Oh gosh, is it Friday already? All right, here's four for you all! This one took me a while, mostly because I had to organize a ton of information and events. After this, the story starts getting interesting
Enjoy.
0.4
The next few days dragged on in silence. Michael spent most of his time in his room, only now, for a change, it was by choice. As the hours went by, he lay spread-eagled on his bed, watching the window light dance across the ceiling.
So this is my summer... Michael thought.
It's one thing to be suspended, but stuck in my own house? I hate this... I hate my life.
Occasionally, his gaze trailed over to the pokéball that lay on the windowsill. He had moved it there so it wouldn't bother him, but now it had been caught again by a patch of light, and glinted mockingly.
Michael welled with loathing.
That thing would be better off at the bottom of a lake.
There were no noises coming from any of the other rooms, and the only mark of passing time was the ticking clock on the wall. Michael had thought of filling the hole by calling his friends, but he found out much too late that Patricia had disconnected the phone cord, leaving a bare plastic deadweight on the table. She had done the same for the TV, so he couldn't watch the Space Race either.
By the looks of it, the wounds from their conversation were still oozing, as Michael saw from the empty take-out containers littering the dining table, and half-finished bowls of leftovers in the refrigerator. His mother did not call him for meals, nor announce when she bought something new, so he had to come down and assess the inventory himself every day. In a way, this relieved him. With Patricia no longer breathing down his neck, he was free to eat all the sweets he wanted. Every night he snuck up to his room with handfuls of gummy worms, lollipops, and snack bars.
Other than the traces she left behind, Michael never saw his mother around the house. She never came to his room to continue her reprimands or check what he was up to. Heck, she didn't even ask him if he was hungry or maybe even bored of being shut up all day. Patricia had just... vanished.
Days passed. The sun came and went. His garbage can filled to the brink of overflow, and his supply of fresh clothes dwindled.
One day, out of sheer boredom, Michael began searching through his shelves, which to his surprise, were filled with things he didn’t need. He found three empty packs of gum and a first-grade math workbook sandwiched behind some paperback novels, where they had been collecting dust all these years. He tossed them aside. Most of the space in the higher shelves was taken up by action figures, ones he hadn't played with in years. He left those alone, since they could at least serve as decorations. His piggy bank, due to his frequent spending, contained only five pokédollars.
Michael cleared out the shelves slowly, often pausing on books or boxes that interested him and searching through their contents. He pushed what he didn’t need to the center of the room, and arranged everything else in a new way.
The next day, he moved on to his drawers. Michael had never troubled himself with organization, no matter how many times Patricia tried to force it onto him. Instead, he rolled up his shirts and pants into balls and threw them in, compressing the lumpy layers when he needed more room. Now, he took them out and smoothed them, placing them back in small stacks.
He found some of Richard's old shirts buried in the depths of the bottom drawer, since this had once been his room. Michael folded these carefully, then placed them in a corner to themselves. The only things he did toss aside were an old jacket, a pair of pants that didn't fit him, and a single red sock.
By the end of the third day, Michael had managed to turn his den into a semi-orderly space, one that even his mother might have been proud of. On top of that, he had done it without any sort of spite or impatience. He found this rather funny, since it would usually take a good few bucks from his father to bribe him into cleaning.
But there was still one place he hadn’t touched. The closet.
Michael’s gaze trailed over to it now, and he felt a wave of reluctance. The closet was an enigmatic cave, one whose front was light and orderly, and whose back was a stomach of junk that sucked in objects to make itself grow. He had tried to sort through it in the past, but found it to be so vast and unintelligible that he decided it was better to leave it alone. So for four years, he confined his activities to the front, leaving the back to its own devices.
But the more he looked at it, the more it seemed to pull him in, flooding him with curiosity. Finally, he went to open the doors, ignoring the Stunky's squeals of protest. His eyes ran over eleven years' worth of junk that was piled inside: books, sweaters, bags, toys… all of it lay in mounds on the floor, and peeked out from the depths of shelves.
