Chapter Text
They could get really good at making a dead thing look alive, and even better at making dying look beautiful.
You can cover your body in flowers and lace, but dead is dead and animals will always smell it.
Perhaps it's why the neighbor's cat always lingered whenever Micah stepped into the yard. A gray thing with one torn ear and a knowing stare. She sniffed at their ankles, circled them slowly, nose twitching. Sometimes she followed Micah down the driveway, tail high, too curious for her own good.
Did she smell it? The rot? The wrongness?
Did she know what Micah was really made of?
The thought nearly made them smile.
They considered, briefly, conducting a psychoanalysis of the cat. What motivated her, whether she associated Micah with warmth or decay, safety or threat. But she darted away before they could test any theories, disappearing beneath the neighbor’s porch.
That was fine. She'll come back, or not. It didn’t really matter.
Micah liked making the smallest of things feel enormous. Mundane moments, elevated. A cat’s curiosity. Dust motes in sunlight. The feeling of being watched while in a shower. In their world, these details mattered more than anything else. They had to, when your life was so small and insignificant.
Mentioning any of this to him would be a mistake.
Their father did not appreciate abstraction or metaphor. Or children, ironically enough. He also hated cats due to allergies, a good thing they didn't inherit from him.
In his world, the most important things were applauded: his work, his name, his political affiliations spoken proudly at dinner parties Micah was never invited to attend at their own house. His reputation as a respectable Republican.
Micah wasn’t on the list.
They suspected this, supported by damning evidence presented practically daily. They had learned to avoid eye contact early on, to take up as little space as possible whenever they were forced to be around each other.
It was such a hassle, but the house was big enough. Big houses were excellent for avoidance.
Micah’s room sat at the far end of the second floor, tucked away. It was the only space in the house that felt remotely like theirs, though even that was debatable. The room was minimalistic to the point of impersonality. With white walls, a narrow bed made perfectly, a desk cleared of anything unnecessary, and a single bookshelf with textbooks and notebooks arranged by size, subject, and frequency of use.
At a glance you’d assume it was a guest room, temporary and unlived-in.
That was completely intentional on their part.
Micah had no need (or money) for decorations. Clothes were neatly folded in the closet, color-coordinated and evenly spaced. Books for school were all they owned that could be considered excess. Everything else had been quietly discarded over the years, either by Micah themselves or by a father who didn’t see the point in buying things that might encourage attachment.
This room was just enough.
Just enough for a social worker not to pause too long, for questions to remain unasked. It was just enough for a man like their father to look exemplary on paper.
Who would ever assume such a respectable gentleman could hurt a child? Let alone neglect one.
Micah didn’t find much amusement in the thought.
They sat on the edge of the bed and watched the sun rise through the narrow window, pale light seeping into the room after yet another sleepless night. Sleep came rarely and never stayed long, and any other way to forcefully sleep is either too much work or too much of a mess.
Today wasn't like the rest, because today was their first day at a new middle school.
New York City, according to the articles their father read aloud with thinly veiled pride, was a marvel. A center of opportunity and power. Micah had expected something much louder, to be honest.
From the window, it looked… fine.
Brick buildings. Fire escapes. A street that smelled faintly of yesterday’s rain. It wasn’t unimpressive, exactly. It was rather ordinary. Perhaps that was because they weren’t at its center. Perhaps the city only dazzled those who wanted to be dazzled.
Micah stood.
It was time for their morning routine.
They smoothed their bedspread, correcting a barely noticeable wrinkle. They counted their steps to the bathroom, washing their hands for exactly thirty seconds, scrubbing beneath their nails, wrists included. The mirror reflected a small figure with short hair falling softly into half-lidded eyes. They tilted their head, checking for asymmetry, then adjusted a stray strand.
Cleanliness mattered. It mattered a lot. Micah couldn't stand being dirty.
They loathed being dirty.
