Chapter two – Make You Feel Better

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I'm awoken with a loud scream from upstairs. Knowing it's Michael, I get up from the sofa – which I now realise I fell asleep on – and head upstairs.

"Michael, what's wrong?" I ask once I'm upstairs.

I open his room's door, and I see him sitting on the bed in the corner of the room, his legs brought up into his embrace, and he's rocking back and forth.

"I-It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"No ... it's okay," he mutters shakily. He buries his head into his embrace with his legs, and I hear him sigh loudly, "I just had a bad dream."

"About your family and friends?"

He lifts his head and nods. I'm intrigued to know what the dream was about, so I join him on the bed and hold an inviting gaze on him.

"We can talk about it, if you want."

"I'm fine, honest."

"Talking about it will help you."

"Must everything I don't want to do be the thing that will help me most? I didn't want to tell you why I was alone on the curb yesterday, and you said telling you would help me. I didn't want to come stay here and be a burden to you, but you said it would help me. Now I don't want to tell you my dream, and you're saying that telling you will help me!"

I sit, unsure how to reply. He must pick up on this, as his set jawline softens.

"I'm sorry ... I'm just shaken-up, still. Any negativity isn't me, it's the grief talking," he explains wearily.

I nod, "I know. But it will help you, you know."

He lies back on the bed, letting his curls fall freely around his head. I involuntarily fall back to lie next to him – not in a sexual way, just a friendly way.

"Well... we were all in it. Mother and father, my siblings and I were all at a children's birthday party. There was a piñata, a cake, banners, and a clown to keep the kids entertained. So this clown show begins, and he says he's going to do magic. We all watch him as he takes out a knife and a gun, and he asks for the birthday girl to come up and be his assistant."

"Yeah?"

"And then this girl goes up, and she takes the gun from the clown's hand. The clown tells the girl to point it at the floor and shoot it, to prove that there are bullets in it. So she shoots it, and sure enough, a bullet flies out the damn thing. The clown then says that he's gonna make all the bullets disappear from the gun, and he tells the girl to point it at any guest she wishes."

"Keep going."

"So she aims it at mother and father, and the clown goes, "Shoot it". So the girl shoots it twice, and bullets fly out of it. He never made them disappear, so mother and father are killed instantly. Then, the clown laughs and says "Aim it at all of them!" so she does, and kills all the guests apart from me."

"Is that the end?"

"No, there's more. The clown walks my way, and smiles at me. He says, "Mr Jackson, I bet I can make this knife move with my magic." so I say, "I doubt it". Before I can react, he stabs me three times, and I fall to the floor. Bam! All of us dead, just like that."

"Oh, Michael ... it's just because all of your family has gone. These dreams won't be here forever, don't worry."

"I know. And actually ... you were right. I do feel better for telling you about it."

"See, I told you. Try get some sleep now though, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks again."

"It's nothing," I reply, "Night."

"Goodnight Citria."

I head to my room, and get into bed. I knew he'd dream an unpleasant dream tonight – it's normal for someone in his situation.

My eyes close slowly, and after a few minutes, I fall into a deep sleep.

*  *  *

"Morning, Michael."

He enters the kitchen, where I'm busy making breakfast. He's wearing the brown dressing gown I packed for him, and, I hate to seem cheesy but ... it looks kind of cute on him.

"Morning Citria. How are you this morning?"

He almost seems happy right now. I'm going to try and keep it that way.

"I'm good, thank you. And you?"

"Better than I was last night. It still hurts as if it only happened a second ago, but ... at least I got yesterday out of the way. Th-Thank you."

"No worries, it's normal to feel that way. Do you have any plans today?"

"No, nothing. What am I meant to do?" he asks sadly.

"I know, I know. But you know you've got me to be friends with."

"You? I mean ... you want to be friends with me?" he asks with uncertainty.

"Well ... yes. You need someone to look out for you, Michael. It isn't easy for me; being without my mother, too—"

"Why? Where is she?"

"She passed away a few months back, but we're focusing on you right now."

"And you're only just telling me your mother died, now? Citria, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay ... you really don't need to apologise. I've been used to it for about ... seven months now."

