Chapter fifty — Reminiscing

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December 8, 1987

It's been less than twenty-four hours since I buried my father's ashes, and I still regret leaving the cemetery. It's obvious I can't live there, but ... I wasn't ready to leave. Michael made me so much happier, though; the way he held me in his arms as it snowed all around us, and the way he kissed me ... It made a sad day just a little bit better.

Today, I don't really feel like doing anything. I'm normally something of a productive person, but ever since dad died, it's kind of been the opposite. Michael has probably been more productive than I have this month, despite having lost his entire family, minus Reiss.

But I absolutely adore the idea of celebrating Christmas with everybody this year. It'll make the bitterness of losing everyone just a tiny bit sweeter. I have no idea what to get for Michael yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something. He told me that he already knows what he's going to get me, but he just needs to get it. He's so sweet.

"Michael?" I call him softly, earning his attention. We're both sat on the sofa together, but he was watching one of those home video shows he likes. Once he's watching those, it's difficult to take him out of his trance. He doesn't respond, so I repeat. "Michael?"

This time, he hears me, so he turns his head to look at me. "Hm? What, Cit?" Automatically, a smile forms on his face.

"Do you want to do anything today?" I question him, raising my brows to show my genuine interest.

He licks his upper lip in thought. "Um ... " He then opens his mouth, but hesitates, so he closes it again.

"What were you going to say, Michael?" I ask. "Come on; tell me."

He sighs gently, shrugging casually. "Well, I was going to say ... I'd like to go to my old house, and just ... I don't know. Maybe there's still some stuff in there that I didn't know about. I'd like to explore it a little."

"But won't the police need to keep it exactly as it is for the investigation?" I frown, rubbing his knuckles with my thumb comfortingly.

"I thought about that." He purses his lips as he thinks. "Perhaps if we asked permission ... or if an officer came with us; make sure we don't take anything important – even though we know who did it."

"Perhaps that could work," I evaluate briefly. "You sure you want to go there? It won't hurt you too bad?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm ready to go back. It's been four months, now. I know I'll be emotional, but ... it won't feel as raw as it did before ... I hope."

In understanding, I nod my head. "Okay. We can get in touch with the police and find out for sure about what we can do."

*  *  *

Two hours later, and we've been told we can go to the house, as long as we have an officer with us. They're still investigating the house all over, and normally they wouldn't let people go to the crime scene. However, because by now they know we wouldn't wreck anything or sabotage anything, they're trusting us to go.

Now that it's a little more real, Michael seems a little nervous. We're walking with the officer to the house, and he's got his head down, and he's looking at the floor. His hands are stuffed into his winter coat's pockets. His curls are half-pulled back into a pony tail, whilst the rest of his hair is loose. His baby strands are freely moving around in the breeze, but he doesn't seem to notice nor care.

As we approach the house, he becomes a little more alert as to what's around him. He looks up, sees the house up ahead, and sighs in acknowledgement.

"Okay; here we are," the officer says, his tone a little cold, but not uninviting. He's first to reach the front door, and he opens it ajar, after unlocking it. "I will be coming inside with you, to check you don't move anything of significance. Other than that, I'm trusting you to walk around freely. If you do move anything out of place, or contaminate anything, I'll do my best to make sure everything is sorted out."

"Thank you," I answer, on behalf of both Michael and myself. My eyes then avert to Michael, and I see that he's struggling to come to terms with even being here, let alone being inside. "Are you sure you're ready for this, Michael?" I ask him in a mutter, one final time.

His eyes dart in my direction, before flitting to the house, then back to me. Hesitantly, he nods. "Now or never." He walks towards the officer, and widens the gap of the open door. "Come on, Citria."

I follow him, arriving at the door, just as he fully enters the house. The first thing I really notice is the temperature. There's a certain chill about it, that really adds an eerie feel to the room. It's also dark because the lights aren't switched on, and the curtains are closed, and the blinds are shut, in every window.

In the living room, there's not much left. There are still party banners and deflated or bursted balloons strewn across the carpet. And of course ... blood stains. That's one of the areas we can't touch, otherwise we may contaminate or wreck it.

Michael walks up ahead of me, silently taking in everything he can see. He steps over some of the party decorations, perhaps trying to avoid looking at them, and heads to the staircase through the door. We head up the stairs, and to the bedrooms – which I believe are safe to freely explore.

First, we enter Michael's room. It must be weird for him to see this room again, seeing as he hasn't slept in here for almost four months. And judging by his expression – a sad, yet reminiscent one – my prediction is correct.

