I had started writing this about a year ago and recently got a request to write again for Michael/Amanda, so I decided to sit down and visit it. There are slight parallels to the game in parts with a few things I changed to fit my story. Hope you enjoy!
Michael grimaced as he felt fresh new blood trickle down his face. His eyes fluttered closed, he wasn't even sure himself if it was to keep the blood out or because he just didn't have the energy to keep them open anymore.
His mind was going a mile a minute, even though his body was sluggishly fading. He couldn't help himself when his laugh came out like a choked bark, causing him to expel flecks of blood from his lips. He opened one eye to look at his surroundings. Who would have thought that he would die in his own home? Who was he kidding...this house wasn't a home anymore. Not when it was just him living here. If you could define what he was doing as living. Amanda and the kids had left months ago and he hadn't heard from Jimmy or Tracey in a good couple of weeks...his loving wife even longer than that. He didn't exactly blame them, he had made a mess of things. Heck, even Trevor and Franklin were ticked at him. Well...Trevor was no surprise...he was always ticked at him. They had a weird relationship. Michael could never tell whether Trevor adored him or hated him, quite frankly both options scared him a little. Franklin though, he hadn't expected Franklin to abandon him.
It startled him when a sigh suddenly broke the silence in the home, took him a few seconds to realize that it had come from him. He had been laying on the floor of his garage for at least a day. Maybe two days? To be honest, he wasn't even sure. He had lost track of time completely. All he knew was that he had ticked Devin Weston off and that the men that had shown up at his door had taken great delight in letting him know that Weston had told them to teach him a lesson and that that he didn't really care if Michael survived said lesson or not. The six men had taken turns beating him with whatever they could find in the garage, some even wandering into the house and returning with knives and whatever else they could find that they thought could inflict some damage. In some ways Michael was glad that his wife and kids had left him there alone. He would never have been able to forgive himself if one of them had been home and had been used in some horrific way to torture him in a way that no physical torture ever could. He also wouldn't have wanted them to see him go out like this. He knew he would probably be unrecognizable to even his closest friends and family right now. He could barely see out of his left eye, both because it was nearly swollen shut and because, despite his best attempts at wiping it away, the blood had at some point crept in and made his vision even blurrier. He let his free hand take a brief swipe over his eye to try to wipe it clean again and nearly passed out from the pain that the movement caused.
His hair was both damp and crusty, both blood and sweat playing their parts. He was pretty sure that his nose was broken because he was having to breathe through his mouth to get any substantial amount of oxygen. He was no doctor, but he figured the fact that he was certain he had some broken ribs probably factored in to that as well. His once white dress shirt was stained so badly that one might never realize pure white had once been it's original color. Weston's thugs had taken great pride in the damage they could do with a little flick of a knife blade.
Michael didn't know if he would live to see the outside of this garage again, but if he did, he swore to himself that he was going to kill Devin Weston. It hadn't taken this to push him to that place, he'd always wanted to kill him. This, however, had made it his number one goal in life. He moved to attempt to push himself off the floor but was quickly brought back to reality by the metal clink that followed his movement. He swore under his breath as he looked down at his right hand, handcuffed to the thick metal pipe that ran along the side of his garage. The handcuff was so tight that he was having trouble feeling his fingertips.
He wanted to punch something...or better yet someone. What he'd REALLY like to do is shoot someone. Didn't anyone notice that he hadn't been around? He hit the concrete floor with his fist, yelling in frustration and pain when all he accomplished was reminding himself that Weston's men had broken two of his fingers. He pressed his injured hand against the deepest knife wound on his side that had began to slowly release fresh blood after the sudden movement.
He let his head fall back against the wall, for the first time in a long time feeling helpless. Eyes drifting closed, he gave in to the weariness that weighed him down.
Jimmy tiptoed towards the house, convinced that at the slightest noise his father would appear, gun in hand, and scare the crap out of him. He had been watching the house for a few minutes, trying to catch a glimpse of the slightest movement that would let him know that his father was home, but the house had been completely dark and still...almost eerily so actually. He'd had a buddy drop him off so he could grab his bike and rummage through the house to see if he could find any cash or anything he could pawn off for some cash. He'd tried to get his mother to visit the house and get some cash from him but she had refused to even step foot on the property, declaring that if she ever saw "that man" again, it would be too soon.
Jimmy's heart raced the closer he got to the house, he wasn't sure if it was from fear or excitement. He scoffed at his thoughts...why should he be afraid? This was his house too after all. It's not like he couldn't come and go as he pleased, even if he had said some pretty harsh things to his father and said he'd never be back. His sneakers softly skimmed across the pavement as he made his way up the steps and gently pushed against the front door, only to find that it didn't give even an inch. He pushed again with a little less caution, and when he still got the same results he shook the handle, completely forgetting his attempts to be silent.
"Ah crap...since when do you lock the doors Michael?" he muttered under his breath as he took a few steps back from the door to survey the house. He knew the bathroom window upstairs was probably open but he was also aware of his own limitations and knew that there was no way he was going to be scaling the side of the house. "I mean, I probably could if I really wanted too. I know how to be stealthy...that's why I dominate so many games" he was having a conversation with himself as he walked around towards the garage. He knew his father never parked in the garage, and his car wasn't in the driveway so he felt pretty confident that Michael wasn't home.
