Forever and a Half || Michael Jackson

Chapter Seven - Smile

Chapter seven – Smile

~~

I wake up before Michael the following morning. Finding myself on the floor in the living room, I remember that I fell asleep downstairs because Michael did, too. I must have fallen off the sofa in my sleep without realising.

Michael is still sleeping, his curls spread out messily all around his head. They're dry from last night now, which is a good thing. I really hope he will improve today, having attempted suicide last night.

I'm not going to wake him, as I think he needs as much rest as possible right now. He was so tired yesterday after we got home from the fields.

I head sleepily into the kitchen, and start making breakfast for us both. I'll probably keep it simple today – toast and cereal, with orange juice, I think.

As I press down the toaster lever, I hum a nameless tune, and then I move around the kitchen, completing small tasks that I need to do. I pour juice into a jug, and place it on the table, before taking out the butter from the fridge, and a few items of cutlery from the drawer.

I take a glance out the back window, at the pathway from the back door to the garden gate. I don't have a back garden; only a front one, so it makes looking out the kitchen window a little less entertaining than looking out the living room one.

The toast pops up from the toaster, causing me to jump a little from the unexpectedness. I quickly compose myself, sauntering over to the toaster, taking out the freshly-made toast, and starting to butter it.

Once I've done that, and made another couple batches, I lay them on the table, before taking out the box of cereal from the cupboard. I place that on the table, too, but before I can do anything else, I hear a soft, croaky, weary-sounding voice.

"Morning Citria ... "

I whip my head around to see Michael, whose curls are even messier than before, his eyes half-lidded and slightly baggy-looking, and a pink mark on his right cheek from where he was leaning it against the sofa arm whilst he was sleeping.

"Morning, Michael. How are you feeling?"

He pads weakly over to the table, and I pull a chair out for him to sit on. He takes the seat, practically collapsing into it, and buries his head into his hands straight away.

"I tried to kill myself last night, Citria. I'm not feeling the best."

I remain silent, unsure on how to reply, and he picks up on this. However, when he next speaks, his voice takes on a deeper register, which takes me a little by surprise.

"I'm sorry. I'm just shaken up."

I heave a sigh, joining him at the table, "I get it. That's what I'm here for – to help you when you're shaken up."

I place my hand lightly on his lower arm, making him shudder again. This time, I decide to broach the subject with him.

"Why do you always shudder when I touch you?" I ask softly.

He finally lifts his head, still with a weak expression on his face, and looks distantly at me. He's struggling to even look at me without the view behind me distracting him.

"I-I don't know," he stutters. "It just happens."

"It's almost like you're scared of my touch. Are you scared of my touch, Michael?"

I pull my hand away, and he exhales loudly, shaking his head, "No, I'm not scared. Not at all."

I knit my eyebrows together, and give him a sympathetic look, whilst he averts his eyes back down to the table.