They brushed their teeth for three minutes exactly, rinsing twice, and wiped the sink dry after. The towel was folded back into place, edges aligned. Micah changed into something befitting of the cold weather, with no bright colours. Unassuming.
As unassuming as it could possibly get. They were aware that even throwing on a trash bag would make them look presentable enough for a red carpet event.
They skipped breakfast, since eating required sitting at the same table as him.
Micah packed their bag, double-checking contents. Books. Pens. Notebook. Everything was accounted for. They hated disorganization.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. Their father’s study door was closed. Micah walked through the hall with muffled footsteps, shoes slipped on silently by the door.
As they exited the house and reached for the knob to close the door, something brushed against their ankle.
The cat.
She had returned after all, Micah thought with a sense of pride at being right. The feline looked up at Micah, unblinking.
They paused, staring back with the same intensity.
For a moment, Micah wondered what it would be like to be a cat, agile on their feet, unbothered by the mess of humans. Their own person, capable of doing whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.
The cat sniffed them again, and backed away, running back towards her home (was it a home? She always returned to it, didn't she? She had a choice. And she could make it. A cat is not like them. She doesn't have to stay anywhere she doesn't want to stay. She's her own cat. That's her own home.)
Micah closed the door.
Micah was often well aware of the thoughts circulating through their father’s head.
It wasn't because he ever said them out loud – he rarely said anything to Micah at all – but because he was dull, and painfully easy to predict. They had been the same when he first dropped them off at kindergarten, standing stiffly by the classroom door. The same in elementary school, when he signed forms without reading them. And now, middle school.
He didn’t actually care about Micah learning.
Learning was incidental, as what actually mattered was a paper trail clean enough to keep social workers the hell away from his house and business. What mattered was reputation. A grieving widower raising a quiet, well-behaved child.
Micah fit neatly into that narrative without even trying, provided they stayed quiet that is.
They weren’t stupid. That much had become obvious years ago, after prolonged exposure to other children that almost dumbed them down to their level. They had watched their classmates struggle through concepts that felt intuitive, almost insulting in their simplicity. Letters, numbers, patterns, cause and effect.
Did other kids really need years to learn something so easy?
Apparently, yes.
Micah kept that observation to themselves. Intelligence, like appearance, drew attention. Attention led to questions, which then led to explanations, then to scrutiny. They preferred to be overlooked, though they never got to be.
Now, as they stood outside the unfamiliar school building, backpack resting lightly against their shoulders, Micah already wanted to leave.
They felt like an animal, removed from its only sanctuary (Did animals even have sanctuaries? Or was that just another human concept?)
Either way, Micah didn’t belong here.
Unfortunately, belonging was not a requirement as much as attendance was.
They couldn’t just turn around and leave when their father didn’t want to see their face for another seven hours. He’d love for it to be more. Indefinite, preferably. But compromises had to be made unfortunately.
Micah had reached the school entirely on their own. Their father had dismissed them the night before with a vague gesture and an address muttered without looking up, after convincing someone – an assistant, perhaps – to sign them in on his behalf.
The building itself was unremarkable. Red brick stacked up into an unimpressive, boring structure with too many windows. A flag out front that snapped irritably in the wind. The doors yawned open and swallowed children whole.
Inside, noise bloomed immediately.
Micah was intercepted by a teacher before they could fully process the layout. A woman with quick steps, already talking before she even properly introduced herself. She had blonde hair chopped into a bob that did her no favors. Petite. Slightly hunched. There was a faint smear of lipstick on the corner of her mouth that no one had alerted her off.
She must have been unlikable, or isolated. Micah can make a few guesses on why.
She talked a lot. Far too much, Micah decided, as they walked beside her through the hallway.
“We’re so happy to have you here, Micah! Such a beautiful name, really, just like you. And your hair– wow! Is it natural? It’s so soft-looking.”
That was one.
“You’re going to fit in just fine here, sweetheart. Everyone’s going to be so lovestruck by you.”