Slowly, Michael reached into the pile on the floor and pulled out a random object. It turned out to be an old notebook. He flipped through it, and saw large, pointless sentences that were written by a kindergartener's hand.
Stupid. He threw it into the trash pile.
The next object he pulled out was an empty tissue box.
Why haven't I thrown this out yet? He tossed this as well.
Michael got down to his knees and began to comb through the pile with his hands, dealing with it in manageable chunks. He took out an assortment of clothes and toys, some of which he recognized, others which could have come from another kid’s closet in a different dimension. At one point, Michael felt his hand close around the corner of a thick, heavy book, which felt nothing like the lightweight fictions or the glossy workbooks he had gotten so far. He stood up and began to wriggle it out. After a considerable amount of pulling, he managed to get it loose, and stepped back into the light to see what it was. It was an old family photo album.
When did I ever have this? Michael wondered. He ran his fingers over the cloth binding and opened it to the inside cover. There was a name penned on the line: 'RICHARD ROWAN'. Michael’s eyes widened in recognition. This had been his brother's.
After a pause, he turned the page.
The first thing that greeted him was black-and-white photograph, showing a fat baby wrapped in blankets. He couldn't tell who it was, but by the faded image and the worn edges, it was most likely Brian. He had been born first. Michael’s eyes trailed down the page and found a line of text beneath it.
"September 26th, 1946. Our son, Brian Rowan, one year old!!!" It was Patricia's handwriting.
The second photograph was of his parents, Patricia and Andrew. Their faces were pressed together against a grassy background, and they wore toothy grins. The caption read:
"A day at the park!"
Michael chuckled, and he sat down on the floor, placing the album into his lap. He saw several more pictures of Brian on his later birthdays, then Richard's pictures, and finally his own. Michael's eyes lingered on a particular photograph that was too long to be placed vertically. It showed him at about eight years old, sitting on a swing, his head ducked down as he stared at the sand. Behind him was a spectacular sunset, a splattered canvas of red and orange, framed by the crowns of trees. The memory of the day returned to him in hazy fragments — he had been mad for some reason, and someone had taken the picture anyway. There was no caption.
The next one was a full family shot: him, Richard, Brian, and his parents. As he looked at their faces all bunched together, it suddenly struck Michael how different they were. He, Richard, and his father all had similar features, and though the color was faded in places, he knew that their hair held the same shade of black. Patricia and Brian, on the other hand, had caramel-colored hair and softer faces. They were different from the rest, and not just by their appearance.
For one thing, Brian had never shared any hobbies or interests with his brothers. When Michael went to play outside with Richard, Brian never went along. There were only photos of Michael and Richard by the basketball pole, Michael and Richard running in a meadow, or them and Andrew cheering at school events. The captions were always done by Richard’s hand.
In contrast, photos of Brian showed him at honor roll assemblies, standing beside science projects, or holding awards. Patricia was nearly always present, smiling next to her star student of a son. The rest of the family appeared infrequently, and later, was altogether absent. And Michael knew why.
It was because, for as long as he could remember, they had led separate lives. But at the time he hadn't felt it, because it hadn't mattered. His brother and father were the best companions he ever had, and so long as they were around, he was whole. They helped him with school, joined him on excursions, and pulled him through difficult times. The three of them were always the first ones out the door in the morning and the last ones to come in before dinner. When Richard became old enough to join the school soccer team, it had been a celebration. Michael and Andrew accompanied him to every practice and reserved the highest bleacher seats at games, which became the seeds of countless traditions.
But for some reason, Patricia was never really a part of their picture. She preferred to stay at home when they went out, sitting with Brian and helping him with his homework. Like her, Brian was always orderly and in control. If Richard and Michael were the leaves, then to her, he was the fruit — the family's success. Patricia often talked of raising her other sons to Brian’s standard, but never went out of her way to fulfill it. Rather, she always disciplined them from afar, pacing up and down a boundary that she never crossed. Likewise, Andrew recognized Brian’s talents and praised his studiousness, but he never did it quite like Patricia did.
