Chapter six – Always Something To Live For

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"M-Michael," my voice takes on a worried tone, "No, put the gun away ... please."

He laughs straight in my face – but not with a happy laugh, no. It's more of a mocking laugh, one that implies that my words are having no effect on him. He's worrying me now; he's suicidal.

"Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot right now," he demands.

His hand is shaking violently, his finger hovering over the trigger. I can tell that he's scared of dying, but he's adamant on doing so anyway.

"Because there's always something to live for," I answer weakly.

He looks down at the river below him, spotting his reflection in the water.

"What do I have to live for now, huh?" he questions. Then, he turns violent. "What else have I got to live for?!"

Taken aback by his sudden outburst, I swallow nervously, stepping back a little to avoid being too close to him. He's beginning to scare me, now. Tears start to form in my eyes, and I reach my right hand out towards him slowly.

"M-Me!" My voice gives out, "I thought it was me, Michael! ... "

A single tear rolls down his cheek, and I can see the genuine guilt for his previous words creeping in, just by the look on his face. However, he keeps the gun in place, his finger still hovering over the trigger. He remains completely silent too, so I decide to speak further, to persuade him not to shoot.

"Look ... Michael. I know that you're in an awf—a truly awful situation, having no family, but ... I don't want you to take your life. I've needed a friend for so long, and you have, too ... "

I clear my throat quietly, while he processes what I've just said.

"Michael ... don't you remember, "Forever and a half"? ... "

He closes his eyes, and another tear escapes from each eye as he does so. He tilts his head down towards the ground, before parting his lips slightly and sighing almost silently. Then, in an almost defeated-sounding tone of voice, he mutters:

"Forever and a half ... "

"That's right, Michael. And what does "Forever and a half" signify?" I ask.

"That's how long we're going to be friends for ... " he murmurs.

"Exactly," I force a smile onto my face just as he looks at me, "That's how long we're going to be friends for. We can't be friends if you end your life."

"Then come with me," he suddenly says.

"Come with you?" I repeat.

"Yeah," he confirms, "Why don't you come with me? We can go see my family together."

"Wha—" I suddenly realise what he's trying to say, "No, Michael! I can't do that."

He must really be in a bad place if he's trying to end my life as well as his own. This whole situation is really getting into his head, for sure.

"Why?" he cries out. "What else do either of us have to live for!"

"I have a father, Michael. And I also have a life to live. We're only given one life, and I intend to live it to the fullest."

"The fullest?" he scoffs, "Please! The fullest would be with a family, a job, a life ... the list goes on! On and on for infinity! And what do I have? Nothing!"

"You have me!" I scream without warning. But then, my voice becomes a quivering mess. "You have me! ... "

He closes his eyes, tilting his head upwards. I can tell he's hurting with how much pain, guilt, anger and sadness he has inside of him right now.

"You," he mutters. "Just ... you."

"Am I not enough?" I ask tearfully.

I start to take a step forward, towards him, but he shifts his hand – which holds the gun – and that keeps me frozen on the spot.

"This is the only bullet I have in this thing," he tells me, completely changing the subject, "But I guess one bullet is enough, right?"

"Y-Yes," I murmur. "But you won't use it on yourself, will you? ... "

"I can't answer that one."

He reopens his eyes, fixing his gaze on me. His forefinger still floats a little above the trigger of the gun, and his face still reveals anger, pain, confusion, and a wish not to be alive.

"Michael," I start cautiously, finally picking up the courage to walk towards him. "Please ... either drop the gun, or hand it over to me..."

"No," he answers simply, "I won't."

"Michael, you're being ridiculous! Just drop the gun!"

My voice gradually gives out with each word I speak, so much so that by the last word, my voice is barely decipherable through my crying. I can't believe he's doing this – I knew he was suicidal, but ... this is just horrible.

"No!" he shouts, "I won't!"

I take another step forward, and I try to prise the gun from his hand without setting it off, but Michael grows furious, and his frustration gets released as he screams out. Then, in an uncontrollable outburst, he slashes me across the face with his hand.

I cry out in pain, covering my face with my hands, my hair drooping over the cheek he hit. My breathing sounds croaky, because of how much I've been crying, and I hear Michael's breathing increase in volume and speed.

"C-Citria, I'm sorry," he panics.

"I know you're suicidal Michael, but why hurt me?!" I scream.

Through my hair, I watch Michael as he uses his free hand to cover his face, obviously overwhelmed with emotions right now. He then crouches down, pressing his hand – the hand which holds the gun – against the floor to keep him upright. He then drops to his knees, removing his hand from his face, and looks down at his reflection in the water.

"What's wrong with me?" he demands painfully, "I don't even deserve life!"

"Don't ever say that," I mutter tearfully, "Everyone deserves life ... "

"I'm just a pointless human being. There's nothing good about me," he states.

"And what about being my friend?" I ask, a hint of anger in my tone of voice, "If you kill yourself, I'll have no one. It isn't just you that will be effected by this; it's me, too."

"Some friend I am, hitting you ... "

He begins to stand himself up, but because of how slippery the edge of the bank is, he loses his footing, and despite his attempts to regain his balance, he slips into the water.

