Michael had always had a strange relationship with food.
It started when he was a kid. His mother struggled to get him to eat; he noticed everything. Every flavor, every texture. Every temperature and spice.
"Michael, just eat it, please," his mother said, watching him poke at his food with his fork for the millionth time.
"But it's soggy," Michael said softly, pressing his fork into the gravy-covered biscuit.
"Well, if you would have eaten it faster, it wouldn't have gotten soggy," his mother said. "Please, honey."
He noticed the look on her face. Concern. Reluctantly, he placed a bite of the sodden mass into his mouth and forced himself not to gag. He swallowed hard, feeling it catch in his throat, scratching him multiple times on its trip down. He looked up at her, seeking her approval. She smiled.
"That's it, Michael," she said.
"Mom!" Lincoln called from the living room. "I need your help!"
"I'm coming, Linc," she said. She patted Michael's shoulder. "Finish that, okay?" she said, leaving the kitchen.
Michael looked over his shoulder. She was gone. Quickly, he stood and scraped the soggy biscuit into the garbage, crumpling a napkin over the top so it wouldn't be immediately apparent if she looked. Then he sat back down at the table and traced patterns in the gravy on his plate with a tine of his fork.
When she returned to the kitchen, and saw his empty plate, she smiled like the sun. "Good boy, Michael."
And Michael felt vaguely guilty, but it made her happy, and that made him happy.
He was six.
After she died, there was no one to make happy anymore.
There was food everywhere. Michael stuck close to Lincoln's side, wishing he was smaller, small enough that Lincoln could hold him in his arms and protect him from all these people who were trying to say their condolences, trying to tell him how sorry they were that his mother was gone. They didn't seem that sorry; Michael watched them. Talking, chatting, laughing, eating. Like she wasn't dead. Like her body wasn't lying in a coffin, about to be put in the ground to rot.
"You want some food, Mikey?" Lincoln asked, his hand resting lightly on Michael's shoulder. Michael leaned into his brother for just a moment, and shook his head.
"Not hungry," he said. He hadn't been hungry since they'd told him she was gone. He wondered if he would ever be hungry again.
"Me either," Lincoln said softly. He squeezed Michael's shoulder. "Come on. We have to talk to Aunt Sheila."
Michael didn't move until Lincoln put his hand on his back and gave him a push, steering him through the crowd. He let his brother do that for him; be his older brother. Protect him, keep him safe, watch over him.
He was eight.
Michael curled up tightly in the closet. He didn't cry; his body ached but he saw no point in shedding tears. There was no one to hear them and no one to comfort him.
He thought again of Lincoln. He was in juvie. Or jail, Michael wasn't sure which.
He shifted his weight, and pain sliced through his ribs, causing him to gasp. The pain was overwhelming. He needed something, anything else, to concentrate on.
Suddenly, his stomach growled. It was loud in the darkness. And it was something else, besides the awful agony and fear of knowing that he was alone, that no one would help him. That he'd be locked in this closet until his foster father decided he'd learned his lesson…or wanted to hurt him again.
So he concentrated on the hunger pangs that roared through his stomach and gurgled up his esophagus. Hour after hour, until he felt a slight euphoria, a distance from his body, himself. The hunger caused that distance.
He relished, cherished, NEEDED that distance, and therefore, that hunger.
He was ten.
Michael lay in his bed, listening. Praying he would hear the sound of Lincoln's keys jingling as he tried to enter the apartment. Waiting for his soft, slurred curses, the familiar smells of booze and pot, all the things that said Lincoln was home for the night.
There was only silence.
Michael curled on his side, wrapping his arms around himself. Not for the first time, he wished he was little again. When he was little, his mother had been here. She'd taken care of him and Lincoln. There had always been food, heat, electricity, and a phone. And Lincoln had been different. He hadn't been so stressed. He hadn't gotten high, and angry, and sometimes mean. He'd always been in bed, and Michael had never had to battle nightmares alone.
Or awake.
He felt a tear slip down his cheek, and self-hatred churned in his empty gut. Weak. He was so weak, so out of control. He tried to force it back, to be like stone. Lincoln didn't cry; he wouldn't either.
He pressed his fists into his belly to quiet its grumbling.
There! Keys, in the lock. The door opening, curses, slurred words. Lincoln was home.
He was twelve.
He was flat on his back, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. "Michael?" a kind female voice asked. "It's Mrs. Hovey, the school nurse. How are you feeling?"