The more photos Michael saw, the more clearly he sensed their division. It seemed almost like a game, one that could have gone on forever, had it not been for one thing that made everything come to a screeching halt.
That had been Andrew.
As Michael turned the page, he felt his breath catch as he saw familiar places: wide hallways, padded chairs, and a sunny, white hospital room. His father’s. This was one of the few times in the album where the whole family was gathered together.
He remembered those months perfectly. He and his brothers would spend long hours in the room during visits, taking turns with Patricia, sometimes starting a game or conversation to lighten the mood. One particular photo stood out the most. It depicted eight-year-old Michael sitting in a chair on a night shift, his eyelids drooping and his lips chapped. It was the last hospital picture, because the next morning, the news would come. And there were no pictures for that day.
On the surface, everyone had been the same, raw and tear-stained. But Richard seemed to crash the hardest, and his transformation resounded in every corner of Michael’s heart. While Andrew had been a father to Brian, he had been Richard's and Michael's best friend. And the loss of a best friend took a bit of someone along with it.
Left as the head of the family, Patricia was revved from her temperance and turned into a restless, glitching machine. She tried to include Michael and Richard in her plans as much as she could, but their needs never corresponded with her abilities. When Brian's meetings and Richard's game dates clashed, her instincts told her to drive Brian first, which ignited arguments in the car, and resulted in Richard shutting himself up in the house, or staying in school until his events ended. Michael tried to stay with Richard on such occasions, but more and more frequently, Patricia made him tag along with her.
"You can’t sit around like this,” she would say. “You have to start doing something.”
“I want to be there for Richard,” Michael responded.
“Richard has his own ways of coping that don’t involve those around him,” Patricia said. “You, on the other hand, have to get things going.”
And so it had happened. Over the years, while Richard drifted away, Patricia began to make Michael her second favorite. She commended his good papers and forced him to correct bad ones, and took input from his teachers to pinpoint his skills. She did everything she had done with Brian, as if she’d seen the gleam of some hidden talent deep within him, and was now in a frenzy to dig it up. Michael had never been able to understand it. He only saw how Richard plummeted, how their walks grew rarer, and their conversations shorter. There was hardly a day when his brother didn’t seem sad or resentful, but whatever he was thinking, he had ceased to share it.
Michael turned the page of the album, anticipating more pictures, but instead he found a bare page filled with frantic handwriting. Richard had written a letter to their father.
Way to go, dad. Ever since you left, I've been stuck with an idiotic older brother and a mom who couldn't care less about me. Nothing’s the same without you. I don't know about them, but Michael and I miss you more than you can imagine. Fuck it, you were the best guy in the world. If you're watching me right now dad, I'm sorry. But I can't take it anymore. My entire life has been hell, and it's all because of mom and Brian. I've been trying to stick around for Michael’s sake (he reminds me of you sometimes, you know) but I don’t think I can handle much more. Mom's trying to turn both of us into Brian-clones, and she’s acting like the people we were when you were there should never have existed. So I'm gonna leave. I don't know if it’s right or wrong in her eyes and honestly I don't care. I just want things to be back to the way they were. Just you, me, and the little guy. I'll miss him too.
Hope to see you soon,
Richard.
Michael’s heart quickened. There was no date on the letter, but from the content, he approximated it to be sometime after the fight.
It had happened in the autumn of the following year. Patricia had gone to work full-time, and Brian was focusing his energies on getting into a good high school. Both of them were fighting the turbulence and moving forward. But through it all, Michael and Richard had roamed in a daze, still trying to find their way back to their stronghold of good and security. Even to each other they seemed blurred, and their gazes no longer struck together like they used to.
That evening, he, Patricia, Brian, and Richard had been seated at dinner, at the same four-person table that now stood in the kitchen. Out of the blue, Patricia announced that Brian had been accepted at Cobblers Academy, an elite boarding school in Canalave City. From the way she had said it, Michael knew it was something they should have been very proud of. But all he had done was nod, and Richard did nothing at all.
