Chapter Text
Mike was not a morning person. It always hated getting up anyway in recent years. It doesn’t feel like anything has changed for it, everything feels the same. The same as if time has frozen. It still feels like it’s 18, its brother is 20. It felt more vibrant but plunged into a gloomy depressing tone after that day. Mike can’t seem to find to do anything but wallow in its sorrows in a self-pity party.
It can feel itself breathing. Its heart pumping blood individually as it paws at its chest to get rid of the feeling. The warm feeling of the room with the early sunrise poking through its shut binds. It isn’t sick or anything, but can’t do anything. It feels so vulnerable. Each slight sluggish movement brings its mood down, it drives it crazy and a need to cry out.
It doesn’t feel as if it is moving. It doesn’t feel like it is real in the moment. All it can do, watch, feel disconnected, free fall, stop, realisation, and blank out. Mike was never a good one to explain emotional feelings at all. Obviously it feels basic feelings but describing or reacting is hard.
It’s always had trouble feeling for something ever since it has accidentally killed Miki. It couldn’t properly respond to Steven, the situation, the day it was getting strangled by its own brother. It’s all a blur, and a quick way to get sick in the morning. It wish it could cry, but it’s hard too.
It often wishes it could forget memories, certain stuff or not do anything. Sleeping your life away feels like a better option, to it at least. It can’t find anything else to do. Any other thing needs a schedule, an organised list of what it should do to not get off task. A feeling of pressure in its bottom eyes. A scratching on its face, the breathing out of its mouth. Every little move stimulates it.
It always wonders if its brother is doing better than it. They’re more distant now, it feels weird honestly. It doesn’t recognise him and it makes Mike want to cry. It doesn’t feel like anything. It doesn’t know why it doesn’t feel like anything. Things don’t feel real. It doesn’t feel real. Is this a game? Is it real?
It doesn’t know. And not knowing makes you think. The thinking becoming overthinking. The overthinking becomes to spiralling. The spiralling becomes into a breakdown. It ruins its schedule of nothing. And it makes it want to cry. Grip its hair. Curl up into a ball of false hope. And sleep until it can’t.
Mike is hurt. It has been hurt. Its hurt itself. It doesn’t take care of itself. It’s not like it doesn’t care, it’s just hard to remember to do things without needing a proper schedule or getting help from another. Its hair is outgrowing, its roots are coming in. Its teeth ache, its body hair long, the ache on its arms and legs. The throbbing pain in its neck.
There’s a need. A need that will make it cry and start to regret. It can’t bring itself to do it anyway. It doesn’t want to get up and go downstairs. All it can do is stare wide-eyed at an empty bed beside it and be in flight or fight mode. Scared of itself of what it will do. The feeling in its neck is feeling stronger. The pulsing of blood. The blood rushing to its ears. It’s hard to hear.
It can feel its eyes water up suddenly, breathing in and out individually like a code. It sits up in bed. Staring at the bed sheet, its sleep shirt hasn’t changed out of a few days. It feels like screaming to be heard. The need to grip its head and squeeze to pop.
A strong throbbing pain in its head pulsing every few seconds. Looking up at the ceiling, the only thing that exists at this moment is the room and itself. Looking at the ceiling, analysing everything. The lights, a single cobweb, the rough texture of it.
He smiled.
Smiled too wide.
Fuck you got to be so happy about?