Chapter fifty-seven — Pointless

Note: once again, mention of sensitive topics, so please avoid reading Michael's point of view and the narrator's if you are sensitive to the affects of mental health issues. Thank you. <3

~~

In initial panic, I'm frozen to the spot. There's a positive pregnancy test right in front of my eyes, meaning that inside of my own body, there's a real-life human being growing. My head is flooded with emotions. I genuinely have no idea whether to consider this newfound information good or bad, and I don't know how to go about telling Michael or Clover. Will I keep the baby? Or will I not? Would it be a boy? Or a girl? Would I be able to tolerate the pain of giving birth? Would I not? Would I be able to afford to take care of him or her? Would I struggle? Would I be a good mother? There's so many questions in my head right now. I almost feel lightheaded.

"Okay, calm down," I murmur to myself, trying my hardest to take a deep breath and think rationally about everything that's just dawned on me.

So, I think keeping the baby would be the best option. I don't think I could abort it; my conscience would kill me if I did. I'd feel as if I had no morals destroying the makings of a child half Michael and half myself. Just the idea is too precious. But what if Michael feels strongly about having a child before age thirty? I'm sure he would love the idea; after all, he's said before he'd have children when the time was right, and with the right person. And if he's willing to create the child with me, to begin with, he must trust me with every inch of him. I must be the right person.

But when do I tell him? It seems ill-timed right now because Clover literally moved in just an hour ago, having lost both of her housemates, so to speak — both of which were and still are very important to us all. I can't just gatecrash it by announcing I'm pregnant. I'll have to keep it quiet until the time is right, even if it will burn me up inside.

"Cit, are you alright?" I hear Clover calling from downstairs.

In fear of her coming to check on me, I grab the test, stuff it into my pocket and dash into the bedroom to find a place to hide it. "Yeah, I'm alright; don't worry about me!" I shout back down the stairs. Once I'm in the bedroom, I search for somewhere suitable. Opening my bedside drawer, I find a scarf and wrap the test in it, before shoving it in and gently closing the drawer. It's a temporary fix, and Michael and I respect each other's privacy; he won't find it any time soon.

Feeling a little more relieved that the secret will be safe at least for now, I regain a normal breathing pattern, and slowly walk downstairs where the other two are waiting for me.

* * *

-February 12, 1988-

It's been maybe a couple of weeks since Clover moved in, and I've yet to tell either her or Michael about the baby. I just don't have it in me to find a right moment to do it. It's eating me up inside, but, when is there a good time to announce something as huge and life-changing as that? I'm just hoping there will be a suitable time at some point soon. It's going to become increasingly obvious that I'm hiding something, because I keep throwing up as a result of morning sickness. I can't keep making excuses. Michael has already suggested going to the doctor, but I keep reassuring him I'll be okay. Although, I'm not sure how he isn't able to guess what's going on, being a nearly thirty-year-old man.

-Michael's Point of View-

It's been a few weeks since Clover moved in, and as a result the whole atmosphere in the house has changed. It's nice a lot of the time, sure. But there's also times when the silence is painful because we know we're the only three left to fall victim to Marco and his evil ways. Although I'm convinced I'll be next. Not that Marco would need to do anything anyway.

I haven't been sleeping. It's starting to show now; the dark circles under my eyes. Neither Citria nor Clover have noticed enough to comment with great concern yet, which is kind of what I prefer. I'm no good with the talking business. I haven't been eating either, and anything I have eaten, I've forced it back up out of guilt. I don't deserve to eat, because of what I've allowed to happen in my life. What if I'd have been there, on the day of that family reunion? What if I'd have been shot too? Perhaps I'd be happier off this earth. I always think about it; it's all that crosses my mind. It's the only thing I can really focus on with how little sleep I get.

Citria on the other hand, does deserve to be happy and healthy. She keeps throwing up a lot though, and it's beginning to worry me that she's doing the same as me but hiding it. But, how can I broach the subject with her when there's a chance she could realise I'm doing the same? I've asked her to go to the doctor, but she won't, and refuses to give a reason other than "I'll be fine". I'm hoping it's something such as an allergic reaction she's having to something. At least then, we could easily eliminate the issue. But without going to a doctor, I can't know what's wrong.

I've converted to full-time long sleeves with everything I wear now. The reason as to why is probably obvious. Luckily Citria hasn't found the piece of pot that's wrapped in the scarf in my bedside drawer, but that's probably down to her respecting my privacy, just like I respect hers. It's the least she deserves from me after how bad of a person I already am. I often wonder why she's with me. Who'd want to be with a sad, pathetic excuse for a human being like me? Apparently she would, and I feel so sorry for her. I got her hopes up thinking I'd get better, and then once uncle Reiss died, I ruined it and I'm at the point of no return now. I won't ever get better.

-Narrator's Point of View-

Later on in the day, Michael finds himself alone in the bedroom. Citria and Clover are at Citria's father's old house, collecting some personal possessions of her father's to use as keepsakes.

Whenever Michael is alone, he tends to overthink and irrational thoughts fill his head — and the same is true at present. He sits in the corner of the bed; his legs drawn up to his chest, and his fingers clenched against his dark curls. They haven't been washed in days, as he never has the motivation to maintain personal hygiene anymore. In fact, he has no motivation to do most things anymore. The constant emptiness that floods his chest and burns his temples and eats at his mind is the most numbing pain he has ever experienced. He tries to find as many reasons to live as he possibly can, but only Citria springs to mind. A valid reason in itself, but compared to the cons, only seems minor.

