Chain Reaction 3.1.47: Not Giving Up

     Michael comes home from the hospital, and I stay with him. It's incredibly unofficial. I just... don't leave. His dad goes and gets some clothes for me. I call my parents; they're not happy. No big surprise there. But they just don't understand, and I doubt they ever will.
     The only thing that matters to me now is Michael. I take leave from work. I'll quit if I have to.

     "Mike?" He's in a mood again. Lately, he's either blissed out on pain pills or utterly depressed. And the doc has cut back on the pain pills this month.
     "Take them down."
     "Huh?"
     "Take them all down. All the photographs of Sulani, all my modeling photos, all the paintings of me. Everything. Get rid of it. All of it. I can't stand looking at it anymore. Plum, I was full of myself."
     I decide not to argue, and I slump my shoulders. "Okay."

     I sigh. He wasn't full of himself. He was proud of himself, going from computer geek to supermodel. And it was the good kind of pride, the happy kind. I know he wants me to take these down because he feels less 'him' than before. He doesn't want reminders of what he 'was.'
    It's crazy. He still IS the person in the photographs. He's just traumatized.

     But maybe we can view the bare walls as a clean slate.
     I don't throw out the pictures. Instead, I stash them in my inventory. Perhaps it's leftover obsession of him from the time we weren't together. Mostly, it's because I hope one day we can put them back up.

     The months tick by as we get deeper into winter. Mike doesn't want to leave the house and visit his sister's for Winterfest. So, Charlotte, Jarvis, the kids, Chloe and her little family, and his dad all show up at the house, having brought everything with them. I take a few hours and visit my folks, feeling better that Mike has people with him while I'm gone. I worry he's a suicide threat.
     When I come back, I see him sitting in the living room, still in his bathrobe. That's all he wears lately.

     I sit down. "My parents say hi."
     All I get in evidence that he heard me is a hard exhale.
     "How is everyone doing?" I ask. He knows I mean his family.
     "Fine." At least he spoke.

      He's re-living the horrors in his mind. That's what I think is happening when he gets quiet and stares at nothing.
      But I talk to him anyway. "I was wondering if I could set up a cot in the bedroom. That way I don't startle you in your sleep yet I can still be nearby if you need me." I'd been sleeping the bed with him, but a couple of times, he woke up and tried to attack me, maybe thinking he was still in a nightmare. I've since been sleeping on the couch with the door open, but I haven't been comfortable, physically and emotionally.
     "Fine."
     "Michael, maybe you should talk with a therapist." We've discussed this several times already. I stressed the difference between a therapist and a psychiatrist.
     "Not yet." His lately-typical answer.

     "No. I really think the sooner, the better." I know he's suffering. But at least his body didn't reject the re-attachment. That's not how he sees it, though. Yes, it's re-attached, but it's scarred. And he says it hurts like plum to pee still. He also complained to the doc of little-to-no sensation, minus the aforementioned pain. The doc advised that he 'stimulate' the nerve endings to bring it back.
     "I'm not ready... to talk about it."

      I collapse into my hands. How much longer must I do this?! Forever, if I have to, but it's so heartbreaking! I want Michael back.

     "Darrin?" The voice sounds as if coming from a dream. I haven't slept well in weeks. Since I haven't replied, he tries again. "Darrin, what's wrong?"
     I let out a shuddering huff. I've done my best to hide my emotional pain since he's come home from the hospital, but maybe that hasn't helped anything. "I know this is hard for you. I just wish I knew what to do!"
     "I need time."
     Since he's apparently more lucid, I decide to ask questions. "Have you been doing as the doctor instructed?"

     He shuts down again.
     "Mike?"
     "It's no use! Nothing, Darrin. Nothing! It's like it may as well not be there!"
     "Which is why you need to! You need to... re-train your brain."
     With a huff, he gets up, storms into the bathroom, and slams the door.
     Maybe years from now, after I've annoyed the plum out of him about this, we'll look back and laugh about having a doctor order him to jerk off. Meanwhile, I'm not giving up, and I won't let him give up.

     Earlier in the week, I'd badly burned dinner. New Year's Eve, Mike insists upon cooking. 'Nothing too complicated,' he'd said. I see only vegetables on the counter, and I get suspicious. I know he's a bit of a health nut (or he was), but I like meat in my food.
     I start debating how I can sneak in a burger later.
     Still... he cares. He's not going about as a ghost of himself, not as much today anyway.
     Nothing went in the oven, making me worry more that I'll still be hungry at the end of dinner. He tells me it's ready, and I grab a bowl of mushy yellow stuff.

     I smile, trying to hide my worries. "It smells good." Not a lie. "What, uh, what is it?"
     He grins. "Butternut squash soup." He knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Try it."
     F--k. I'm having not only just vegetables--but vegetables made into a damn soup. Well, if it makes him happy, I'll do anything. "Okay." Probably very like a child, I tentatively put my spoon in and get a tiny amount. Then I taste it, expecting the worst.
     No. This is f--king amazing. "Oh my maker. How?" I try some more on my spoon this time. "How the f--k did you do this with vegetables?"
     His grin grows. "Magic."
     I chuckle, treasuring this simple, happy moment.

     We both watch the countdown to midnight program on television, each of us doing the countdown like a couple of kids... or drunks, pick one.

    "Happy New Year!" I exclaim. It's nice. Usually, I don't care. Last year, I was miserable since Mike was with Ivy. This year will be better. I'm determined.
     Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mike smirking, both at the television and at me. Then he stands up and gives me a quick kiss.
     "What?"
     He turns around from where he'd started walking into the bedroom. "What do you mean 'what'? It's New Year's. You're supposed to kiss the one you love at midnight."
     I catch him before he can turn around again.

     I go for more than a quick peck. That was the first time he'd kissed me since that night at the club. He tenses, uncomfortable with this. Dammit! But... he doesn't try to back off or push me away. I'll take it. It's not like I expect or even hope for more. Oh, Michael!
     He starts shaking, so I stop, realizing I probably overdid it.
     "I love you," I whisper to him, my arms still around him.
     Even his voice shakes. "Uh huh." Then he fights to free himself, and he escapes to his room.
     I'm not upset, not at him or myself. That moment just now was a gift. Sure, it was more than he bargained for, but I don't think he's mad at me. Just shocked.
     After giving him several minutes alone, I turn off the living room and kitchen lights, and I get ready to go to bed.

     I find him pretending to sleep. I know he's faking it, but I won't push him. Instead, I turn off the light and get in my cot without a word.
     In the middle of the night, I hear him crying, and I take my turn pretending to sleep. Now I get worried. What if I did overdo it? Is he planning on telling me to f--k off in the morning?
      I get a sinking feeling. Maybe it's nothing. I hope it's nothing.