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Michael sleeps wrong.
There’s no other way to put it.
Some weeks he sleeps like the dead. Twelve hours. Fourteen. Eighteen. Whatever he can get away with. Sunlight crawls across his bedroom wall and leaves again without him noticing. The house lives an entire day without him in it. When he does wake, he’s twisted in sheets damp with sweat, the smell of his body trapped and stewing because he doesn’t get up long enough to air it out. Crumbs collect in the folds of the blanket from meals he doesn’t remember eating. His clothes stick to his skin. His hair goes greasy, then flat, then sour.
And his head hurts. His head hurts so bad.
Other weeks, sleep won’t touch him. Twenty-four hours. Forty-eight. Seventy-two. Until his thoughts lose their edges and time stops existing. His eyes burn like they’re full of sand. Light hurts. Everything’s too loud. His hands won’t stop shaking. His heart pounds for no reason at all. He drops things. Forgets words mid-sentence. Forgets what he was doing while he was doing it. Rooms feel like movie sets. Shadows start to move when they shouldn’t. He hears his name in the hum of the fridge, in the pipes, in the shower drain. His skin crawls because he thinks something is about to happen, something bad, something inevitable, and he can’t remember what it is or why it matters so much. His emotions go feral. He hates everything, then he loves everything, then he’s indifferent, and then he hates again.
He either sleeps too much, or not at all. There’s no middle ground.
Lately, it’s been the latter.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been awake for. He didn’t sleep last night. Or the night before that.
He sits on the edge of his bed with his knees pulled tight to his chest, arms locked around them. Like a hug.
His bedroom is dark, but the sky is starting to turn.
It’s subtle at first. Just a thin seam of blue slipping in between the curtains and the windowsill.
Not daylight. Not yet. That in-between hour where everything feels weird. Four. Maybe five. Michael doesn’t know. He could turn his eyes just slightly, just a little off-center until the blocky red numbers blinking on his alarm clock come into view, but he doesn’t.
He’s too comfortable. Which is weird, because he’s also uncomfortable. His spine aches. His shoulders burn. His eyes feel too big for his skull, stretched wide because he keeps losing seconds at a time - staring at the wall, the carpet, his own toes - and then snapping back with no memory of where he went.
Zoning out, over and over, like his brain keeps pulling the plug.
Time’s passing. A little too quick. He watches the blue light leak farther into the room. It catches dust in the air, the clutter on his desk, the strewn clothes on his floor.
The world’s waking up again.
Again.
He isn’t sad, exactly.
He isn’t anything.
He just sits there.
Time keeps going.
The blue from the window deepens, spreads.
Michael’s eyes watch. He doesn’t move. His knees stay pulled in. His arms don’t loosen. He can’t move.
More minutes pass. Or longer. He can’t tell.
Then, somewhere far away, a door opens and closes.
Then there’s footsteps. Shuffling through the walls.
That’ll be Dad.
There’s no alarm. There never is. His father wakes up at the same time every morning without it.
He’s getting ready for work.
Michael wants to see him. But not enough to move.
He stays where he is.
He listens.
More shuffling. More footsteps. Another door. A faucet. Running water. Maybe.
Michael wants to see him. Wants to be close. But he can’t move. Can’t tell if he’s just comfortable, or afraid. Or lazy.
He listens.
Footsteps across the hall. A creak in the floor. Footsteps, going downstairs. The faint clink of dishes. A cupboard opening and closing. The faucet.
Michael imagines it. Dad’s hands. One gripping the edge of the counter, the other wrapped around a glass of water. The way his sleeves ride up. The way he hums sometimes when he’s alone in the kitchen.
If his father really loved him, he’d come in. Just for a second. Just to peek at him, to say good morning.
Michael imagines it. Over and over.
Dad’s awake. He’s moving. He’s out there. And Michael’s here. And he’s not coming. Because he doesn’t care.
That’s not true. Dad cares.
