Chapter nine – Always Here

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About forty-five minutes after the police arrive, Michael finally emerges from the living room, and I hear his footsteps coming up the stairs after he's let the officers out. Placing down my book, I wait for his arrival at the door of my room.

The knock eventually comes, and I call, "Come in". Michael opens the door from the outside, and when he enters the room, tears are visible in his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks are a darker shade than before.

"Oh, Michael!" I gasp, leaping up from the bed and dashing over to him, "What's wrong, Michael?" I embrace him without even thinking, and I feel his arms coil around my waist, "What did they say?"

He doesn't reply right away; instead he sobs against me, and I feel his fingers grasp my shirt at the back, before his fingers curl and tense up. In a motherly way, I pat his back and whisper a small, "Shh, it's okay."

"No it isn't okay!" He quickly pulls away from me, tears falling down his face, "It isn't okay, Citria!"

"But why?" I question desperately, "What did they say to you?"

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, before wincing and opening his mouth to let another sob escape. Then, he covers his face with his hands, and with muffled cries, tells me.

"They found bullet wounds in my mother and father's stomachs ... they were killed!" he explains hysterically, "Murdered!" he reiterates painfully.

At this new information, I feel my heart breaking for him more so than before. His parents were murdered by someone ... somewhere. But now of course, I wonder how the rest of his family were killed.

"Michael ... I'm so sorry," I apologise a little breathlessly, "Honestly, I-I'm really—"

"It's not your fault," he interrupts, his voice expressing his pure sadness in this moment, "Bu—I just want to find out who ... who did it!"

"And we will," I rest my hand on his lower arm, "We will find out eventually, and when we do, they'll be locked up for life, I guarantee."

Instead of answering my previous comment, he swallows, blinking rapidly to reduce the number of tears in his eyes. He then stands upright, looks behind me in a trance, and inhales deeply.

"Say ... " he begins, almost sounding mechanical. "I-I really want to hit something; let out my anger right now."

His sight is still fixated on what's happening behind me; yet so far in a trance that it's almost as if he isn't living in this world right now – like he's hypnotised.

I grab a pillow from the bed, and hold it up to my chest in front of him, "Here, Michael. You can use this. Hit it as hard as you want."

His breathing suddenly becomes louder, yet slower, as if all his built up anger is finally ready to come out, and then without giving me any kind of warning, he growls in anger and whacks the pillow with all his strength – almost sending me falling to the ground.

I topple a little, but manage to regain my balance. I avert my eyes to Michael, who looks willing to give the pillow even more abuse. So, again, I hold it up to my chest.

"May I?" he demands softly, yet his voice full of frustration.

"Go for it," I respond, and he does, once again, punching the pillow with all the energy that is built up inside of him. Knowing that he'll probably want to do it at least once or twice more, I keep the pillow up, and nod, "As many times as you like, Michael."

He punches the pillow another time, but before he can punch it again, he collapses to his knees in grief.

"My parents were murdered!" he cries out painfully, still sounding overwhelmed with shock, as well as a collection of other emotions, "They didn't even die naturally; it was murder!"

"Is that what they wanted to tell you apart from the interview questions?" I ask, trying to calm him down just a little. I kneel down by his side, tilting my head down to see his buried face under his trembling hands, "Is that it?"

He remains silent, but I see him nod his head in response to my previous question, and a rush of sympathy and sadness for him surges through me because of it.

"I'm just ... really sorry, Michael. If I could go back in time and stop all this from happening—"

"But you can't," he interrupts, his voice a frustrated mutter, "You can't stop it from happening at all."

I furrow my eyebrows, trying to think of a reply for this. The room falls silent, and all that can be heard right now is the sound of our breathing. Finally thinking what to say, I reach my hand up to touch the top of his head, where all his curls meet at the roots.

"Listen..." I start softly, stroking his curls from the scalp downwards to their ends, "I know that I've been telling you a lot lately; how to live your life, and what to do. But this is exactly why I'm doing that; you're not the same man you were forty-eight hours ago. Don't get me wrong, I know I never met you before then, but I can tell how much this has changed you. It's enough to make anyone change. But ... all I can do is try make you feel better, and, well ... I'm sorry if you don't like it. If your family were here, you wouldn't have to cope with me constantly—"

"Hang on," he interrupts yet again. He clears his throat to stop his voice from sounding croaky, before standing himself up slowly, wobbling a little, and making his way into the living room. I follow him, of course, and we sit on the sofa together. "Citria, I don't wish to sound morbid, or to offend any of my family in any way, but ... if they hadn't have died, I wouldn't know who my best friend was today."

I look down at the floor, deciding against eye contact right now. I understand what he means, but surely his family being alive would mean more to him than meeting me ... right?

"But Michael, I know you would much rather have your family here, than to have met me," I answer after much silence.

He inhales, holding his breath for a few seconds, before letting it all out as a large sigh. His anger and sadness seem to have faded away now, and in their place, it seems to be sincerity.