Patricia noticed, and questioned Richard.
"Shouldn't you be happy for your brother?" she had said.
To this day, Michael remembered how Richard had replied. Calmly lowering his fork, he said, "And when was the last time you were happy for either of us?" Then, he got up and left the room.
Michael went to bed, hoping the tension would blow over like it had always done. But when he got up the next morning, he found that Richard's room was empty. No angry note. No farewell. Nothing. Patricia acted like she didn't notice. Brian made no comment either, but his gaze followed Michael throughout the entire day. When the time came for spring cleaning, Patricia hauled out the clutter from Richard’s loft and allowed Michael to move in from his bedroom downstairs, but under an unspoken condition. Michael was prohibited from mentioning his brother's name, or bringing up the subject of his disappearance. From now on, he only had one brother. Brian.
But in the back of his mind, Michael did question it. He thought it over and over at night, sometimes to the point where he got a headache. Turns out, the answer had been in his closet the whole time. Richard had been sick of his home life too. Only he had actually gotten the guts to do something about it.
Michael slammed the album shut and tossed it back into the closet.
You never appreciate what you have until it's gone... He repeated the phrase several times in his mind, staring into the cluttered pit.
Eventually, his gaze trailed off towards the window again, for the hundredth time that day. It was much dimmer outside now, and the clouds that had been red earlier had faded to purple. Michael's eyes ran over the same trees and the same houses that he had been looking at for his entire life.
He knew Patricia couldn't stay mad at him forever. But when she did forgive him, what would happen next? He'd probably be forced to raise the Turtwig, and let the Stunky go. Patricia would detach him from his best friends, then proceed to sign him up for science club once summer was out. A Brian-in-the-making. She'd fill all his college applications before they would even get to him, and he'd be shipped off to some distant college, studying something he didn't even care about.
And then what? Michael scowled at the window.
With her, my life is a void. She wants to control me like a fucking puppet. What if I don't want that? Just because Brian liked it doesn't mean I have to!
Michael's eyes shifted towards his desk, then almost by accident, found his school backpack slumped on the floor beside it. He sat up. The zipper was partially open, with torn notebooks peeking out of the pocket. As he stared at it, Michael felt an idea dawning upon him. It did so in stages, like the gradual pull of the tides, which crept further after every retreat till they came back to sweep the whole shore.
I don't have to follow her orders. I can make my own future. Just like Richard. He felt himself smile.
Michael crawled over to the backpack and turned it over, emptying its contents onto the carpet. Then he stood and went around his room, refilling it bit by bit. He packed a change of clothes, and a pair of socks. He broke open his piggy bank, folding the last of the money into his wallet, and zipped it up into an inner pocket. Then he scooped the pile of candy on his desk and dropped it in as well. Lastly, he packed a notebook and pencils, figuring he might want to write to his friends.
With his backpack full, Michael rose to his feet and gave his room a final once-over. It was by no means empty. His shelves looked chock-full even after the cleaning, and the lump of junk was still there at the center of the room, practically on the verge of collapse. Not so long ago, Michael would brag to his friends about how much his posters meant to him, and how his records were of top-notch quality. But now, he never wanted to see any of it again. What had once been his pride and joy now only reminded him of his pathetic state.
Just as he began to turn for the door, a faint squeal cut him off. The Stunky was whining again. Michael dropped the backpack and rushed to open the closet. The pokémon was there as expected, with its tail drooping and its eyes narrowed from the sudden light. Michael scowled down at it.
"What do you want now, Skanky? I'm leaving, you got what you wanted. No more nasty, good-for-nothing hooligan on your back."
He stepped away, but the Stunky squealed again, making him turn back.
"What, what
is it?"
The Stunky eyed him unblinkingly.
Michael narrowed his eyes. "You pokémon have given me nothing but trouble. All you do is freaking look at me. You think you’re so intelligent, you think you deserve some kind of special treatment, but you just run around everywhere like pests. You get in the way and you whine and you... what? Stop staring at me!"
