**
If anybody is sensitive to self-harm, I strongly advise that you only read the first half of this chapter, or skip reading this chapter altogether. Thank you. ❤️

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"Have you had a nice day today, Michael?" I ask him, hoping he will understand that I actually mean, 'as nice a day as it can possibly be'.

He sits up in bed beside me, his eyes drawn down to his stomach, which is covered by the blanket. Not necessarily to indicate there's an issue, but rather because he's simply staring into space.

"Yeah. It was nicer than I hoped it would be, considering everything." He shrugs subtly, eventually moving his eyes upwards, and to his left where I am. To reassure him, I give a small smile, which he reluctantly returns.

"I'm glad you did. And I'm glad you slept well last night too, and I'm glad you ate today." My brows knit together sadly. "I have noticed, sweetheart."

He doesn't say anything; he just shifts his gaze back to its original spot. He doesn't appear to be ashamed by what has happened, but he isn't happy. I guess he just feels trapped; as if there's nothing he feels he can really do about it.

"I know it's difficult, Michael. I've been there before. Not wanting to eat. The thought of it making you feel nauseous. Thoughts keeping you up at night. Sleep deprivation. The nightmares. I understand it, and I'm here to help you."

"You don't know what I'm going through," he mutters; not angrily, but more in a sense of wanting to prove his point without giving me too much detail. "And you don't need to worry about it. I'm capable of dealing with things myself. Nothing I can't handle, you know?"

"Sure," I acknowledge, not really believing it, but agreeing to avoid confrontation. "But I'm your partner. We're in this together. And if you need to talk to me about anything, you know I'm the girl to come to." I pause for a moment, half expecting at least acknowledgement from him. When I receive nothing, I give him a cautious glance. "You ... do know that, right?"

He hesitates for a moment or two, but then nods at last. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I understand." He smiles at me, which reassures me that he's at least somewhat comfortable with actually opening up to me.

"Good. So, whilst we're on the subject ... " I start, hoping it'll be the beginning of him telling me how he actually feels, "What's been going through your mind today?"

"Nothing really," he replies, "The usual stuff. Christmas. Presents. You, Clover. You know ... all the Christmassy stuff." He furrows his brows slightly as if contemplating how to end his response. " ... Christmas."

"Uh ... right." A small chuckle can't help but pass my lips as I smirk a little at him. "Anything else? You know ... feelings?"

"Feelings?" He lays himself down next to me, whilst I'm still sat up. "I'm too tired to think about that deep stuff right now, Cit. Let's talk some other time." He wraps his arm around my still-upright body, as if inviting me to lay next to him.

"Um ... okay." Giving in, I shuffle my body downwards so I'm laid next to him. His arm is now coiled around my waist. "Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight."

As he concludes the day's conversation, I turn my body around to face away from him, so it makes it easier for him to spoon hug me, from behind. Within a matter of minutes, I hear his breathing change, indicating he's fallen asleep. At least he genuinely was tired. And at least he's actually getting some sleep. And before me, for once. I'll definitely take that as a victory.

With this in mind, I too attempt to fall asleep, and after around a half hour, it happens.

* * *

-December 26, 1987: Boxing Day-

-Michael's Point of View-

Once I've come to the conclusion that Citria is finally asleep, it's already past midnight. Why would I want to talk about my feelings and burden her with all my problems? There's no way I'd do that to her. I'm just glad she got to sleep so that nothing I do, such as getting no sleep myself, will affect her. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.

To avoid moving on the bed too much and disturbing her, I slowly uncoil my arm from around her and remove the blanket from my body. The cold air hits me instantly, forming goosebumps on any exposed skin, but I don't mind the numbness it causes me. As I exit the bedroom, I turn my head once more to ensure that she hasn't awoken from my movement. Luckily, she's still sound asleep. In this knowledge, I close the door behind me and head downstairs.

Once I'm there, I go straight into the living room. The decorations almost look eerie in the lighting (or lack of it), what with the elf and reindeer statues scattered around. Not to mention the essentially life-sized Santa Claus that's stood in one corner of the room. He freaks me out the most. But that doesn't stop me from pacing slowly towards it, and looking it up and down as if I were a detective examining a suspect.