But caring’s not enough. What matters is he shows up. And he’s not showing up.
The faucet stops dripping. Footsteps recede. Silence.
Michael waits. Keeps listening.
Nothing.
He hates it here. He hates it.
He wonders why people even do it. Why they get up. Why they eat. Why they talk. Why they bother. Why he bothers.
His head hurts. More than before. His chest aches. His limbs feel like rubber. He isn’t hungry. He isn’t thirsty. He isn’t even tired. Stuff keeps showing up in his head. He remembers things he doesn’t want to, remembers feelings that aren’t feelings, remembers faces, words, sounds that don’t belong here, don’t belong to now. They don’t even feel like memories. Just noise. Can’t remember why he even opened his eyes this morning, or yesterday, or whenever he last woke up. His throat is full of thick, tasteless air. He wants to scream. His body wants something else entirely and he doesn’t know what.
It would be so easy to make it stop. Or not easy exactly, but simple like sharp, or simple like blunt. He’d get his hands on something sharp or blunt if he could move, but he can’t, because his arms won’t do anything but hug his knees. He wants sensation, consequence, relief. Something he can actually feel. Something that ends instead of stretching forever.
This is all life is.
Waiting. Hurting. Wanting something you can’t name and never get.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
Sleep can’t fix this. Love can’t fix this. Pain can’t fix this.
He wonders if his father knows. He wonders if his father can tell just by looking at him. He wonders if that’s why he doesn’t come in.
Nothing’s even real. Nothing. He can’t even picture his own face. His name sounds wrong in his head. This is all fake. All of it. Everything. Why does he care? He shouldn’t. He’ll stop. Who wants this, anyway? Who asked for this? Everything hurts. Always. He can’t fight it. Can’t stop any of it. He tries. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sleep. Time moves fast when you’re unconscious. But then morning comes anyway. What can he do? What is he supposed to do with that? How can he-
His bedroom door creaks.
Michael’s whole body jerks, like someone’s just yanked a wire out of him.
Dad’s head peeks into the room.
Oh.
Michael’s brain goes blank.
Dad doesn’t come all the way in. Just leans in through the crack in the door, hand still on the knob, like he wasn’t planning on staying.
Michael stares back.
For a really long moment, there’s just silence.
Dad’s eyes flick over him. Up and down.
Michael can feel it happening. The heat creeping up his neck. His posture straightening without him meaning to. His breathing smoothing itself out.
Then,
“You’re awake,” Dad says. Deadpan.
Just that.
More silence.
It takes Michael a moment to clear the static from his head.
Then he nods before he thinks about it.
There’s another pause.
Then Dad pushes the door open wider. The blue light from the window mixes with the yellow from the hall and makes everything look strange. Off. Michael’s stomach flips.
“You didn’t sleep,” his father says.
Michael blanks again.
Then he shakes his head. Once. Quick. He wants it over with.
More pause.
His thoughts start again.
Does he look tired. Does he look wrong. Has Dad noticed how long he’s been sitting here. Does he smell. Is he mad.
“You should try,” Dad says.
Like it’s advice. Like it’s optional.
Michael swallows. His throat clicks. He nods again.
“I will.”
He won’t.
Dad doesn’t call him out on it.
He just hums softly, like he does when he’s thinking. Like this is normal. Like finding his fifteen-year-old son folded in on himself at dawn after two nights without sleep is just another minor setback.
“You look… wired,” Dad says, finally. Not unkind. “Coffee will make it worse.”
Michael nods again.
He hadn’t been thinking about coffee.
Dad stares at him.
Michael releases his knees, lets his feet drop to the floor. The movement feels like breaking a dam. His joints crack, screaming after hours of staying curled up. It hurts.
Dad pushes the door open another inch.
“How long has it been?” he asks. He already knows the answer, just wants to hear Michael say it.
Michael opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Two nights?” Dad supplies.
Michael shrugs. Then, after a second, nods.
Dad clicks his tongue quietly. “Mm.”