He got no response. Michael groaned.
"Do you want a playmate or something? Here!" He pulled the pokéball from the windowsill and twisted it open, releasing a burst of light. When the Turtwig had emerged, he unlatched the Stunky's cage and set his starter beside it. "Your new friend. Happy together? Go play or something." Michael backed away.
He realized what he had done a second too late.
The Stunky let out a screech of freedom, and tore across the room towards the door.
"NO!" Michael exclaimed. "Get back!"
He dove after it, but his hands gripped empty air, and he fell to his stomach. The puffy purple tail bounced as the pokémon raced down the stairs into the living room. He scrambled to his feet, but before he could stand up, something else rammed into his leg and knocked him down again. A second cry rushed past him.
"TURTURTUR!"
"Get back, you cretins!" Michael shouted.
The Turtwig ignored him. As he watched it hop down the stairs, Michael's hands flew to his head. "Argh! I'm such a f
ucking
ditz!"
He grabbed the cage and the pokéball and ran for the stairs, forgetting all about Patricia, feeling only the storm of anger churning inside of him.
He stomped down to the bottom floor and swept his gaze over the living room, and his eyes locked on a dark, moving projectile. The Stunky was scurrying around the couch, and the Turtwig was snapping at its heels, barking madly. They scampered all over the furniture, displacing pillows and bumping tables.
Michael tried to run after them, but compared to their speed, he was a lumbering giant. The moving bodies zipped around and between his feet, but no matter how quickly he turned, all he could assess was the trail of damage they left behind. The Stunky’s claws tore gashes in the rugs, and feathers spilled from the pillows of the armchair, whipping up in flurries when the pokémon zipped past. Finally, Michael caught sight of the Stunky as it fled the sitting area, running in the direction of the kitchen and front door. But instead of going all the way, it turned into a corner and dove between the legs of a tall metal table, which held Patricia’s favorite vase. At the same time, the Turtwig skid to a stop and rounded on its cornered prey.
Michael stopped cold.
The Turtwig began to creep forward slow steps, his chin lowered to the carpet like a canine’s. Meanwhile, the twitching Stunky tried to push itself even farther against the wall. The vase gave a slight wobble, and Michael clenched his fist.
If that thing breaks... I'll kill both of them.
The Turtwig continued to advance on the table, pointing forward with the branch on its head, which was sprouting with leaves. Instead of going for the kill, however, the pokémon stopped a couple feet away and stood there, growling. Michael approached, and when he had reached its side, the Turtwig looked up at him with shining eyes.
It took Michael a few seconds to realize what he was seeing. The Turtwig had cornered the Stunky. It had helped him.
Michael stood there for a moment, the pokéball and cage hanging limp at his sides. "Well... cool."
With a smile, he unlatched the cage door and kneeled down in front of the table. "Here, Stunky Stunky. Back to your home."
He snapped his fingers, but the Stunky didn’t move.
Damn it, smart Stunky! Michael gritted his teeth.
He scooted closer, pushing himself and the cage as carefully as he could. “Come on, get in the cage.” He continued to crawl forward, till he felt his head bump against the glass table, and saw the legs sway.
No... please no...
The more his fear mounted, the more he grimaced. "Come on, you good-for-nothing buttface! Get in!" Michael placed the cage down at an angle, and reached from the other side to grab the Stunky’s tail. Its body remained still as his fingers inched towards it, but right as he felt them graze its fur, the Stunky snarled and jumped away. It pushed past the cage and went for the kitchen.
"No, you skag! Argh!" Michael turned around and started to rise to his knees. But midway, he felt his shoulder bump against something hard, which gave way beneath it moments later. He looked over, but it was too late — the vase and table were tipping to the side, and in a matter of seconds there was a loud
bang and
crack as the vase split in three against the floor.