"So, Santa ... " I mutter slyly, halting my walking and placing my hands behind my back. "You know who's been naughty or nice, huh?" My lips contort slightly in thought. "The one that makes it all happen on the most ... 'special' day of the year. But let me ask you, Mr Jingle Bells." My fingers move to my chin, rubbing to recreate the classic 'thinking' pose. "Why, this year, did you feel it was necessary to give me the gift of grief and pain?"

In the darkness, the sculpted plastic and the poorly-painted facial features almost look demonic. The sickly, over-exaggerated grin partially-masked with the wispy white beard; the artificial glint in his mostly-lidded eyes; the rounded glasses which have turned a disgusting hue of brown-green due to rusting. Nothing about the piece is appealing in the slightest. And this fictional man is considered a huge icon by children all around the world.

"You're nothing but a disappointment," I conclude almost silently, turning my back on the oversized doll.

My eyes meet the Christmas tree located on the other side of the room, which admittedly looks a lot nicer in the lighting than other decorations do. Heading closer to the tree, I switch the fairy lights on so that it illuminates the entire room. The lights give my face a rainbow glow as I circle the tree, spotting every bauble I placed on it personally, and remembering the topic of conversation during the time I was hanging each one. I remember that Citria and I had been discussing celebrating Christmas in honour of everyone who had passed away, with Clover and Uncle Reiss. We'd all agreed that it would be a special day. And it almost was. But Uncle Reiss was meant to be here too. In fact, not even just Uncle Reiss. But everybody. My family; my friends and parents and siblings. Citria's mother and father. Clover's mother. Reiss' son Astrix, who I always thought hated me. All those people who should have been here, and they weren't because they were wrongfully taken.

But there's nothing I can do to change that. Not now. There could have been. I will forever wonder what would have happened if I'd have been there when Astrix started murdering my family. What would have happened if I'd have been there when Marco was bribing him; threatening him to do it in the first place. What would have happened if I'd have been there when Marco decided he wanted to end the lives of all of my family and friends. All these questions that I'll never have answered.

Feeling pain in my heart, I take a seat on the sofa and just gaze at the gentle flickering of the fairy lights on the tree for hours on end.

* * *

"Michael?" A light series of nudges causes me to stir in my sleep. "Michael?"

My eyes slowly open, adjusting to the daylight. The fairy lights are still switched on; I must have fallen asleep whilst watching them. At least I got, what? An hour of sleep. Better than nothing.

"Hey," I murmur sleepily.

"How come you're down here?" Citria questions, sitting on the sofa by my side. "Were you awake all night?"

"No, no." I'm lying a little, I suppose. "I came down here because I woke up in the middle of the night. Went to get a drink. Must have fallen asleep after putting the cup away."

"I see." She smiles at me, running her fingers through my hair. "So you slept good, would you say?"

"Uh, yeah. Definitely." My brows furrow from guilt from lying, but hopefully that isn't evident. To try and hide this, I smile at her, also hoping it's realistic.

"Well, that's great Michael." She kisses my temple and lifts herself from the sofa. "Breakfast? Or are you okay for now?"

"I'll grab something later," I respond, probably with no intention of following through with that statement.

"Sure. As long as you do." She pulls a face to indicate she isn't angry, sticking her tongue out at me playfully. "I'm thinking of going to dad's grave today if that's alright with you. And then I might go see Clover for, like an hour. Is that okay?"

"Of course. I'll just find stuff to do. Perhaps watch TV. You know."

She nods in agreement. "That's cool with me too. I'll fix myself some breakfast and then I'll head out."

* * *

Citria's gone now to her dad's grave, while I – on the other hand – am at home trying to tidy the bedroom a little. Not that I'm getting anywhere really, because it requires energy I don't have – especially with such a lack of sleep. I've been making silly mistakes along the way such as putting things in the wrong place, tripping over the bed, and knocking stuff over.