Two.
“And those eyes! I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes with lashes that long before. They're gorgeous!”
Three.
Micah nodded occasionally, noncommittal. Their face remained placid, half-lidded eyes fixed forward, compliments rolling right off. They weren’t flattered as much as they were irritated.
Most people reacted this way upon seeing Micah. The awe. The curiosity. The desperate need to comment on something they had no control over. It was understandable – objectively speaking, their appearance was striking. Superior, even.
So annoying. They'd rather be deaf and blind. Better yet, dead.
Four.
Five.
When will she shut up?
Finally, the teacher stopped in front of a classroom and clapped her hands together, “Alright! This is us.”
She opened the door.
Conversation died instantly.
It was almost impressive how quickly the room fell silent as Micah stepped inside, feeling dozens of eyes latch onto them all at once, heat prickling faintly at the back of their neck.
They noticed the reactions automatically. Though they'd rather dissociate instead, their eyes had a mind of their own it seems.
Shock. Awe. Blushing. Envy. Admiration. Interest turning to something less friendly in a few faces. All expected and repetitive.
Micah stared vaguely in the general direction of the class, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long.
“Everyone,” the teacher they didn't bother remembering the name of chirped, “this is Micah Hale, our new student. They’ve just transferred here from XXXX in Los Angeles. Why don’t you give us a short introduction, Micah?”
Micah paused.
They had no intention of saying much. The obvious would suffice.
“My name is Micah Hale, I'm thirteen,” they said calmly. “I transferred from L.A.”
The silence stretched on with the teacher smiling widely, still waiting.
Micah did not elaborate.
“Ahem- Well,” the teacher cleared her throat after a moment, clearly flustered, “you can take the empty seat in the back.”
Micah inclined their head slightly and moved. As they walked, whispers started behind them.
“He’s pretty.”
“No, she is.”
“What is that?”
“Do you think they’re a model or something?”
Micah slid into the empty chair at the back and placed their bag neatly beneath the desk, aligning it with the leg so it wouldn’t stick out. Immediately, a boy leaned back in the chair in front of them.
“Soo… you a girl or a boy?”
Micah looked at him.
They didn’t know how to answer that question without turning it into something complicated. And complicated things rarely ended well. So they did what they always did.
“...”
“...”
The boy laughed awkwardly after a moment, glancing at his friends. “Oookay..,” he muttered, but didn’t press further.
Pronouns flew freely around the room after that, all of them wrong. He. She. That one. Micah didn’t bother correcting anyone, because they didn't really give a damn.
The lesson began. It was math. Something Micah didn't even bother focusing on, instead glancing out at the window.
They watched as a bird landed on a nearby tree branch – a house finch, female, based on the streaky brown colour. It reminded them of the ones back in L.A.
Thinking of birds, they recalled Claws.
He was a very annoying raven who’d tap at their window almost every day, often bringing random trinkets – bottle caps, bent paperclips, and once a single lost earring. They definitely didn’t train him to do that. They didn’t train him for anything at all, actually.
They’d called him Claws due to the fact that he always dug his stupid talons into their sleeve whenever he got the chance, like a toddler.
Dumb bird, they mentally huffed. He wmart enough to remember faces, vindictive enough to remember insults, and absolutely immune to Micah’s attempts at indifference. Claws had once stared them down through the glass for a full ten minutes, head cocked, until they allowed him in.
Micah didn’t notice the passage of time after that, or maybe they did and simply chose not to dignify it with awareness. The bell had rung multiple times as Micah went from class to class, making a good effort to ignore or shut down every approaching student.
A girl tried to ask what shampoo they used. Micah stared through her till she left them alone.
A boy kept walking with them in the hall, trying to start a conversation. Safe to say he didn't get one.
Someone else tried to sit next to them in science. Micah moved their bag to occupy the space.
It worked, mostly.