"Michael!" I cry, running over to the river.

He isn't under the surface, because it's quite a shallow river, but he's crying out in frustration – and maybe because of the cold. I grasp his hand, and haul him out of the water, and he collapses onto the grass once he's out, shivering endlessly. His breathing has shallowed too, because of how cold he is.

He curls into a ball, and screams out in emotional agony, still shivering violently. I feel my heart breaking for him; today really hasn't been that great a day for him.

"Michael ... " I call his name softly, but he doesn't answer me.

He just remains silent, shivering in a little ball on the grass, crying loudly. His curls are all over the place, some spread around him on the floor, some sticking to his head from the water, some tied loosely into the hair tie he put in this morning.

"We should go home, Michael ... it's getting late," I whisper.

"No," he argues.

"Michael, c'mon ... I don't want to get angry at you now. Let's just go back home."

"I said no," he sobs.

"Mich—"

"No!" he shrieks firmly, taking me by surprise.

And with that, he sets the trigger of the gun with his hand, and before either of us can even process it, he pulls the trigger.

BANG!

The sound of such a loud noise rolls up and down the fields, and rings all through the trees. But the bullet doesn't end up hitting Michael. It doesn't hit me, either. It hits the tree trunk of a nearby tree.

As soon as Michael realises he's shot the gun, he scrambles up from his curled-up position, and screams words of high profanity.

"No!" he cries, "That was my only bullet! No!"

He sounds like he regrets his decision of wasting the bullet – but I'm glad he did. It'll stop him from using it on himself, now.

"Michael," I walk over to him, and hug his shaking body from behind to comfort him, "You didn't need that bullet anyway."

He feels my embrace, and collapses to his knees, which takes me to the floor with him. But I don't let go at all – I keep a hold of him for all I'm worth. He has to know that he isn't alone. He simply has to.

"That was my only bullet," he mutters tearfully.

"And I'm glad for that," I answer calmly.

Then, we remain in silence for a time that feels like forever. We don't move at all; we just stay in that one place, with me hugging him tightly from behind. I can just tell he needs my comfort, so I'm not planning on letting go. I don't even care how wet he makes me, having just fell in the water.

But then, a strange urge in me tells me to kiss his forehead ... so I do. I reach my head over his shoulder, and lightly press my lips against his soaked forehead. He shudders at this, and exhales a loud breath.

"Michael?" I whisper.

"What? ... "

"Please can we go home now?" I plead.

He doesn't answer, but he stands himself up, wobbling a little from the overwhelming feeling he must still have. He's still shivering, too. I look down at my own body, and notice that he didn't actually make me that wet – just a little damp.

"Here," I catch his attention, and he turns around to see me taking off the jacket he gave me earlier. I walk his way, and drape it over his shoulders, "You're cold, Michael."

He doesn't even object to me giving his jacket to him; he just remains completely silent, nodding his head once in acknowledgement. We walk next to each other, and I wrap my arm around his waist to show him he isn't alone, once again.

After a slow, slightly-long walk, we arrive back at my home, and I unlock the door for us to get in. As soon as we're inside the house, I dash to the bathroom to get Michael some towels to dry himself, and I find his pyjamas so he can change into them.

"Go dry yourself off," I instruct.

He takes the towels from me, without even giving eye contact. He must be experiencing so many feelings right now – anger, sadness, embarrassment, frustration, a strong hate for the world... and I would say most definitely that he's suicidal, still.

He slips from the room, and I hear his light footsteps heading upstairs. I guess that gives me a few minutes alone, so I'll just sit down on the sofa with a snack.

I search through the cupboards, finding a bag of popcorn. I open it, and take a few pieces out, tossing them back into my mouth. Taking the bag with me, I head into the living room, and collapse onto the sofa. I take another few pieces of popcorn, and eat them, too.

Around about ten minutes later, I hear Michael walking down the stairs again, and when he enters the room, he speaks not a single word. I can tell that he will probably not be very talkative tonight, seeing as he just tried to kill himself right in front of me.

He joins me on the sofa, now completely dry apart from his hair. He glances over at my popcorn, and I take a few pieces and offer them to him. He takes them, and before he eats them, he utters a small "Thanks". That's probably the most speech I'm going to get tonight.

He then lies down on his side, leaning his head on the arm of the sofa. Bless him, he looks so forlorn and – dare I say – cute, right now. I get up from the sofa, and his gaze follows my movement as I arrive at the arm of the chair that he's leaning his head on.

"Everything will be alright eventually," I promise him.

He doesn't answer, so I lift my hand, and run my fingers through his wet curls gently, and with each time I do so, his eyes seem to close a little more. Eventually, his eyes are fully closed, as he's fallen asleep.

"Goodnight, Michael," I whisper softly.

I kiss his forehead, and decide to sleep down here tonight, so that he doesn't feel alone when he awakes in the morning. I take a seat on the sofa, and within a few minutes, I too fall asleep on the sofa.

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Ah, poor Michael. He's in such a bad place right now. Will he improve? Let's just see. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!