That’s it.
No lecture. No questions about why. No are you okay.
“Have you eaten?” Dad asks instead.
Michael thinks. Tries to picture it. Can’t. He shakes his head.
Dad stares.
Then nods. “Eat soon.”
Michael swallows. Nods as well.
Silence.
Then, eventually, Dad lifts his wrist and checks his watch.
“I’m going to work,” he says.
Michael knew that was coming. His heart sinks anyway.
“Try to nap,” Dad adds. “Even an hour helps.”
Michael’s fingers twitch. “I will.”
Dad hums, satisfied, and steps back into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him.
The warmth from the hallway light goes with him.
Michael stays where he is.
Footsteps move away. Down the stairs.
The front door opens. Closes.
Silence.
He stares at the door.
Dad didn’t kiss him goodbye.
Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Michael wonders what he did wrong this time.
Maybe it’s the not sleeping. Dad hates when he does that. Even if he doesn’t always say it. Says it makes him “difficult.”
Maybe it’s the way he smelled. Or the way he was sitting, folded in on himself like that. Maybe Dad doesn’t like when he looks small.
No, he likes it too much and that’s worse. And he likes the way he smells even when he hasn’t showered in a week.
But Dad’s never consistent. He changes his mind all the time. Maybe he changed his mind today.
Michael presses his palms into his eyes until the dark blooms red and white.
He should get up.
Dad said eat. Dad said try to nap.
He’s going to work. Work means hours. Hours mean empty space. Empty space means time to think.
Michael doesn’t want to think.
But he doesn’t want to get up, either.
He doesn’t want to do anything.
Just wait.
It’s not like his father actually cares, anyway. When he actually cares about something, he does more than just suggest things.
Why was he so short with him? Why didn’t he care?
Why didn’t he kiss him goodbye?
Why doesn’t he care?
Michael can’t think. No, he can, but his thoughts are too slow. Everything’s too slow. Everything except the light from the window. It’s creeping up the wall now.
It hurts to look at. He should close his curtains better. He’s pretty sure they’re tangled up against that loose nail in the windowsill, but he’s not turning around to check.
His feet hurt. He hasn’t even been standing.
Sleep sounds good.
But that’ll change the moment he lays down and tries.
So he doesn’t.
His neck hurts.
He doesn’t want to move.
He zones out again.
The light keeps moving.
It goes higher. No longer blue. Pale, flat morning light. It spills over the edge of his bed, across the floor, up over his desk, up the wall.
The house starts to make daytime noises.
A door opens in the hallway. Closes. A toilet flushes. Pipes knock in the walls, shuddering like they’re annoyed to be awake. Somewhere down the hall, a drawer opens, then another. Elizabeth’s, probably. She always slams them.
Michael doesn’t move.
He listens to footsteps padding past his door. Light, quick. A pause. Then more footsteps, slower this time. Probably Mum.
She hums, faintly. Or maybe that’s just the pipes again. It’s hard to tell.
The stairs creak. The kitchen fills up. The sounds stack. Cabinets. Plates. The scrape of a chair. Someone drops something metal. Then more voices.
Morning has decided it’s happening.
Michael stays folded where he is, spine aching, eyes burning. He feels stupid now. Sitting like this in full daylight. Too exposed.
Voices drift down the hall. Elizabeth’s first - bright, too loud. Complaining about something small. Evan answers, quieter, dragging his words.
For a long time, no one knocks. No one asks if he’s up.
His legs are numb. Pins and needles creep up his calves. He doesn’t adjust. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Footsteps come down the hall again.
They stop outside his door.
Michael’s stomach tightens.
There’s a pause.
The door opens.
“Michael,” Mum says.
He turns his head. It takes more effort than it should.
Mum stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the brighter light behind her. Her hair’s still damp, twisted up haphazardly. She’s wearing her robe, one sleeve pushed up, the other hanging loose.
She looks like she slept well.
She stares at him.
