In dreams
Michael no longer drinks or smokes or binge eats when he has a depressive episode.
He found another way to evade reality in difficult times.
/////
A new day, the same routine for him: watch a movie, maybe tidy up the house a bit, eat at the respective times, go out for a walk around the city, evaluate whether he would go to see Solomon at the recording studio, come back and go on with his daily life as a lonely middle-aged man with few illusions about life and think about what he could do differently the next day.
What would change the next day, or the day after that or the day after that or any of the days after that?
Michael wasn't sure.
It had been days since his routine had been based on the same thing, not because he had no options, but because his mind was still not a safe place for himself. It never had been, although months ago, he would have dealt with it differently, perhaps not healthily, but he would have dealt with it nonetheless. Before, he would have drunk a whole bottle of whiskey or smoked three cigarettes in a row or gone out and stopped at four different bakeries. Or he would have done all three in one day.
Currently, however, Michael didn't want to relapse into things that had already gotten him into trouble with those close to him. He told himself that was why he spent so much time alone at home and refused every invitation to go out from Franklin, Lester, Solomon and even Trevor. His excuses varied depending on the day and the person. The most commonly used were: "I can't today, I have to go to the recording studio", "I'm sorry, I already have an engagement", or "It's not possible, I have to do something else".
The only real one he gave less frequently was: "I can't, I don't feel well".
Michael was sure that his colleagues assumed these were physical health issues and he hoped it would stay that way. Deep down, however, he used to hope that one would notice that it wasn't physical, but mental. Getting up in the mornings was complicated, and then doing basic things like showering, washing one's face, eating or just drinking water became real challenges.
Sessions before leaving him, Friedlander talked to him about depression and offered him the alternative of a medication. Michael hated the possibility that he would end up on medication, as he didn't want to be doped up around the clock or have it limit his day-to-day life. For that reason, he refused the medication and stated that depression was just "something doctors say because they don't take the time to properly evaluate patients". Friedlander mentioned his constant denial about his own health and Michael let out a sarcastic comment and stubbornly refused the card with the number of other specialist.
On second thought and in the absolute silence of his home, Michael wondered if he had made the right decision.
One Wednesday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Michael arrived home after an unsuccessful attempt to go to Franklin's house. The boy texted him that he could go if he needed to talk or if he simply wanted to get out of the mansion. Michael barely made it two blocks with his car before he turned around and returned to the solitude of his home. He wasn't well and didn't want Franklin to notice and talk about it later with Trevor, Lester or Lamar.
Michael didn't even bother to respond to the message. He got out of his car, went back inside and went straight to his room. There, he changed into light clothes and lay down on the bed, which hadn't been made in days. He covered up to his waist and set an alarm on his cell phone.
I'll sleep for an hour and I'll be fine, he told himself.
He fell asleep in less time than he used to when he drank. He dreamed he was on the beach, on a sunny day like any other, watching the immensity of the sea. The rays of light caressed his face, making him feel relaxed, free from the stress of the busy world behind his back. The sound of the water, undisturbed, without loud music or young people partying, drinking alcohol and throwing their trash, reminded him of the first years he arrived in Los Santos; when he thought he was happy. For once, Michael did not feel the weight of loneliness, quite the opposite.
He took a few steps towards the water and it barely reached his feet in the sand.
He liked the idea of always being like this, calm, without stress or worries. He longed for that genuine tranquility and not the typical escapism of his: sitting on the sun lounger with a glass of whiskey and using his headphones to pretend that the music dulled the noise of problems. That routine had only made his worn-out mind more exhausted. Michael didn't want to fall into it again. He just... wanted to be at peace.
A loud sound made him open his eyes. Automatically, his hand moved to reach for his cell phone and he turned off the alarm, dazed. The darkness of his room made his tiredness grow, all he wanted was to close his eyes.
Michael turned off his cell phone, rolled over to lie on his other side and looked out the balcony door. He could hear the noise of cars, horns and complaints from pedestrians. Not even such a racket could keep him from falling asleep again.
Four o'clock, five o'clock, six o'clock... and until nine o'clock at night, Michael did not wake up. He had slept for seven hours and not even that time lapse could stop him from feeling exhausted.
He turned on his cell phone and found that he had several messages from Lester and Franklin. They read worriedly asking about him. Not wanting to give them reason to go see him, Michael replied that he was fine and wasn't at the mansion.
He didn't even bother to read their answers.
He didn't think he would be able to go back to sleep after doing it all afternoon. And as so often, he was wrong.
He fell asleep after twenty minutes of waking up.