"Well, that's a huge thing, Cit. I never knew you when they were here, so I was able to cope without you. But now they're gone and you're here with me ... I'm learning to cope that way, too. Both you and my family are things I've had to learn to live without," he sits back in his chair, tucking his hands under his knees and rocking back and forth lightly, "I can't imagine not meeting you, but I can't imagine living without my family for the rest of my life. It's just ... complicated."

"I get that," I mutter. "But now it's a case of "You have no choice", I guess."

"Exactly my point. But before, I had the choice without even realising it."

I mutter a simple "Mm-hmm", unsure on what else to say as part of the conversation, now. I allow myself a few moments to think of a decent reply, before turning to look at him again.

"But I know in my heart that you would give anything to see your family again."

He knits his eyebrows together, his glance fixated on the floor now. My guess is that he's doing what I just did – trying to find a good answer to my previous statement.

"Of course I would – even my own life. But since it isn't going to happen, I have to get used to that idea."

Before I can say another word, he lifts himself up from the sofa and walks out of the living room – why, I'm not sure, so I follow him. He eventually comes to a stop when he arrives at the tree outside my front garden. Right now, I'm still at the doorway, so I'm at least five meters away from him.

"Uh, Michael?" I call.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to ... start making dinner," I tell him.

If I do that, then it'll give him some alone time in the fresh air. I think he needs that, to be honest. He nods to my statement, and then I walk to the kitchen, leaving him alone.

Today, I'm going to keep it simple. I still have some spare berries from the mixed-berry pie I made yesterday, so I can use those for dessert. Maybe I should've gone grocery shopping, because then we would have more to choose from. The only problem with that, however, is the fact Michael doesn't want to face public yet.

Finally settling on what to make, I begin preparations and place the food in the oven to cook. Today, it's simple – yet rather British – fish and chips, because I found some in the freezer.

After preparing dinner, I head back towards the front doorway, and I see Michael sitting under the tree, talking. About what, I don't know, but he's talking, and he's looking up at the sky. He's been doing this a lot lately, and I have to admit that I'm intrigued as to what he says every single time.

Realising that Michael hasn't noticed me yet, I slip through the doorway and into the garden. He spots me just as I get to him, and I join him on the grass.

"What were you talking about?" I ask him.

"Talking about? I-I don't know what you mean. Nothing at all, why?" he replies, almost seeming defensive.

"You were saying something ... I heard you Michael."

He touches his nose lightly with his fingers, remaining silent for a moment.

"I speak to mother and father," he admits.

I give him a soft, sympathetic smile, and rub his arm comfortingly, which eventually causes him to flash a quick, small smile in return.

"What do you say to them?" I question.

"Just random stuff, to be honest. I tell them what I've been doing, where I've been going ... I tell them about you, too; how good a friend you're being, and ... apologising."

"Why apologising?" My smile turns to a frown.

"Because I left them at the reunion simply 'cause I didn't like someone there. I let them all die, and if I had been there, I would be dead too. But I'm not, and that makes me feel sorry ... sorry for not being there, and sorry for not getting to see them—" his voice begins to tremble, and a small sob escapes his lips before he continues in a shaky whisper, "One ... last time ... "

"Oh, Michael," I sigh. "You can't change what happened, even though that's probably the thing that hurts the most. I wish it could be changed, but ... it can't. I'm sorry, Michael, I really am."

He knits his eyebrows together, nodding his head slowly, maybe slightly weakly. He almost looks as if he's numb right now – as if the idea of his entire family being gone is still so new to him. He looks lost, bless him.

"C-Can I take a hug right now?" he asks sadly.

"Of course," I answer him in a heartbeat.

My arms wrap around his body, and he embraces me in return. I allow his head to rest against my chest, seeing as we're both sat down against the trunk of the tree, and he sniffles quietly to try and stop himself from crying.

"I know I keep saying this, but ... I'm always here for you, you know," I remind him.

"I know," he replies simply. "A-And listen ... when we were by the lake, and I was close to killing myself ... I-I wasn't in my right mind. And ... I just wanted to say that I felt awful when I struck you. It's been on my mind since. I guess I just wanted to apologise for it ... "

A small smile forms on my face, "Don't worry about it Michael. Your head was all over the place; it wasn't your fault at all ... "

He exhaled loudly, "Thanks for forgiving me, Citria ... "

I nod, sighing softly, "No worries, Michael."

* * *

After dinner, I ask Michael what he wants to do to pass the time.

"Uh ... gee, I don't know," he tells me softly. "You can choose if you want to." He lifts his plate from the table, and carries it over to the sink, but I stand up and stop him before he can wash it up.

"No, Michael, it's okay; I'll wash it for you."

"No, no," he replies firmly, grabbing the cloth, "I will. You've done enough for me lately."

"But I don't mind—"

"I'm doing it," he asserts, using the cloth to wash his plate, "Now pass me your plate; I'll do it all tonight."

Feeling the need to avoid confrontation – jokey or not – I take my plate from the table and pass it over to him. I sit in my chair at the table, watching him wash up, and my mind wanders off into its own world.