He doesn't really take the time to explore his own room, so he moves on to his brothers' rooms. Within each of these rooms, he pauses for a few minutes, and simply gives himself time to reflect on each sibling as he gets to them.

So then, he moves on to his sisters' rooms. First, he comes to Rebbie's room, which is filled with pink, girly lights and music from male artists piled up into high stacks of records. Though she was a grown adult, she seemed to be pretty simple to please. Michael spots all her makeup at her desk, and sighs a little.

"She was crazy for makeup," he speaks, for the first time in about five minutes. "Experimenting; finding ways to make herself look good ... but she didn't even do it for herself. She wore it to impress boys." He furrows his brows, and approaches the makeup desk. He fingers the eyeliner pencil, lifting it up with his fingers. "I wish I could go back, and tell her to stop wasting her time ... " He begins to tear up a little, and this raises his voice a little louder. "She barely had any time left!"

"I know, Michael ... " I frown, comfortingly running my fingers through his curls. "It's the worst that we can't go back and change anything ... "

By now, he's a little calmer. His tears still cling to his irises, but with one blink, they fall either side of his face, and down his cheeks. "I know," he says weakly. He shakes his head gently, as if trying to dismiss the topic. Then, he sighs again, before slipping out the room, to the next one.

We next arrive at LaToya's room, which – like Rebbie's – is soft and feminine. However, instead of the obvious pink theme, it's a cooler purple shade, instead. There are a few worn posters of male movie stars scattered here and there over the walls, and her bed isn't made.

"She had those posters for years," Michael explains. "She kept saying she was going to take them down. But she had such a busy lifestyle, that she never had the time. Always out with friends; always socialising; always ... somewhere. Somewhere other than home."

Nodding in acknowledgement, I suddenly feel a presence behind me. My head turns, and I see the officer standing there. I almost forgot he was here with us.

"Hey, look," Michael says, instantly gaining my attention again. He points at a strange stain on the wall by LaToya's bed, which earns a confused glance from me. He then chuckles softly, licking his lip to rid the dryness. "That stain has been there for quite a while, now. I did it. Remember I'm a prankster?"

"I remember you saying," I answer.

"Well, I filled a water balloon full of some weird ink stuff, and I threw it at her. She ducked, but it hit the wall behind her and splattered everywhere!" He laughs, revealing his gorgeous smile. It makes me so happy, to see him this way – seeing the positive within the negative.

"Wow," I snicker, to try and maintain the lighthearted atmosphere that surrounds us. "I wish I saw that."

"You shoulda been there! It got her right in the back of her head! She had to wash her hair six times to get that stuff out!" His laughter dissolves slowly, but a grin still remains. "Best part was that mom didn't scold me. She found it funny. So did dad."

"Sounds crazy," I comment in amusement, before walking backwards towards the door. "Which room do you want to go in next?"

After letting his hyped-up mood subside, he clears his throat. "Uh ... Janet's room," he answers. He arrives at LaToya's door with me, and we both walk to the next door. This door has Janet's name written on it the way Michael's does; a childlike door sign, decorated with colourful spots and stripes.

As we enter, I first notice how different this room is to Rebbie's and LaToya's. For a start, the walls are a deep blue, and there's a boom box on the desk, as well as a record player. There are records of rock groups and rock stars; and there are only dark items of makeup on the desk. Black eyeliner; black mascara; dark blue eye shadow; black lipstick ... the list goes on. Janet seemed to be something of a rebellious girl.

"I like this room," I admit, following Michael inside. "It's so cool."

Michael slowly walks around the room, taking in everything about it. His amused state has vanished now; he's a lot more serious than before. As he arrives at a chest of drawers, he notices one drawer is open. Once I'm by his side, I spot a piece of paper inside it, with writing on.

He lifts the paper from the drawer, and skims his eyes over it. "Wow ... I remember this," he states, a faint smile forming on his lips as he speaks.

"What is it?" I question, trying to read what it says, over his shoulder.

"I'll give you a little context first," he chuckles. "When we were younger, we had a playful sibling rivalry. One night, I snuck out to go to a party with my friends. I was probably about sixteen; seventeen. Janet found out about it, and in the morning, I had a hangover. I pretended to my mom that I was sick. Janet posted this piece of paper under my door."

Shaking my head in amusement, I take the paper from his hands, and read the first line aloud. "I know you snuck out last night." Lifting my head, I can't help but laugh. "I like this girl already."