"But you've been so strong for me these past twelve hours! You've felt the exact same pain, and yet you're here seven months on, helping me?"

I nod. "Yes. It's because I know how you're feeling, so I can relate to you ... you know?"

"Well," he places his hand atop mine. "I'm here for you, just as much as you're here for me. For forever and a half."

I smile at him, and for the first time, he returns a proper smile. He needs to show that smile more often, as it really makes him look better than the Michael that's constantly covered eyes-to-chin in tears.

"Th-Thank you," I reply, feeling a shiver run down my spine at his touch.

I've only just noticed how large his hands are. His hand – which is on top of mine – has the fingers bent just to allow my hand to be visible under it.

"Um, do you want any breakfast?" I ask, feeling the sudden urge to clear my throat.

"No, no, thank you."

"You should eat, Michael. It's been almost twenty-four hours since you last ate anything."

"I'm not hungry, but thank you."

"At least sit at the table with something in front of you, just in case you change your mind."

He raises his arms in surrender, before drawing out a chair and sitting on it. He tucks the chair in, and watches me as I make breakfast.

"You like pancakes?" I ask.

"Oh, no, thank you. I'm watching my weight."

I widen my eyes and turn to face him. "But there's nothing on you!"

"I beg to differ," he retorts playfully.

"Well, I'd like to see what you're seeing, because I don't see anything."

"It's quite-clearly visible, Citria."

"I'm going to make you eat pancakes anyway," I assert.

I flip the pancakes over, and let them cook a little longer. I head over to the cupboard and take out some syrup and sugar, and I place them on the table along with a jug of orange juice, a jug of water and two glasses.

The pancakes finally done, I take them out the pan and put them onto plates, before serving them up at the table.

"Just help yourself to any toppings you want," I instruct sweetly.

He looks down at the pancakes, a level of uncertainty about his expression. "Are you sure? I seem to be receiving a lot, without returning the favour."

"No, no, it's fine. Don't worry about it," I assure him.

He inhales deeply, before reaching out for the syrup, "You're being way too kind to me."

"It's what friends are for."

He pours some syrup onto his pancakes, letting it seep down the sides slowly.

"Sorry; I got a real sweet tooth," he explains.

He takes the sugar and a tea spoon, pouring the grains onto the spoon and scattering it in various places on his pancakes.

"So do I, it's okay," I smile.

I watch him as he starts to eat them, and gradually, his pace quickens – almost as if he hasn't eaten for days.

"Considering you're watching your weight, you seem to be eating those with no hesitation."

He finishes the last moutful, and swallows before looking at me, an embarrassed smile playing on his lips.

"Sorry. I just haven't tasted something that good in forever."

I chuckle. "I'm not even that great a cook, Michael."

"Oh, but you are! This is the best breakfast I've had in a long time."

"Well, thank you. It's been a while since I've cooked for anyone but me," I make light of my comment.

"Where's your father, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, he lives just down the street. But since mother died, he's kept himself to himself, I guess. I don't see him often, but when I do, the condition he's in just breaks my heart. The loss of mom has really gotten to him ... all he does is look at her picture and read her diaries every day."

"Are you an only child?"

"I didn't used to be. I had a younger brother, Andre. But he died from cancer at age seven. I was thirteen at the time, and he was my rock. We did everything together. But on the day he closed his eyes forever, I didn't know what to do with myself."

"Oh God ... Citria, I'm really sorry."

"I guess one good thing came of it. He's no longer in suffering, and he and mom are together in Heaven, now."

"You're right. I guess we're both going to have to think positively about all of this. It's the only way we're going to cope."

"Yes," I say. "I'm glad you're starting to look up a little. Staying low won't do you any good. I know I keep saying that things aren't good or anything, but I've been through this, and I know."

"I know," he responds. "I feel such an idiot."

"How come?"

"Because ... you've been through all the loss business before, and when I went through it yesterday, you were giving me advice on how to deal with things, and I was being ignorant and nasty in return. I even shouted at you for trying to help me!"

"Hey ... look. Don't beat yourself up about it. It was the grief, okay? I was exactly the same when mother died. Dad still can't come to terms with it; I've barely seen him."

"That must be hard for you; never seeing your father," he says, looking directly into my eyes.