By the time lunchtime arrived, Micah felt mildly inconvenienced by the living. They obviously had no lunch money. Their father’s idea of “providing” extended only as far as legal minimums and plausible deniability. But Micah had brought two apples, wrapped carefully so they wouldn’t bruise.
They went to the bathroom first. The sinks were stained and the mirrors lied, but the water ran clean enough. Micah scrubbed the apples thoroughly, rotating them with care, thumbs pressing into the skin just enough to feel resistance.
Then they went outside to the school backyard, where the fence was uneven and students pretended very hard not to be children.
Micah scanned for a bench out of habit, then recoiled internally at the visible layer of dust coating it. Absolutely not. They chose to stand instead, back near the wall where no one could surprise them from behind.
As they bit into the apple, they felt its mild warmth from being in their bag. The taste was slightly artificial, but it wasn’t too bad.
Micah ate automatically while dissociating, eyes unfocused on the skyline. Until their little moment was interrupted by the sound of a nearby chucklefest.
They peaked from the corner of the wall they were standing by (not leaning on. Dirty) and noticed three boys messing with one pathetic-looking boy.
He had short brown hair and a baby face; if Micah hadn’t seen him in their class, they would’ve thought he was a first-year. Apparently, he was getting bullied, though not physically.
Not their business.
Still, sound traveled.
“C’mon, say it again,” one of the boys snorted. “Say it louder.”
The pathetic one shifted, clutching his backpack straps. “..I already did.”
“Nah, I don’t think we heard you,” another chimed in with a widening grin. “Flash didn’t hear you.”
Flash. What a stupid name.
The boy called Flash was taller than the others, posture permanently tilted forward. He grinned with all teeth. “What was it again, Penis?”
Micah paused mid-chew.
Penis. That was probably an insult. Probably. Hopefully his name wasn’t actually Penis, or Micah might join in the bullying out of sheer principle. There were limits.
“I already told you my name..,” the boy muttered. His ears were red. His voice had the unfortunate tremor of someone trying very hard not to cry.
Flash leaned closer. “Yeah, but this one fits better doesn't it, peeenis?”
The others laughed mockingly. Social hierarchy reinforcement, what a middle school classic.
They took another bite of the apple, chewed, and swallowed.
Not my business, they reminded themselves again.
But the boy – Penis, unfortunately – shifted again, foot scraping the concrete. “Can you please just leave me alone?”
Flash scoffed. “Why? You got somewhere to be? You don’t have any friends.”
Micah’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
That line was so damn lazy and overused, like insulting someone’s shoes. Zero creativity.
Flash reached out and pulled at one of the straps on the boy’s backpack. “What are you gonna do about it, huh? Shoulda told your dead parents to name you something else, like Dick!”
The bullies laughed like a pack of hyenas at that unfunny bullshit insult.
Micah exhaled slowly through their nose.
They did not like attention. They did not like involvement. They especially did not like variables.
But they hated inefficiency more.
Bullying like this wasted time, dragging on and on. It created noise. Teachers would eventually notice, but they wouldn't really care since this was the amazing American school system.
Also, Flash’s voice was grating on their fucking nerves.
Micah stepped away from the wall.
The movement caught Flash’s eye first. He straightened slightly, grin faltering as Micah entered his peripheral vision. The other boys followed his gaze.
“Oh,” one of them said, intelligently.
Micah didn’t look at them. They walked past, and stopped just close enough to be undeniably present. They took another bite of their red apple.
Crunch.
Flash frowned. “What are you looking at, pretty boy?”
Micah finished chewing before answering, because manners mattered to them, if no one else.
“You’re loud,” Micah said evenly. “And repetitive.”
Flash blinked, slightly flustered. “..what?”
“You heard me,” Micah replied. They tilted their head slightly, eyes half-lidded, “If you’re going to be an asshole, at least be interesting about it.”
One of the boys snorted despite himself, clamping a hand over his mouth immediately.
Flash’s face flushed from both embarrassment and anger, fists clenching. “Who the hell do you think you are?! You're just some new clueless kid!”