"We had a whole conversation on that paper," he points out, using his finger to indicate where he replied. "That's what I said. The conversation goes downwards."

My eyes read the notes silently.

You can't tell mom, Janet.

You can't stop me, Michael

I think I can.

How?? Hahaha

I'll do anything. Please, I'm sick. Let me be.

Fine, you can do my math homework for a month

What? No way! And anyway, I suck at Math!

Fine, you can do my biology. I know your good at that

Fine. But you're clearly no good with homophones. It's "you're", not "your".

Like I care about spellings, hahaha

But if I do this homework, will you shut up about last night?

Sure sure

Neat! Thanx, Dunk!

Ok bro ;)

As I finish reading the notes, I can't help but feel I've learnt more about both Janet and Michael individually. Janet seemed to be quite a sassy, rebellious girl; but yet she loved her brother, and would do anything for him if she needed to. Michael, on the other hand ... he used to be pretty reckless, and didn't really think of the consequences until after he'd carried out the actions. That's pretty cute.

"How come she still had this?" I ask, handing it back to him. "But it's really cute."

"Thank you. And, well ... she said she was keeping it, in case I didn't do what she wanted me to do. Kind of like blackmail, I guess." He snickers softly. "But I'm going to keep it myself now, for sentimental value. God, I miss her." His eyes, once again, fill with tears; but after blinking a few times, they dissolve away, and he forces a smile. "I mean, I miss them all ... but Janet was the one I was closest to."

"I understand," I assure him, rubbing his back to soothe him a little. "So ... where to next?"

"I want to go to mom and dad's room," he mutters, already turning to leave Janet's room.

We then walk to his parents' room, which is decorated very sophisticatedly. There's patterned wallpaper – which isn't overkill – and wooden flooring. There's a large wooden wardrobe, and a double bed with gorgeous blankets. It looks lovely.

"This is nice," I smile, watching Michael begin to explore, himself.

He nods in agreement, approaching the large wardrobe. "It sure is neat," he responds, opening the door to it. "Maybe I could take an item of clothing from both my parents. Just a little keepsake, I guess."

"That's a good idea." To see what he's doing, I stand by his side; watching as he rummages through the clothing, which is all hung up tidily. Between his mom's and dad's clothing, there's a little divider, to separate them.

"I think I'll take this," Michael decides, drawing out a pink scarf from his mother's side. "This was mom's favourite scarf. She wore it all through Winter. Try telling her she couldn't." This causes him to laugh softly at his own comment, before he starts to search through his father's clothing.

At one point, he comes across a belt, and he pauses, just looking at it. His expression becomes saddened, and he takes it gently in his hand. " ... This belt holds a bad memory ... " he explains quietly.

"What was it?" A frown forms on my face in sympathy. "I-If you don't mind me asking."

"My father was a wonderful man. Very gentle. So sweet. But one time, I really got him angry. He never hits; he never kicks; he never does anything physically violent. But this one time ... " He pauses briefly, looking down at the belt once more. "This one time, I made him real mad. Around age thirteen, I guess. He took this belt off – he was wearing it – and he just lost control of himself and hit me with it. I was screaming; crying; cowering down." He shakes his head at the memory, smiling through his tears. "As soon as he realised what he was doing, he immediately stopped, and apologised. He pulled me into a hug, and told me he lost control. He promised it would never happen again."

"And did it happen again?" I ask.

He shakes his head again. "No. He kept his promise for the rest of his life. But every time I see that belt, it just brings back that memory ... "

"I'm sorry," I apologise, feeling saddened at his reminiscing.

"It's cool." His eyes move downwards, and he spots something at the bottom of the wardrobe. "There's a Christmas present down there."

"A Christmas present?" My brow raises in curiosity.

"Yeah. Mom always got them early, so she didn't need to worry in, like, November or December. Maybe I'll take them, and open them on Christmas Day ... you know, in honour of everybody." He takes the visible present in his hand, then spots more and takes those, too. After, he takes a shirt of his father's. "Can't forget my keepsake for dad."

"Very true," I chuckle, taking some of the other presents. "And it's sweet that you're going to celebrate Christmas in their honour this year."

He nods in acknowledgement. "I guess. Everything I do is for them ... and for you. You're all that matters to me."

In appreciation, I kiss his cheek, before we both go back to collecting the presents.

~~

This chapter took me about five mornings to write. xD
I figured I'd update seeing as I still have multiple other chapters I've pre-written for this story that have gone unpublished so far. Don't worry, you'll get them eventually. :P
Hope you enjoyed this chapter, anyway! :)