I return the gaze. "Well ... I get lonely. Sometimes, so lonely that I almost feel like there'd be more happiness in Heaven."

"I felt that way, yesterday. That is, until you came. I honestly don't know what I would've done if it weren't for you. I was at rock bottom, as you could tell, and I actually considered suicide. I've never considered it before ... but having no family or friends, what's the point in living?"

"There's always something to live for – you've just got to find it," I assure him.

His hand is leant on the table, next to his fork, and I feel that it is fitting to reach my hand over and place it atop his, to allow him to realise he isn't alone.

He follows my hand as I reach it across the table, his way, and he shudders a little when it makes contact with his.

"I've found more in you than I ever found in anyone, maybe because I've never needed to find anything in anyone before," he admits.

"You're a strong man, Michael. I'll be here for you, through it all. I promise."

He nods his head slowly, then averts his eyes to the table top, obviously unsure on how to respond. I take this as my opportunity to take the finished-with plates and cutlery to the sink, and I wash them all, the water from the tap being the only noise audible in the house.

I sneak a glance at Michael, and he's sat slumped in his chair, fiddling with his fingers timidly. He looks so shy, yet with so much hurt bottled up. He's improving from yesterday, but honestly, I think it's partially an act.

I finish up washing the dishes, and take the seat at the table that is opposite his.

"What do you want to do today, Michael?"

He stops playing with his fingers and looks up, "I really don't mind. I'm sure you have a life to lead without me intruding."

"No ... I don't really have a life any more. I spend most of it trying to be carefree, but it kind of backfires completely. Yesterday, up until I met you, I was in the fields, just running through, my mind completely empty ... it felt good, you know."

"So you're suggesting we run through a field together?" he asks uncertainly.

"Oh, God no! Just try to relax your mind a little. I know it'll be hard, but it'll help you. I've been where you are, and I know what helps and what doesn't."

He sighs loudly. "I know, I know. But all that keeps running through my head is ... yesterday."

"And it will do, probably at least once a day, for the rest of your life. But you know what? I'll help you get through it. I know I keep telling you this, but you need to know that you're never alone, and you never will be as long as I'm around."

He closes his eyes lightly, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. He then speaks weakly, his voice breaking: "I just miss them ... "

"I know you do; I would be worrying if you didn't. But if you dwell too much on what has already happened, you're going to live a very depressing life. I'm warning you not to make the same mistake I nearly made. Of course, you can have your time to grieve – it's only natural. But at one point, you'll realise that you need to get on with your life, and accept the fact that they can only ever be alive in your heart now."

Without saying a single word, he squeezes his eyes shut, winces in pain and buries his head into his hands. Within moments, I hear hysterical cries escape his lips, and I realise that what I said may have come across a little blunt and inconsiderate.

"Michael," I breathe guiltily, "I didn't mean to make you cry ... "

He lets out a sob, his voice quivering, and reveals his face, which is now tear-stained and weary-looking. His eyes are bloodshot, and his chocolate irises are glazed over. He runs his fingers through his curls swiftly, and sniffs deeply to gain the ability to breathe through his nose once again.

"I-I'm sorry ... "he apologises, "It's still just so new to me ... "

"Michael, you don't need to apologise at all. It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. Look, maybe we should take a walk, give you some fresh air, and a chance to clear your head a little. We can go through the countryside if you want."

He clears his throat, which must have become a little congested from his crying, and mutters a tearful "Yes, okay."

I nod, standing myself up from my chair. "Just change out of your nightwear, then meet me here again, okay?"

"Okay," he replies softly, standing up from his chair.

He pads slowly out of the kitchen, and I hear his feet take each step up the stairs lightly. I let out a sharp sigh, looking out the window to check the weather. It's sunny, with a hint of cloud – perfect walking weather; not too hot, not too cold.

Moments later, I hear Michael coming down the stairs, and I unlock the back door before turning back around as he enters the kitchen.

"I'm ready to go now," he states, his voice still weak and soft from his crying minutes ago.

"Then let's go," I answer invitingly, opening the door and allowing him out first.

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What do you think they'll talk about on their walk? I hope you enjoyed this chapter!