Micah didn't react to the threatening reaction, considering the question briefly.
“Someone with better things to do than listen to your insecure ass,” they said. “Which I will return to, if you knock it off.”
There was a beat of silence after that. Pathetic boy stared at Micah like they’d just descended from the sky, which Micah ignored for their peace of mind.
Flash scoffed again, louder this time. “You think you’re special or something just cuz you're a little pretty? Huh, boy-girl bitch?”
Micah’s gaze sharpened. “No,” they said, looking him up and down judgmentally. “But I know you’re not.”
That seemed to hit him right on the inferiority complex, as Flash stepped forward, chest puffed out, trying to reclaim ground he’d never had. “Shut up! You got a problem?!”
Micah glanced at the apple in their hand, then back at Flash. “Several. You're one of the smaller ones.”
The other boys muffled their snickers when Flash turned to glare at them.
Flash then hesitated. He looked Micah up and down, recalculating. Micah wasn’t tall, nor particularly imposing. They were just unsettlingly calm.
Which, to Flash, was worse.
“...Whatever,” he muttered finally. “Let’s go.”
He shot pathetic boy one last look, a promise rather than a threat, and jerked his head at his minions. They followed, still snickering, retreating with wounded pride.
Silence returned at last.
Micah took another bite of their apple.
Pathetic boy lingered, unsure. “Um..,” he began, looking up at them with shiny eyes. “Thanks.”
Micah didn’t look at him. “Don’t thank me.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Micah swallowed. “And stop letting them call you that.”
The boy flushed again. “I-I’ll try.”
“Try harder,” Micah said, not kindly.
He nodded quickly, a small smile growing on his face despite the unfriendly tone directed at him. “I’m Peter by the way. Peter Parker.”
Micah paused, finally turning their head to look back at him, chin on their shoulder. Peter tensed at their cutting stare, heat rising to colour his pale cheeks.
“Huh,” they muttered, blinking slowly. “So it's not penis...” thank fuck.
They turned and walked away before he could sputter a response, apple core dropped neatly into a nearby trash can without looking.
As they returned to their chosen corner, Micah felt the faintest flicker of irritation at themselves while they cleaned their hands with wet wipes.
What could've possibly possessed them to interfere in that shitshow? Now they're probably gonna get targeted by those buffoons too. Not that it's such a problem, but it's still a hassle they'd rather not deal with.
Hopefully, they won't have to associate themselves with anyone they had the misfortune of meeting today ever again.
Hope wasn’t real, and God is dead.
Once the final bell released its shrill death rattle and students spilled out into the streets, Micah tried to ignore Peter as best they could, which was to say they walked at their usual brisk pace, eyes forward, offering nothing. If they pretended hard enough, maybe he’d dissolve into the background and stop following them.
He didn't.
Peter talked. A lot.
“So,” Peter said, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. “That was… kind of wild today.”
Micah did not look at him.
“I mean, you didn’t have to do that,” Peter continued. “But I’m really glad you did. I’ve never seen Flash shut up like that before, haha.”
Silence.
“I like your shoes,” Peter added after an awkward moment. “They look… expensive? Or just really clean.”
Still nothing.
Peter cleared his throat. “Uh. I live like– three blocks that way,” he gestured vaguely. “Do you always walk home or…?”
Micah did not respond. Not verbally or physically, not even with a glance.
They kept walking, hands tucked into their pockets. They planned on wandering until it got dark, then heading back to the house. The streets were better than the house. Even alleys had rules. Even strangers had limits.
Peter, unfortunately, did not.
He filled the silence with commentary about his classes, about a comic book store nearby, about how New York pizza was way better than California pizza but maybe that was subjective, about his aunt's cooking. He speculated aloud. He laughed at his own jokes. He seemed completely unbothered by the fact that Micah treated him like ambient noise.
Persistent, Micah thought. Annoyingly so.