I just wanted to make the room look a little nicer for when Citria comes back. But that's proving a lot more difficult than I had hoped, seeing as all my mind is doing is thinking about everything with Marco. The thought of being the next to die terrifies me every day. Of course it isn't factual, but when you think about it, it makes sense. Citria's dad was the weakest of the group, and he went first. Reiss was by chance because the gun was probably meant to be aimed at me. So based on that logic it will be me. Living with this fear makes me feel sick to my stomach. It's all that I think about, really.

With how much is going on in my head; the sleep deprivation; the lack of energy; and my natural clumsiness when I'm exhausted, I end up knocking something off a shelf which causes me to grunt in frustration. However, when I hear a smash, my stomach knots up and I cringe in anger. My head turns slowly hoping not to see what I think I'll see; but sadly, my suspicions are confirmed when I see that I've knocked over not just any normal pot, but the back-up vase I got for Citria when I broke her original one not too long ago.

With all the mixed emotions about Marco and my family and my lack of sleep and my lack of eating and drinking and my fear and sadness and anger, I can't help but burst into tears. I kneel down before the broken pieces of pot, vowing to myself that I will fix it once again and put every shard back together.

"I'm so sorry Citria, I'm so sorry," I cry to myself, attempting to pick up some of the larger pieces so I can group them together. I'm on my hands and knees trying to collect it all into one small area. Tiny little cuts form on my fingers from the tiny fragments, which causes me to hesitate a little. Because of how numb I feel, the pain is very minimal, if nonexistent.

My head feels cloudy and dizzy, and without really contemplating thoroughly what I'm doing, my hand reaches to my opposite arm to raise the sleeve of my shirt so that my forearm is exposed. Then, the same hand moves to take a slightly larger piece of pot; one which is sharpened due to the angle it cracked at. Shaking, I raise the shard, ever-so-gently resting the sharpened point against my arm, close to my wrist. The sense of control I'm feeling from this is refreshing, even through knowing it's, perhaps, a bad idea. Applying a little more pressure to my wrist with the pot, my heart beats a little harder and a little faster, which triggers a feeling of adrenaline which pulses around my body. My breathing hitches as I drag the sharp edge against my skin, the colour crimson slipping lightly across my arm. The feeling of release is calming, and the sense of control exhilarates me. I don't feel much pain from it; only relief. Something I can finally take a hold of for myself. What a unique experience.

The hand which holds the pot eases, so I stop to examine the incision I've inflicted upon myself. It isn't hugely deep, but enough to have caused myself to bleed somewhat generously. I raise myself from the floor, making a beeline for my bedside table. After locating a scarf, I wrap the shard of pot inside of it and bury it deep inside the bedside drawer, among other objects. In a slight panic from not knowing when Citria will be home, I dash into the bathroom to wash away the blood from my skin. The cold water brings me back to reality and the numbness fades, causing the wound to start stinging gradually as the water hits it.

Once I've washed away most of the blood, I roll my sleeve down despite the stinging, so that it's covered when Citria returns. The hard part is, I think something like this could happen again.

I think I'm going to end up developing an addiction to it.

~~

Just to let you guys know, I am in no way advocating for self-harm because nobody should ever be made to feel like it is the only suitable way to deal with their emotions. It is a horrible and terrifying situation to be in and I only included this element to the story because it makes it a little more realistic in terms of what Michael is going through.

Nobody really knows this, but I myself have struggled with self-harm in my past and it is a place I would hate to be in again, and I hope that if anybody needs to talk to me about it, or anything else, you will come to me. Because I'd be more than happy to talk to you. You're never alone. ❤️

If the subject weren't so sad, I'd say I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I may even celebrate updating fast compared to previously. And I'm aware that among the negativity in the world right now, this chapter's themes may be ill-timed. However, I know people like me to update and this is what I wrote months back before everything started and I wouldn't want to change the storyline. But just know I took a lot of time writing this chapter in the hopes that I was able to sensitively but realistically handle the subject.

Whether you read all of that or not, I love you all. ❤️