Warm air tinted with gold filtered through the cracked frame of the window, paint splotches lazily from the half-assed job of a stoned interior decorator. The window wasn't open by choice, all the windows in the Kelso household had been broken; this particular window was hanging off its hinges, paint peeling in flakes and settling into the garden bed below.
Michael Kelso was situated on the other side of the window, the side lacking in a garden bed (actually, something strangely resembling a garden was being cultivated at the foot of the bed). To the right, there was a bed; nothing more than a plain bed frame a dirty grey mattress and an itchy black blanket. Beside the bed, to the right, an odd smelling pile of what Michael determined was magazines and dirty clothing. In one corner, a neglected fish bowl, green with algae and slime.
Michael Kelso sat, slumped in the bed, staring at the magazine he clutched between his hands. His brown eyes drifted lazily across the words, but his brain wouldn't soak it in. His mind travelled to his brothers, wondering when they would strike next.
Whether it was Casey and a pillowcase of dead fish to be locked in the closet, or Ryan, the oldest, just come to pick on him, call him names, hit him, like they always did. Michael was the scapegoat, even if he had no idea what the word meant.
He stayed out of their way, went to the Forman's, who acted like a real family. He went to the Burkhart's, seeking comfort in Jackie, even though she no longer sought comfort in him. He went to the Pinciotti's, if only to talk to Donna about music… But even when he was with the Formans, he saw brief flashes of his own family in them;
The territorial attitude of Mr Forman.
The drinking of Mrs Forman.
The dry wit used by Eric which (even though Michael would never admit it) cracked away at the hard shell of a person that was Kelso.
Even the illegal, violent, sadistic tendencies of Steven Hyde. He saw his family the most in Hyde, and it scared him. He wanted at least one place where he could be around people who treated him decently, who he didn't have to put up his façade around.
But there was no escape. There was just this ever present, lingering knowledge that he would have to return to his family, who would most likely kill each other for a Playboy. The way his pulse raced when he got home, wondering if he would get a dart to the knee before reaching his room. Wondering if his brothers will wake him up by spitting on him. He tries to give as well as he gets, but when you are the youngest of six, all the good tricks have been taken.
He hated being the youngest child.
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, slapping the magazine down beside him, and resting the back of his head against the frame. He feels the heavy weight shift in his chest and he turns on his side, his white t-shirt riding up to expose some of his toned stomach, the buckle of his belt bit into his pelvis, but he buries the pain both the physical and emotional, where he always buries it; the small cavity in his heart.
His smiles are automatic, the brief, modest quirk of his lips when someone compliments him; fake. The way his confusion spreads across his face, and humour lights up his eyes: fake. He's more Zen than Hyde. And he hates himself for it. Burning people was his instinct, to cover his own insecurities. He smiles like a dumbass, and they look at him like he is a dumbass. They chip away at his smile, and he is left picking up the pieces and reassembling them so they look good.
He wished he could be sincere, not choke up when he saw Jackie, entwined with Steven; he would die a little inside. He wished she was with him, entwined with him, though she never really got him. Part of him knew she was bad for him, she always put him down, telling him he was worthless, telling him he would never live up to her standards. He cheated on Jackie with low maintenance girls; they never yelled at him, demanded anything, and never told him he was worth crap. But he still loved Miss Jackie Beulah Burkhart. Then she went on and on, she would throw all the times he cheated on her in his face, shouted that he would never be satisfied and that he wasn't good enough for her or any girl. And somehow… He believed her.
No-one got him. He mulled this over as he lay on his back, the pinching sensation from the buckle easing and he rested his hands behind his head. A lump in his throat formed, and he rubbed the spot where people would hit him, the shoulder. Why did they do it? Was he really that stupid? Sometimes, maybe. It was a shame for him to realise that he loved being stupid. He could say stupid stuff and do stupid things, without a care in the world. But that wasn't true.
If people asked 'Kelso' what his motto was, he would reply: 'Live every day like it's your last.'
If people asked 'Michael' what his motto was, he would shrug, look into the distance as he tried to figure it out, and give a sad, apologetic smile.
When he got time to himself, like now, he thought about the stupid stuff he did;
Like jumping off the water tower.
Like car skiing.
Like lighting fires.
Like going canoeing off the back of a Ute.
And he started thinking about his mortality. He had a higher chance of death than any of his friends. Thinking about death made Michael Kelso sad. He stood up from his bed; fixed his shirt, found the stack of empty pizza boxes under his bed he used to disguise his record player. He would put on some KISS, lie back on his bed, and hold in his tears.
This was the real Michael Kelso; and he hated himself for it.