“Oh,” she says.
Michael doesn’t move. He doesn’t uncurl. He doesn’t look away.
She steps into the room without asking. The door swings wider, letting the noise of downstairs rush in behind her - Elizabeth squealing too loud, the clatter of plates, Evan whining.
Michael winces inside. The sound feels too close. Like it’s pounding inside his head.
Mum’s eyes skim him. The way he’s sitting. His hair. His skin.
“When did you get up?” she asks.
She pretends like she doesn’t know. Not even in a smart way, like Dad, who pretends because he actually has a goal. Mum just pretends. For no reason at all. And she’s not very good at it.
Michael shrugs.
She sighs, quiet. Rubs her forehead with two fingers. He watches her do it, and then feels bad.
“You haven’t slept,” she says. Not a question.
Michael shakes his head.
Mum walks farther in, stops near the foot of his bed. She hesitates, then reaches down to start collecting clothes off the floor.
“Get ready for school,” she says.
Those words take a moment to process.
School.
Michael blinks. Once. Then again.
It feels like she’s said something from another life. Another version of him. One that exists on a different timeline.
He hasn’t been to school in a while. Maybe a week. The days have blurred together, but he knows that much. He knows because no one’s made him leave his room. Because Dad hasn’t stood in the doorway and watched him get dressed. Because Dad hasn’t combed his hair for him.
He’s not going to school.
Mum straightens with an armful of clothes, then frowns when he doesn’t move.
“Michael,” she says, louder now. “You can’t keep staying home.”
His head throbs. The room tilts a little.
“I can’t-” He stops. His brows furrow. He tries again. “No.”
Mum rolls her eyes.
“Yes,” she says, like he’s arguing about something small. Like this is a misunderstanding they can clear up if he’d just cooperate. “Now get dressed. Evan’s already eaten half the cereal, so if you want any, you’ll have to hurry.”
Michael’s fingers dig into the fabric of his pajama pants. His nails catch. He doesn’t pull them away.
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t go to school like this.”
Mum’s mouth tightens.
She sets the clothes down on the edge of his bed, smoothing them out like that might make him more willing. Like the problem is logistics.
“You can,” she says. “You just don’t want to.”
Michael stares at the wall past her shoulder. There’s a chip in the paint shaped like a crescent moon. He’s never noticed that before.
“That’s not-” He stops again. Words feel slippery. “I haven’t slept. I can’t think right. I’ll look stupid.”
She exhales through her nose.
“Michael,” she says, like she’s trying very hard to stay calm. “Everyone’s tired. You will make yourself sick if you keep doing this.”
Michael shifts backwards on his bed without thinking about it. His chest is moving too fast. “I already feel sick.”
Mum throws her hands up. “Well that’s not new! You always feel sick, don’t you?”
What is that supposed to mean?
He laughs once, breathless. Doesn’t even mean to. “So what, I’m just- what? Lying?”
“Stop it,” she snaps. “Go take a shower so you can at least look normal.”
“I can’t,” he says, louder than he means. “I’m not going to school!”
“Oh my god, Michael. You are fine.”
This is unfair. This is so unfair. He hates her. “I’m not fine!”
Mum blinks. Her chest rises and falls once, fast. She shakes her head. Not with emotion - more like surprise that he’s this loud.
“This is ridiculous,” she says, quieter now, almost under her breath. “You make everything into a crisis.”
“I’m not making it anything!” Michael yells.
Mum moves another step closer. She gestures to the clothes on the floor, the pile of towels he hasn’t touched, the unmade bed. “Look at this! Look at what you’re doing! You just sit in here! For hours!”
“You don’t get it!”
“I get plenty,” she says. “I get that I’m sick of this. I get that you’re lazy and dramatic and-”
“Shut up!”
She freezes for a moment.
Then her mouth tightens. “Do not speak to me like that.”
“I haven’t slept!” His voice cracks. “I haven’t slept and you’re acting like I’m doing this on purpose!”