His nails scrape at his scalp in desperation as he tries to find something; anything else he feels he needs to live for. But alas, he can't think of anything. Citria is the only thing. It pains him that only one human being, out of billions on the planet, is worth caring about. And that one human being is probably just faking the way she feels in return, or perhaps feels she can get something from him by staying by his side. There must be a motive, he concludes, as he has nothing going for him. He evaluates, that he is simply a pointless human being.

With these self-destructive thoughts whirling around his head, he reaches for the handle of his bedside drawer, pulls at it lightly, to reveal the scarf which now has patches of blood scattered across it — subtle enough, however, to blend in with the design, unless you were to touch and feel the varied texture to the fabric itself.

From deep inside the scarf, Michael unravels the small shard of pot; the very same one he uses as the weapon of self-destruction, on his own skin at least once every few days. He cautiously rolls up his sleeve, making sure that nobody else can be heard around the house. When he is sure, he rolls it up fully. His arm is like a canvas, with scars as the dark artwork that adorns it. It's by this point that his mind numbs drastically, as if he almost has no sense of awareness of what he's about to do to himself. He shuffles the bloody ceramic with his palm and fingers until it's in the classic slicing position that a knife would be held in for bread.

Sweat beads build on his forehead, but he feels nothing from it. No heat. No cold. Not even the ferocious beating of his own heart inside of his own ribcage. He simply feels nothingness. His swipe across the skin is fast; almost too quick to register the occurrence. Dissatisfied, he swipes once more, and this time he feels the relief. He glances down, seeing crimson blood build up within the new hole in his arm, until it slides down in droplets to the scarf in his lap. His breathing slows a little; his eyes close as he soaks up the feeling of control he is experiencing. The exhilaration is delightful, in the most horribly-dark way, to him.

After a few minutes, reality strikes, and the realisation that Citria and Clover will be returning dawns on him. Fear kicks in, and he abruptly and messily wraps the pot up in the scarf, throws it into the bedside drawer and rushes to the bathroom to wash the evidence away. The water runs down into the sink, turning pink with the blood that slides off Michael's skin. It stings to touch the raw wounds, but he doesn't mind. It's the only feeling he ever experiences; the rest of the time he is numb.

His breathing is shaky as he switches the faucet off and dries his arm with a cloth. His drooping eyes avert upwards to his reflection in the mirror. He can't help but find disgust in the human being he has become — no friends; no family; undeserving of anything positive. Citria and Clover probably loathe him, because he is a pointless and pathetic excuse of a person. He should have been in the house when the reunion was happening, and he most definitely should have been there when Astrix opened fire on everybody there. How he's made it so many months beyond that day is totally beyond his comprehension.

He clumsily stumbles back into the bedroom, making sure there is absolutely no evidence of anything that has occurred in sight. He evaluates that he is safe, rolls his sleeve back down and heads down the stairs. With a glance in the mirror in the living room, he checks there's no evidence of any crying, of any leftover blood, or of anything suspicious left. With this confirmed, he sits on the sofa and awaits the arrival of the other two, thinking about everything, yet nothing at all.

*  *  *

-Michael's Point of View-

Around half an hour after I've settled downstairs, the front door opens and in comes Citria and Clover. They have a couple bags of stuff from their little search through Citria's dad's house, so I imagine I'll get a little guided tour of the contents.

"Hey Michael, are you alright?" Citria asks as she drops the bags on the floor in front of the sofa.

"Yeah, I'm good," I respond, still with thoughts whirling around my head uncontrollably about the past hour. "Did you get anything nice from the house?"

"Yeah, we did. Mostly photos but some other stuff too. I'll show you a few things."

"Great," I smile, trying to come across as legitimate as I possibly can.

She sits down by my side, and I can instantly feel the warmth of her body next to mine. No matter what, there's always a glow about her. I both love and loathe it. We could be going through the worst situation and she will be trying to help everybody else before helping herself. It's admirable, but probably a curse on her part, too. She pulls out a few framed photos of her dad, and her mom, and herself as a child. I've never really seen how she looked when she was younger, so this is a strange experience. She hasn't changed in appearance much, but at the same time she has flourished into a beautiful woman. It's a shame that such a perfect and spectacular individual was unlucky enough to end up stuck with a waste of life like myself. It really breaks my heart.

"How cute were you?" I question rhetorically with a forced smile. Even a simple facial expression exhausts me, but I have to act like I'm fine because I'm no good at the talking stuff.

"Not really. And not much has changed," she chuckles, sliding the photos back into the bag in preparation for showing me other things. "I'm still a bit of a freak show."

"Not at all," I retort as sweetly as I can muster. It's so difficult pretending everything is okay.

The more I think about everything going on, the easier it is for me to make decisions for myself. Citria deserves a life without stress; which means no Marco to worry about; and no grief about my family being gone. She shouldn't have to deal with me grieving either. I don't enjoy grieving for everybody I've ever known when I should have been in that room facing the same demise as them. I'm tired of pretending I'm fine all the time: tired of not sleeping because I don't deserve rest or peace; tired of starving because my body doesn't deserve nourishment. It's so clear to see I've been living a mistake for months. There's only one way out of all of this pain I'm enduring.

I don't know when; it could be in a week, or two weeks, or a month, or a year. But I'm not going to continue on with my life if this is all it is.

I don't know when; but one day I will take my life into my own hands.

~~

Do you think Michael will follow through with this statement? What is going to happen next?
Also seeing as it's kind of a relevant topic with this story, I wanted to just quickly say that May 17 marked two years since I stopped harming, myself. I'm proud of what I've overcome! And if anybody ever wants to talk about their problems, you can come to me and I'll be a listening ear (well, a typing hand I guess).
I hope you enjoyed (as much as you can with how sad it is) this chapter!