Michael sat up quickly, and around him, everything reeled. He steadied himself. "What's going on?" he asked.
"You passed out," she said. "What happened?"
Michael felt his eyelids flutter. "I passed out?" he repeated.
She nodded, her blue eyes meeting his. "We called your brother right away," she said. "He should be here soon."
"What? No!" Michael said. He jumped to his feet, and lurched against the wall. The nurse reached out her hand to steady him. He jerked away. "No. Why did you call Lincoln?"
"You passed out, Michael," the nurse repeated. "Have you been ill lately?"
"No," Michael said. "No. I'm fine." His mouth was dry.
"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" the nurse asked, her eyes running over his frame.
Michael didn't answer. She sighed.
"You're awfully thin, Michael. You really need to eat, you know."
"I eat," Michael said.
Suddenly, the door to the nurses office opened, and Lincoln came through, practically at a jog. His eyes lit on Michael.
"Michael! Are you okay?" he asked, taking great strides towards him. And then Lincoln was grabbing him, as if to make sure he was still in one piece, and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.
"I'm fine, Linc," Michael said, but he didn't resist his brother's arms. He couldn't remember the last time Lincoln had hugged him, had held him like that. Years, maybe. He relaxed.
"Don't fucking scare me like that," his brother said into his ear. "Christ, Michael." But he didn't let go.
"Take him home and feed him," the nurse said. "Boy his age shouldn't be skipping breakfast. He's still growing, you know."
Lincoln nodded; Michael could feel his head moving. "Yes ma'am," he said. "Come on, Mike." He put his arm around Michael's back and guided him towards the door. Michael could feel his brother's concern. He was ashamed…but grateful. Grateful. Because here was proof that Lincoln really did care about him.
He was fourteen.
"You did what?" Lincoln roared, grabbing Michael by the shoulders and shoving him hard against the wall.
Michael gasped, fear flooding his system. He couldn't seem to speak, could barely breathe. He shook his head.
"You wanna play C.O.P.S. now, Michael?" Lincoln yelled, his face inches from his brother's. "That stash you flushed? That pays our fucking bills, do you hear me?"
Michael wasn't expecting it. Lincoln's fist caught him hard in the eye and he saw stars and felt excruciating pain. His head slammed into the wall. He heard himself cry out.
Lincoln hit him again, in the mouth this time. He felt his tooth tear through the inside of his lip, and tasted coppery blood. "Stop!" he cried, throwing his arms up to protect his face.
"You're not a fucking kid anymore, Michael!" Lincoln yelled, giving him another hard shove into the wall. "Look at you! Nearly as tall as I am but only half a fucking brain? Unless you want to be living on the streets, you don't fucking interfere with how I pay our rent, you hear me?" Lincoln shook him hard.
Michael tried not to cry. "You've never punched me before," he said quietly, swallowing blood. His heart was thudding against his sternum. He waited for the next blow to fall.
Lincoln stared at him for a long moment. "You're too big for me to take my belt to anymore," he said finally. Michael couldn't read his voice. "Go clean up your lip and put some ice on it."
He turned away, leaving Michael standing there, shaking, confused, and frightened. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins. He'd never felt so small.
He was sixteen.
"You're gonna fucking eat something, Michael," Lincoln said.
"I'm not hungry," Michael replied. He pushed his plate away, barely touched.
"When's the last time you ate?" Lincoln demanded. Michael looked away. "Michael, answer me!"
"Why do you fucking care?" Michael snapped. "Why don't you go do something else, get arrested again, and go back to jail?"
Lincoln's face flashed hot with rage. "That's not fair, Michael!" he shouted. "You know I would have been here if I could have."
Michael didn't say anything.
"You know it, Mike," Lincoln said. He was almost pleading. "I wouldn't have missed your birthday if I could have helped it."
"You could have," Michael said. "You just didn't."
"Don't be a child, Michael," Lincoln snapped again.
"Don't worry," Michael said. "Those days are over. Hell, you have no responsibility for me anymore. I'm an adult now. Which means what I do, where I go, and what I eat are my business, not yours."
Lincoln shook his head. "Fine, Michael. You're right. Do what you want." He threw his hands up in the air. "I guess it's not my problem anymore, is it?"
"Guess not," Michael said. He stood up. "I'm going to bed."
He was 18.
Michael clutched his fake diploma. "Hey Vee," he said. "Where's…"
She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "He wasn't at the apartment. I tried." She smiled apologetically at him, but her beautiful eyes looked sad.