She gestures broadly to the room. “Look at this! Look at yourself! You’re not even trying!”
That hurts.
He shuffles back further onto his bed, until he’s crammed into the corner. “I don’t care. I’m not going.”
Her face hardens.
She spins away with a sharp exhale, one hand on her hip, the other flattened over her forehead.
As if she’s the one being wronged here.
Then, she turns back to him. She points vaguely behind her.
“Do you know how this looks for me? I ran into your English teacher at the grocery store yesterday! They’re all- everyone is asking questions! Everyone is always asking questions! Why isn’t my son going to school? Why does he look so tired all the time? Why is he so angry? Why does he keep causing trouble?”
She pauses, turns her head just slightly, maintains eye contact. Hand on her chest. As if she’s appalled.
“What kind of mother does that make me?”
Michael groans, pressing his hands over his face. “Oh, everything’s about you.”
She laughs. Loud. “Oh, and you’re any different? Look at yourself, rotting away in here! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is for our family? For me, for your father?!”
Humiliating.
Michael digs his fingernails into his forehead.
He wants to rip himself apart. His head feels too full. Like it might split open if he doesn’t do something. Anything. If she doesn’t shut up.
“I don’t care,” he says again. “I’m not going.”
“You are going.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Dad said I don’t have to!”
Mum scoffs. “Oh, he did not!”
“He said I should sleep today!”
Mum’s mouth opens, then closes.
For a second, she just stares at him.
For a second, Michael thinks he’s won.
It’s over. Dad’s word always wins.
But then she lets out another short, humorless laugh. “That is not what he meant.”
Fucking bitch.
“Yes it is,” Michael snaps. He can barely hear his own voice over the pounding in his head. “He said I look wired. He said coffee would make it worse. He said I should try to nap!”
Mum folds her arms across her chest. Tight.
“Michael,” she says carefully, “your father has to be up at five in the morning every day. He is tired. He is swamped with work. He doesn’t have time to indulge this nonsense."
Why did she say it like that? What is she implying? That Dad doesn’t care? That he doesn’t have time for him? That he can’t be bothered?
Michael swallows. “He said-”
“You always twist his words,” she cuts in. “You hear what you want to hear.”
“You weren’t there!”
Mum scoffs. “I don’t need to be. I live in this house. I see it every day.”
Michael’s head feels like it’s splitting. “See what.”
“This!” she snaps, gesturing at him, at the room, at everything. “This- fixation! You’ve always been like this! Oh, Dad said this, Dad said that! And he only feeds it. You’ve never learned to stand on your own. Can’t function unless he’s holding your hand. Every time something goes wrong, you run straight to him. Every time I tell you something you don’t like, you throw his name at me like some kind of shield! And me? I might as well be a stranger!”
Michael shakes his head. She’s speaking gibberish. “Maybe because he’s the only one in this stupid family who understands me!”
She goes quiet.
Finally.
Michael’s head is throbbing. He’s had enough of noise. Of talking.
But then her nose twitches. Slightly. And then her mouth twists.
Michael knows that look. He’s seen it before.
“You are as disgusting as he is.”
Michael becomes immobile again.
It isn’t a question. It isn’t even an accusation. Just fact.
He swallows, his stomach twisting violently. Heat rushes to his cheeks, even though he’s already burning inside.
He wants to disappear.
Just be gone.
She doesn’t care. Not really. Not enough. Only enough to be disgusted. Not enough to say it outright. Only enough to imply it every now and again. And only when they argue. Only when she’s mad at him.
She’s the disgusting one. She’s the disgusting one for even thinking about it. For almost saying it.
Michael wants to throw something. Anything. His pillow. His notebook. His fists.
But Mum blinks and steps back like she’d said nothing at all.
“Get up,” she says. “Put your feet on the floor.”
School.
School school school.
Michael shakes his head.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Michael.”
“No,” he says again. The only thing he can still control is not moving. “I’m not going.”