Still, they didn’t tell him to leave.
Eventually, Peter slowed, shoes scuffing the pavement. “Oh, this is me,” he said, pointing down a side street lined with apartment buildings that all looked the same. “I live over there.”
Micah stopped too, purely out of instinct. They didn’t turn.
Peter hesitated, then smiled, a stupidly bright, open expression that didn’t belong on anyone who’d spent lunchtime being verbally abused. He lifted a hand and waved.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Micah!”
Then, as if that was the most natural assumption in the world, he turned and jogged off toward his building.
Micah stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Where were these balls when he was getting bullied??? they thought irritably.
They shook it off and resumed walking, forcing Peter out of their head. There were more important things to worry about at the moment.
They reached the house earlier than they would’ve liked.
The lights were on in the living room.
Fuck.
Micah paused at the front door, hand hovering over the keyhole. They took a slow breath in through their nose, counted to ten, then unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing it as softly as possible.
Pathetic, wasn’t it?
They liked to think of themselves as an unbothered person. Someone who didn’t care what people said, someone who could end a bully with a sentence and walk away without looking back.
But the house did that thing it always did, compressed them, shrink them down into something much smaller. They didn't know if it was the real them or not.
Their fingers trembled faintly.
They removed their shoes carefully, lining them up by the door. They moved toward the staircase with quick steps, already thinking of how long it would take to reach their room.
“Micah.”
The voice came from the living room.
They stopped.
He was seated languidly on the couch, one arm draped over the back, eyes on the television where some sports game played at an obnoxiously loud volume. He didn’t look at them at first, or acknowledge them beyond the summons.
Micah turned and approached, posture straight, expression neutral.
He waited a few seconds longer, just to remind them just how he controlled this silence too.
“You’re late,” he said finally.
School ended an hour ago.
Micah blinked once. “I walked.”
He turned then, eyes flicking over them with scrutiny. “That’s not what I asked.”
Fucking hell. When did he start caring about curfew? Micah wondered distantly.
Apparently, since now.
They opened their mouth to answer, but he stood abruptly, crossing the space between them in two long strides. They barely stopped themselves from stepping back. He loomed, his voice dropping into that soft, sharp tone that always made Micah’s stomach twist.
“I don’t appreciate being made to wait,” he said. “It looks bad.”
Looks bad to who? Micah wanted to ask. The walls? Your nonexistent wife?
They didn’t say anything.
He leaned closer, invading their space deliberately. “You don’t decide your own schedule. That’s not your role.”
Micah stared past his shoulder, eyes unfocused.
“I provide for you,” he continued calmly, eyes intense. “I make sure you have what you need. The least you can do is be where you’re supposed to be in time.”
Micah opened their mouth.
A mistake.
The slap came fast and hard across their cheek with a sharp sound that echoed through the room. Their head snapped to the side, vision blurring for a second.
They didn’t make a sound, biting the inside of their cheek.
He sighed, almost disappointed.
Then his hand returned, gentle now, fingers brushing the reddening skin. “You should put some ointment on that,” he murmured. “And cover it. I don’t want questions.”
Micah nodded automatically.
“Go,” he said, already turning back toward the television.
They went up the stairs, down the hallway, and into their room. The door closed behind them with a click.
In the bathroom, Micah stripped down and turned the shower on as hot as it would go, stepping under the spray without hesitation. The heat burned their skin, making them sigh. They scrubbed until their arms ached, nails digging in, loofah scraping. dirtydirtydirtydirty–
They stayed under there until the water ran cold.
After, they applied the ointment like he’d told them to, then changed into pajamas. They did their homework, handwriting steady despite the lingering tremble of their hand.
They went to bed.
Sleep did not come.
Micah lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Their fingers curled into their palms tightly, not letting go even when it stung, even when they felt the warm liquid roll down their skin.
They are dirty.
No amount of water or scrubbing could fix that.
They closed their eyes anyway.