The Turtwig took off like a bomb, racing after the Stunky, barking as loud as a siren. Michael rushed after them, forgetting about the mess, wanting only to stop the damage before it could spread. He burst into the kitchen and saw the Stunky running circles around the room, bumping and scratching at the appliances. The Turtwig chased after it, blocking it whenever it tried to escape the room, and gradually forced it into a corner. Then the Turtwig lowered its chin, brandishing the branch on its head, and began to whip it from side to side. With each swipe, a leaf dislodged from the branch and sliced through the air like a razor, striking Stunky’s skin and bouncing off. The Stunky screeched and backed away towards the sink, where the Turtwig made a daring leap and tackled it to the ground.
Michael acted immediately. He opened the cage all the way and slammed it over the Stunky, letting the Turtwig wriggle free. He lifted the cage, scooping the Stunky up along with it, and locked the door. When everything was secure, he let out a breath, and twirled the cage so that the pokémon’s face was directly in front of his.
"There. And you're never coming out again. Hear me?" Michael banged the cage with his hand, and the Stunky growled.
"Tur-tur!"
Michael looked down. The Turtwig was looking up at the cage as well, rather proudly. Michael rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah, you helped, all right? But you're going in too." He twisted open the silver pokéball and aimed it at the Turtwig. A bolt of light escaped the capsule and struck the pokémon, turning its body into a white silhouette. Moments later, it was sucked away and vanished.
Michael was just about to put it into his backpack when he heard a clatter from an upstairs room.
"Michael?" came a voice. "Michael!"
Patricia had stirred. Her footsteps were growing louder.
Shit! There was no time to put the pokéball away. Michael rushed to the front door and unlocked it. From somewhere behind him, he heard a gasp. Patricia had seen the vase.
"Michael, where are you? What happened in here?"
Hope you like living alone! Michael smiled. He slipped through the door and closed it quietly, then hobbled away as fast as his load would allow.
Once he had cleared the driveway and made it to the sidewalk, he slid behind a large bush and sat there for a moment, catching his breath. Through the leaves and branches, Michael could see patches of his house. The door was still closed, which meant that Patricia either hadn’t heard him leave, or didn't care. Either way, she definitely couldn't see him here.
Michael waited for a few more minutes, and when he was certain the door wouldn’t open, he removed a candy bar from his backpack to settle his growling stomach.
Beside him, the Stunky pawed at the wall of cage. "Stu stu!"
"Shut it!" Michael hissed. "I didn't eat dinner. And no, you can't have any. This has to last me for the entire night, maybe even breakfast tomorrow."
The Stunky fell silent. Michael turned his head to face the street, following its path with his eyes. It went down, down, down, all the way to the beginnings of the city. In that distant strip of land, Jubilife shone with nighttime activity.
Once he had finished eating, Michael got up and continued to walk at a casual pace, eying the rows of houses he passed. Some glowed from inside like jack-o-lanterns, and others were completely dark, meaning that their owners had left for the summer. Michael knew the community's every curve and bump, after years of running and playing in it. It was the place he loved, but it was also the place he had to get away from.
His footsteps thumped soft and alone against the sidewalk, in tune with the beat of his heart.
The neighborhood wasn't gated, nor did it have an official name. Its exit was marked by a sign that read 'JUBILIFE CITY - 0.5 MILES'. When Michael reached it, he paused, and looked out at the dark, quiet road.
Am I really doing this? Am I really about to run away? The absurdity of his actions unsettled him. After all, where would he go? What chance did he stand at thirteen, with five dollars in his wallet?
Michael looked back. Somewhere among the sea of houses was his. Patricia had probably realized the house was empty, and was having a hysterical fit. Or, she might have gone back to her room, too lazy to investigate.
Either way, he thought,
I'm sick of that place. And whatever my future is, I want to build it myself.
Michael exhaled. His decision was made. He hoisted his backpack onto both shoulders, tightened his grip on the cage, and started forward.
Both his brothers had left the house when they could, setting off on their own to start a new life. Now it was his turn.