Mum exhales sharply, loud enough that the sound scrapes across his nerves.
“Michael, I am not going to argue all morning. You will get up. You will put your feet on the floor.”
He presses his palms harder into the mattress, as if he could sink through it. “No.”
“Enough with this!” she snaps. “I’m not negotiating. You are going to school. And if you don’t-”
She jabs a finger at him.
“-I will call your father.”
Michael flinches.
His brows knit together before he even knows the implications.
Call him?
But he’s at work.
Michael suddenly feels sicker than ever.
“No,” he says, hoarse.
Mum’s eyes narrow.
“I will,” she says again, calm now. Too calm.
Michael swallows. His throat feels clogged. His stomach twists over itself. His fingers dig into the mattress, nails biting into skin he doesn’t even feel anymore.
“You’ll call him?” he croaks.
“Yes.”
Calm. Calm and cold and final.
Michael wants to scream. He wants to bite himself. Bite anything. Make it stop.
“But he’s working,” he tries.
Mum crosses her arms again. “So? Apparently he told you you could stay home. I’m not sure why you’re so against me calling to make sure.”
She’s so fucking smug.
Like she’s pretending not to know. But she does know. She knows how this works. How Dad works. She knows - if she interrupts him while he’s at work just to talk about Michael, if she complains about Michael, if she tells him all about how he’s been arguing and yelling at her - he will be mad. At. Michael. Because everything’s his fucking fault apparently. Because even Dad thinks so. Because even Dad will race for the chance to poke at him when he shows even the slightest ounce of vulnerability. Especially Dad. Dad will love it. Dad loves turning on him. He hasn’t done it for a few days, he’s probably itching for it. And what better excuse to do so than when he’s being interrupted at work? He hates being interrupted at work. Work is important to him. And Mum’s going to interrupt it. And she’s going to make it Michael’s fault.
Michael hugs his knees again. Rocks slightly, back and forth. The mattress creaks. He wants it to break. Wants the floor to swallow him. Wants the walls to fold over and erase him.
Mum waits for an answer.
Michael can’t speak.
Her eyes don’t leave him. Not blinking. Not softening. Just watching. Waiting. Like she’s reading him like a book, and she knows he can’t close it.
He can feel her patience stretching, fraying.
Every second is too long.
Every breath she takes is too loud.
Every tick of his alarm clock. Every creak from downstairs.
It hurts his head.
“I said I’ll call him,” she repeats.
Michael rocks harder, back and forth. His palms dig into his knees. His head’s going to split in two.
“I’ll go,” he croaks. But it comes out more like a whimper.
Silence.
His head.
Eventually, finally, Mum sighs.
“Thank you,” she says.
She relaxes like something’s been settled.
Like this was productive.
She smooths her robe, straightens the sleeve that slipped. The moment passes for her.
That’s the worst part. How quickly she moves on. Leaves him behind.
“See?” she says. “That wasn’t so hard.”
Michael doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat feels scraped raw, like he swallowed something sharp. His body is still rocking, smaller now, involuntary, like it hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s over.
She watches it, then frowns. Then ignores it.
“Go take a shower,” she says, already turning away. “Your hair needs a wash. And don’t take too long, you don’t want to miss the bus.”
She reaches the door, pauses just long enough to look back at him.
“And for god’s sake, behave yourself,” she adds. “I cannot handle another phone call from the school.”
Then she’s gone.
The door shuts behind her with a soft, final click.
Michael stays where he is.
His room feels wrong. Too quiet now. Like all the sound got sucked out with her.
His ears are ringing. His head throbs in uneven pulses, each one blooming behind his eyes.
School.
What if he just doesn’t.
Doesn’t move.
Maybe she’ll forget.
Stupid.
He moves slowly, because his body hasn’t properly moved for a while, and it hurts. He shuffles forward to the edge of the bed, plants his feet on the floor. Almost sobs out of pure despair.
When he finally stands up, his legs don’t feel like his.