/////
Michael had considered returning to therapy, with a competent specialist who could actually counsel him and not increase his fees each session for the most absurd reasons. However, the times he spent lying around, overthinking, made him end up convincing himself that it was a bad idea. The first idiot had let him down, so why risk the same thing happening again? Besides, what was he going to change? The worst thing was to think that he would have to start from scratch to tell why he decided to go to therapy and the reasons about why his previous therapist 'discharged' him.
His therapist would surely have talked about avoiding taking responsibility and how Michael always found a way to excuse his refusal to try to make changes in his life, starting with his hatred of acknowledging a problem that had to do with him.
Lying in bed or on the couch, he had plenty of time to brood and berate himself. When talking, he could spend the whole day apportioning blame and pointing fingers at people who had little or nothing to do with his miserable state of mind, but in complete solitude, his head would remind him that he was the only one to blame.
When he had an anxiety episode, Michael would spend most of the early morning hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to sleep. Nothing would motivate him to leave his house.
And that's what he did most days. The following depressive episodes were no different. Michael still maintained his personal hygiene and ate relatively well, but he didn't leave his house and if he didn't want to know anything about the real world, he decided to sleep.
Trevor wrote to him several times, asking why the hell he wasn't answering his calls. As with the others, Michael couldn't find the will to respond to his ¿friend? The feeling of ignoring Trevor's messages made Michael feel guilty. He had ignored him for ten years and when they met, he kept lying to him. Ignoring his messages felt just as bad.
Some evenings, he dreamed they were back in North Yankton, but not living the criminal life. They had a...normal life. Trevor was still in the air force and excelling as one of the best, and Michael had a quiet life away from his nefarious parents.
And they lived together. Michael didn't fully remember what kind of cohabitation they had, but he remembered feeling like it was a pleasant dream.
When he woke up, he thought about how much he wanted to stay in those dreams forever.
The thought of calling Trevor and telling him about it felt wrong. What right did Michael have to do that after everything that had happened between them? Whether or not Trevor had accepted his apology and their weird, dysfunctional friendship had gone back to the way it was, Michael couldn't think that things would change again because of his depressed state. That state had already alienated him from his family and he was sure it was the same with Frank and Lester. The last thing Michael wanted was for Trevor to walk away too.
And what the hell am I doing ignoring his messages, Michael wondered, lying on the bed and massaging his forehead. His cell phone was off. He hadn't wanted to receive calls and have to explain why he hadn't left his house in days.
Dreams were more pleasant, so Michael rolled over and closed his eyes, waiting for the gentle arrival in a utopian world where he was okay.
/////
Trevor cut off the twelfth call to Michael and tossed his cell phone in the passenger seat. His truck was parked in front of Michael's house and all along the drive, he had been calling him to ask if he was okay and why the hell he hadn't been answering his or Franklin and Lester's messages.
Those two spoke to him and asked him if he knew anything about Michael, claiming that, as his best friend, he should have a sense of what Michael was doing.
Trevor replied that 'best friend' was not synonymous with 'faithful dog'. He didn't tell them that he was going to the mansion to see him, as he wanted to spare them the teasing and the rest of the questions.
To himself, Trevor would not deny being worried about Michael. It could be normal for Michael to not keep in touch by text so often, but for him not to answer calls or take the trouble to be less curt with his messages was a red flag that Trevor learned in short order.
Anxiety flared in Trevor as a bunch of unpleasant ideas came to mind and began to bother him. What was he going to find when he entered the mansion?, he wondered, as he made his way to a half-open window; he didn't want to pick the lock and then deal with Michael's grumpiness about it. Would Michael be lying on the floor, choking on his own vomit? Would he be in the living room, with three bottles of whiskey nearby and clutching his belly from feeling his stomach burn? Or would he have been so drunk that, by smoking, he ended up burning himself? What if it was an accumulation of things that led to...?
Trevor shook his head and went through a window in the living room. He shouldn't get any ideas so soon.
"Michael?", he called to him, entering the kitchen. "Michael, you better not be dead, you selfish bastard!".
Nothing-no sarcastic or angry retort to his intrusion. Trevor noticed that the kitchen wasn't in shambles like that time he showed up, after Amanda and the kids had left with that crazy yoga instructor. Everything was more or less clean, maybe some leftover food, but there were no fast food boxes or used glasses left in the sink.
Trevor opened Michael's fridge to poke around. There wasn't too much: bottles of water, half a dozen eggs, some untouched fruit, and a can of energy drink. He closed the door and checked the shelf where Michael kept the alcoholic beverages. All the bottles were intact.
Trevor walked through the house and found no traces to indicate that Michael had done... anything wrong.
He was left to check his room.
With each step, Trevor felt his anxiety levels rise. He didn't know what he might find when he opened the door and the uncertainty was suffocating.
