Work Text:
About one year after he moved out his old apartment, Michael woke up to silence.
He hadn't been in a silent apartment in ages. The silence dropped a weight in his gut. The weight edged the line of nostalgia, but not quite. This wasn't nostalgia, Michael noted, at least not what it was supposed to be, at least not for him.
Then again, nothing was right about this.
Michael's hands hit the bed with a sharp and deliberate push, and the sound of rusty handsprings grating against his weight and metal bed legs scraping against the floor echoed off the walls. Michael swung his legs over the bed and used the momentum of the push to land onto the cold hardwood floor beneath him.
Chills ran from his feet up through his spine and his toes curling up from the cold. He then recalled how his pair of socks were still hanging dry in the bathroom.
He sighed, picking up the plugged in ipod on his bedside table. He hit the home button about twenty times, yet the ipod didn't so much as flickered. He dropped the ipod back on the table with a clatter. It was a birthday present from nearly seven years ago, he shouldn't be as surprised as he was, and he shouldn't feel like another string was cut.
Michael swallowed and sighed. Either way, he needed some form of noise to take up the one roomed apartment. It was too small to exist in without something alive.
Heading over to the couch, he swiped the remote and switched the tv on, static filling the room. Michael hummed in satisfaction, and the remote landed back onto its home on the couch.
Breakfast was what his mother cooked him to bring back. She knew he wasn't buying his own groceries but she didn't comment on it; Michael was thankful for that.
He eyed the clocked on the microwave. He woke up forty-five minutes later than what he set his alarm to; he also had to buy an alarm clock. Shoveling food into his mouth, Michael grabbed the keys to his beat up PT Cruiser and headed out the door.
It was a forty minute commute from his apartment to his job in his old neighborhood. Michael was able to cut it down to thirty, but he did nearly skid off the intersection. Luckily the town didn't have enough money to hire red camera lights. Or even police officers.
If his only worry had always been not getting ticketed speeding, he would be pleased with that.
He was late to his retail job, which didn't leave him time to go back to his old apartment. He didn't care much anyways, he checked it more out of habit than anything else. It was one of those worse habits, and after giving up weed, it really shouldn't have been that hard.
He didn't time to think about this. Michael shut off his car, the blasting speakers cutting off. He didn't stick around to hear his car's engine to stop sputtering.
His job was minimum wage. He worked at a retail store. Gas money ate into his savings. Coming there was the most important part of his day.
Vandalized.
Michael tore the poster off the post, squeezing the paper in his hands. Residual ink bled onto his hands, but he was far from caring. After this, there was really no reason to come back. It's been a year since he lived there. It's been longer since he lived alone. Nobody actually cared. He had the least reason to.
He found himself at an office store on the way home. He dug up change from the bottom his pockets, the quarters in his car for parking meters, and helped an old lady figure out which computer to buy her grandchild for his birthday in exchange for a dollar. He didn't know shit about computers.
A stack of posters in hand, Michael didn't head back to his apartment until every street side was plastered with him. He wasn't heading back his apartment alone anyways. It was either that or find a way to make extra pocket money, and both were desperate hopeless plots.
This one felt less selfish.
You’re the last person to be calling selfish , a voice in his told him.
There was a hum from Michael's microwave, a plastic container of ramen slowly spinning around inside. Sound effects from a racing game Michael had gotten himself for his last birthday drowned out the microwave. It was a knock-off Mario Kart, and the only video game Michael had at that point.
The wii remote buzzed in his hand when his car spun out of control and into a nearby wall. Michael groaned, hitting buttons to get his car to go back on.
A shrill ringing sent Michael onto his feet, stumbling over. His phone, charging in the kitchen, sent the shrilling reverberating off the tile walls.
He certainly didn't recognize that sound.
He left the game running, resigning himself to losing. He walked over, picking up the phone, checking the offending number.
Unknown .
He felt his heart in his throat, but swallowed it down. He flipped open the phone, putting it up to his ear.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice answered. "Hello? Is this Michael Mell?"
Michael felt his heart drop as he answered, "Yeah, that's me. Look, if you're trying to sell me-"
"Um, no. My name's Christine Canigula. I work at Middleborough Psychiatric Hospital. Mr. Heere told me to call you. Do you know his son, Jeremy Heere?"
The microwave went off, but Michael didn't hear it.