I can't believe how much has changed in the past forty-eight hours; it's just incredible. Like, three days ago, I never even knew who Michael was. Three days ago, I was aiming to live a carefree life. Three days ago, I was—

"Citria!"

I widen my eyes and shake my head, hearing Michael's voice shatter my thoughts, "W-What?"

He lets out a chuckle in amusement, "I called you, like, seven times there!" he explains, "You almost seemed as if you were in your own little world right then." He comes away from the sink, having dried his hands, and sits at the table with me, "What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothin'." I give a small smile, "Just how much has changed in the past couple days."

"I'll happily second that," he agrees, "Gosh."

"Uh, Michael?" I suddenly decide to change the subject.

"Yeah?"

"Um ... tomorrow, I was kind of thinking I would go and see my father; I haven't seen him in weeks. You don't mind, do you?" I stand up from my seat and walk over to him, standing opposite him so I receive his undivided attention, "I mean, like, you'll have to come with me, of course."

"To see your father?" he repeats, a little uncertainly, "As in ... a human being?"

"Yes. Michael, it's only my father. He barely exists to the world, anyway. He's been real low since mom died."

He lowers his eyebrows, averting his eyes downwards, towards the floor. I realise that he doesn't want to go near any human being in the world apart from me, but surely he could trust someone like my father.

"W-Well, I ... how long do you plan on staying there for?" he questions.

"Not long ... maybe forty-five minutes. Please, Michael. I haven't seen him in forever and a half."

"That's our phrase," he points out, "Forever and a half."

"It is," I respond quietly, "But Michael ... I don't want to leave you here alone. Come with me, please?"

My gaze moves up to his face, and I give my best pout and puppy dog eyes, to try and sway him a little. His expression remains somewhat serious as he looks down on me, but then he exhales a sigh of defeat.

"Okay, I'll come with you. But if I can't handle it, I'm going to leave, if that's okay?" he reasons.

"Sure, sure. Okay."

My pout becomes a large smile, and without thinking, I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek to show the level of gratefulness I have for him. Upon my lips coming into contact with his skin, he flinches a little, and once I've pulled away, I notice him trying not to widen his eyes in shock.

"S-Sorry," I apologise, "I'm just so happy that you're coming with me."

"D-Don't worry ... " he mutters, still seeming a little caught off guard by my kiss, "It's cool."

A nervous chuckle escapes from my lips, and I rub my arm shyly, shifting my gaze from him, to the floor. I can't quite tell if that cheek kiss I just gave him was a little over-the-top. It was only meant to be a sign of appreciation ... but I don't think he liked it, to be honest. He seemed a little surprised when he realised what was happening.

"Anyway, yeah," I suddenly say, dashing from the kitchen, into the living room – leaving Michael alone in the kitchen because I feel embarrassed.

I sit myself on the sofa, taking a blanket from the back of it, and draping it over my entire body to hide myself. Moments later, I hear Michael's voice as he enters the room.

"Why are you hiding under the blanket?" he asks – only, to me, his voice is muffled due to – ironically – the blanket between us.

"I'm just ... " I hesitate to think of an answer, "Chillin'." My voice takes on a gangster-like quality for some unknown reason.

"Funniest chillin' I ever saw," Michael jokes. Then, I feel his weight press down on the sofa, because he's sat down too, "Can I come under there, too?" he asks timidly.

"You wanna come under here, for what reason?" I challenge playfully.

"To keep warm," he answers.

"But it's the middle of Summer!"

"What? Can't a man get cold in Summer?" he laughs softly, "Don't you want me to come under there? It might help conserve a little heat, after all."

"Hmm ... fine," I give in, lifting the blanket up, and peeping my head out from under it, so he can see my face.

Once he does see, he lets out a small snicker, before fully removing the blanket and re-draping it over us both, this time. He shuffles around a moment, to get himself comfortable, before finally remaining still.

He yawns quietly, which I find quite cute, and then he closes his eyes, "Cit, can we just get an early night tonight? I never realised how tired I was 'til just now."

"Sure we can," I answer, "But that involves getting up and going to bed."

"Of course," he mumbles, his voice now becoming husky because of how tired he is. He starts to get up, but then falls back onto the sofa, "Too tired to get up," he explains.

I roll my eyes and laugh a little, "Well, you can sleep down here tonight if it makes you happy," I tell him, beginning to get up myself so I can go to bed.

However, when I feel Michael pull at my sleeve, I turn around to see him looking up at me with his sweet doe eyes. "I don't want to be alone down here, tonight," he admits, like a little child. "Stay."

I grin, finding a little amusement in his plea. Nevertheless, I sit back on the sofa with him and tuck myself under the blanket again, "Okay, okay, you win."

He smiles, biting his bottom lip, before whispering, "Night, Citria."

"Goodnight Michael."

When I look back at him, he's already in the process of falling asleep, so I choose not to wake him again. Soon, I close my eyes and try to drift off, too.

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Chapter 9! I hope you liked this chapter!