When he forced himself to open the door and face what he should, all he got was Michael sleeping soundly. His back was to the door, covered up to his waist and holding part of the blankets like a child holds a stuffed animal to sleep.
Trevor quietly entered the room and approached the bed. Michael was breathing slowly and evenly and Trevor never thought he would see his face so relaxed. He wondered what he was dreaming about and concluded that it must be a nice place, away from all the things that bothered Michael, where he could have the peace and quiet he so desired.
Sighing, Trevor decided to leave the room, leaving the door open. He went to the second floor and decided to wait in the living room for Michael to wake up. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. He couldn't take that long to wake up.
To Trevor's bewilderment, Michael woke up around five-thirty in the afternoon. During those hours, Trevor rearranged items in the kitchen a bit, watched TV for a while, and continued to wander around a few rooms, all without making too much noise. He was almost shocked by the hours Michael slept, not realizing anyone else was in his house.
Trevor heard Michael heavily coming down the stairs and going to the kitchen. He didn't hear him looking for something in the fridge or cupboards. Had he even been eating?
"God...", Michael gasped slowly as he walked into the living room and saw Trevor sitting quietly on his couch. "I didn't know you were coming".
Honestly, that wasn't the reaction Trevor had expected. He was ready to hear reproaches, threats or insults for walking in like it was his house. But Michael's look was very much in keeping with the way his words came out. Trevor was more than used to seeing him wearing a smart suit inside the mansion and looking perfectly groomed. Seeing him in sweatpants and a baggy black short-sleeved T-shirt made Trevor arch his eyebrows a little.
What caught his attention the most was Michael's face: he looked completely defeated, exhausted from everything, he had dark circles under his eyes and his eyes lacked the sparkle he used to keep before.
"You didn't answer our messages", Trevor replied, unable to avoid the reproachful tone in his voice. "You had us worried, you know".
"I'm sorry", Michael sighed. "I haven't been feeling well".
"Physically or mentally?", inquired Trevor.
Michael let out a sarcastic chuckle and returned to the kitchen. Trevor clicked his tongue and went after him.
"What's going on?", asked Trevor.
"Nothing. Why should anything be going on?", mumbled Michael, pouring himself a glass of water. "I was just sleeping".
"How many hours did you sleep?", insisted Trevor, crossing his arms.
Michael didn't even bother to answer him. He set the half-empty glass down abruptly on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. Trevor heard him coming up the stairs and knew he had returned to the bedroom.
How hard it was to deal with a closed person like Michael, especially if they had to talk about emotional issues.
Trevor could have left and let Michael sink into his pity party. He had already checked that he was alive and clearly didn't want to talk. He had no extra reason to stay at the mansion.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't find a way to leave the way he came and leave Michael alone.
Snorting, Trevor climbed the stairs and walked back into the room. Michael had gone back to bed. It would have been easy to tell him he was being silly and that he wouldn't get anything out of lying around. Trevor was good at that.
"Aren't you going to talk?", snapped Trevor.
"No", Michael replied, listlessly.
"Fine. I'll stay with you until you want to", Trevor declared. He rounded the bed and lay down on the other side.
Michael must not have felt like arguing, because all he did was grunt under his breath and turn his back on him.
For an hour and a half, they didn't make a sound. Trevor looked at Michael the whole time and Michael tried to go back to sleep, hoping that Trevor would be gone by then. But as he felt the Canadian's eyes boring holes in his head, the idea was discarded.
Surrendering to Trevor's silent insistence, Michael rolled over and sat up in bed. Trevor did the same.
"Well?", asked Trevor. "What's the matter with you?".
Michael looked away for a moment and Trevor heard him sniffle lightly. When the older man turned back to him, Trevor saw the same dull expression, but his eyes crystallized and filled with sadness.
"I don't know", Michael admitted. "I didn't feel like doing anything but sleeping".
"You haven't been out in the last few days?".
"I tried, but... I can't", Michael repeated, staring straight ahead.
Trevor wasn't sure what to say. He was the worst person when it came to trying to offer words of comfort. Anything he said could be misinterpreted and he was sure that, if it happened, Michael's condition would get worse. So, he opted not to speak and to act. He moved a little towards Michael and pulled him to himself.
Michael didn't put up any kind of resistance, but instead let himself fall against Trevor's shoulder. He couldn't remember when was the last time he had a shred of human contact.
They didn't continue to talk. Michael didn't tell him in depth what was wrong with him and Trevor didn't force him to talk about it.
Although they were silent as Trevor held him and when Michael settled down so he could fit snugly into the Trevor's arms, the companionship felt pleasant.
"Thank you for... coming," was all Michael said.
"You'll need to do more than disappear for a few days to get rid of me, sugar".