"I know," Michael said. "Not your fault." He sighed. "I should have known better than to think he'd actually remember."
"I'm gonna kill him," Veronica vowed fervently. "I'm gonna feed him his own balls—"
"Whoa, Vee…don't wanna hear it," Michael said.
She nodded. "All right. But when he comes home a soprano, you'll know why."
Michael chuckled despite himself.
"You want to go get something to eat, Michael?" she asked, touching his arm gently.
Michael's stomach turned. "Uh…how about coffee?" he suggested. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt less like eating.
"Okay," she replied. "Let's go."
He was twenty.
"Are you sick or something, man?" Lincoln asked his brother. "You look sick."
Michael staggered under Lincoln's weight. "Keep walking," he said, huffing and puffing.
"Didn't you you-you-used to be…thicker?" Lincoln slurred. "I mean…damn, Michael. Even though you're getting that masser's d'gree, you gotta eat sometimes."
Michael cringed at Lincoln's word choice. "Thicker? Really, Linc?" he asked. He paused. "Come on. Help me out here. Jesus, how much did you drink, anyway?"
"It was twenny-five cent taps night," Lincoln said. "Stuff tastes like shit, but…"
Michael sighed. "You're drunk. Stop talking."
"Don't tell me what to do," Lincoln said. He laughed. "How's that degree coming anyway?"
"I'm halfway through," Michael replied. "Where are your keys?"
Lincoln dug in his pockets clumsily, his keys falling to the pavement. "Shit," he cursed, trying to grab them and nearly knocking Michael over.
"Stop," Michael said. "I'll get them."
He bent and grabbed them, his shirt riding up slightly. Lincoln poked him in the back and Michael jerked. "What was that?" he asked, rubbing at his spine.
"You're fucking bony," Lincoln said. "I can see them through your skin."
"And you're fucking drunk," Michael replied. He was glad Lincoln would likely not even remember how he got home in the morning. "Come on."
He was twenty two.
His stomach always hurt. Before he'd visit Lincoln. During the visit. After the visit. It would hurt so bad.
He hated the ambience of the jail. Those eyes on him as he walked through the doors. They made him feel so guilty, like he was wrong for visiting his brother. Like his existence was wrong. Like the fact that he was taking up space on this planet was wrong. All wrong.
He'd never visited Lincoln in jail before, but this time…this time, it didn't look like he'd be coming out. And despite his best attempts, Michael couldn't not care. It was part of his nature to care. It was practically a compulsion.
So he came, and he sat, and he looked at his brother. He embraced him briefly, at the beginning and end of the visit. And he felt helpless.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.
"You've done enough, Michael," Lincoln said. "It's out of your control now."
Michael hated when things were out of control. He lived for, strived for, control. He shook his head. "There has to be something."
"If there's something, I guess it's up to you to find it, Mike," Lincoln said.
Michael wrung his hands anxiously, feeling the bones shift under the skin of his hands. "I will, then," he said.
"What?" Lincoln asked. Michael shook his head. But he'd decided. He would.
He was twenty-four.
"I didn't do it," Lincoln said. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Dressed all in orange, he looked so big, even behind the glass. Michael again had the feeling of being the 'little brother.'
"Swear to me," he said, hearing his own voice catch in his throat. If it was true, if Lincoln really hadn't killed Terrence Steadman, then Michael couldn't let him die. He just couldn't.
"I swear to you Michael," Lincoln said.
Michael clenched his teeth. His plan would have to go into motion now. Because there were no more appeals to be had, and Lincoln only had one year. One year.
"Okay," Michael said. He steeled himself. Tomorrow, he'd call the tattoo parlor, and make his first appointment. Ready himself for all the pain to come. And eat something.
The plan was in motion.
He was twenty-six.
And now, here, he can't eat. He's afraid to eat, afraid it will make him sick. So he gets thinner, only occasionally forcing down a piece of fruit or a tortilla. He's lost all touch with hunger anyway. Nerves, he knows. Anxiety, illness, fear. Those things are omnipresent. His thoughts of Sara and LJ and whether or not they are safe. The awful feeling that he won't make it, that the timeline is too tight. That they will die, and it will be his fault.
His stomach revolts, and he is glad he hasn't eaten so he will not throw up.
He vows that if he gets out of here, he will find another way. Something else.
He hopes he'll have the chance to take Sara out for dinner…lunch…a cup of coffee…and for life to be normal. For this to be over.
He is almost twenty-eight.