Even so, that didn't stop him from tip-toeing his way towards the door on the side of the garage and breathing a sigh of relief when it slowly slid open after his gentle push. He felt like he was James Bond or something. ".007 WISHES he was as good as De Santa, James De Santa" he declared as he confidently strode into the garage, the words barely leaving his mouth before he tripped over something and landed painfully in a puddle of something wet and sticky.
"Gross...GROSS!" he let out a huff of air in disgust as he scrambled to his feet and felt along the wall for the light switch, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness in the somewhat small space. He looked down at his hands to see what he was covered in and nearly threw up when he saw that his hands and the entire front of his shirt was covered in red.
"No...no no no...I mean...motor oil can be red right? Sure I mean...that's what...this could be that right?" he babbled almost incoherently even to himself as he slowly turned around to see what he had tripped over. His heart plummeted to his feet when he saw the body lying near the door. The head was turned towards the wall but Jimmy didn't need to see the face to know that it was his father laying there in the pool of blood. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes but he couldn't make himself move. He was frozen, holding his hands out in front of himself like they were separate from the rest of his body.
"Pops?" he didn't even recognize his own voice when it echoed through the garage. Surely that weak, terrified squeak hadn't come from him? "Pops is that you?" he repeated in the silence that followed, "Dad? Michael!" his voice had risen to a yell, desperate for his father to respond with a "would you keep it down kid? I have a killer headache" but there was no sound from the still form laying there.
Frantically Jimmy dug his phone out of his pocket, only to send it skittering across the garage floor when it touched his slippery fingers.
He swore as he wiped his hands across his own clothes in a desperate attempt to wipe away his father's blood. When he realized he wasn't making much progress he scrambled over to his phone and immediately went to dial his mother's number and then froze.
"I can't call Mom...what am I going to say...she'd freak...she can't handle this...I can't handle this!" he babbled to himself, pacing back and forth in the garage. "Franklin! I"ll call Franklin! He'll know what to do."
He stared at his father as the phone rang for what seemed like forever. It was like he was in a trance when Franklin did finally answer.
"Hey, can I call you back man? I'm kinda busy" Franklin lazily spoke as he laid on his couch. Silence greeted him on the other end of the phone line. "Uh hello? You there? Man I swear...if you butt dialed me again..." he was interrupted by Jimmy's shaky voice.
"Franklin? I...it's my dad man...I...I...I think he's dead" Jimmy could barely get the sentence out. It sounded like the kid was hyperventilating. Franklin slowly sat up straight, something didn't feel right. "Yo man listen, I'm sure your pops is fine...I'm sure he just got caught up with something again and forgot to reach out to you and..."
"No Franklin!" Jimmy interrupted with a whispered hiss, "I'm looking right at him! In our garage! I think he's dead! I think he's dead Franklin! Oh my gosh I think he's dead, what am I going to do, what am I going to tell Mom?" At this point Franklin realized that Jimmy was no longer talking to him and was in his own world.
"Hey...HEY" he yelled into the phone to try to snap Jimmy back into focus.
"Dude there's blood everywhere...everywhere. I can't get it off of me. He hasn't moved. I...I said some horrible things to him man..." Jimmy's voice trailed off on a teary note.
"Man listen...did you check him?" Franklin tried to calmly ask as he grabbed his keys from his counter and headed for the door.
"Check him for what?" Jimmy asked, sounding completely out of it.
"A pulse...check him for a pulse" Franklin rolled his eyes as he climbed into the car.
"I...I can't Frank...I can't touch him. Wh...what...what if he really is dead?" Jimmy's voice had trailed off to a whisper.
"What if he's not? What if he needs your help right now and you're too busy standing there crapping your pants to give some CPR?" Franklin said sharply as he pushed the gas peddle to the floor and his tires protested loudly.
"CPR? Gross man...that would be like kissing my own pops!" Jimmy said in disgust.
"Yeah well...would you rather not have a pops?" Franklin retorted.
"Ok...yeah...ok..." Jimmy replied as Franklin heard some movement in the background.
Jimmy slowly walked towards his father's body, terrified already and getting even more terrified the closer his feet brought him to his destination. He slowly knelt down beside Michael, his hand visibly shaking as he reached his hand towards his father's neck.
"Well?" Jimmy jumped when he heard Franklin's voice coming from his phone.
"I think there's a pulse but I'm not sure man! My hand was shaking so bad...I...I...dude it's horrible. I can barely recognize him..." Jimmy's voice trailed off softly. "I should call 911!" he declared suddenly.
"Whoa whoa...hold up man...I'm almost there. If your pops was into some shady business then getting the police involved might be the worst idea" Franklin spoke calmly but firmly.
"Who cares what he was into! He needs help!" Jimmy argued.
"Let me make some calls first and see what I can find...don't do anything stupid" Franklin's voice sounded far away to Jimmy's ears. He nodded to himself, as if Franklin could somehow hear that, before hanging up the phone.
He slowly reached his hand towards his father's face, almost scared that Michael was going to open his eyes and scare the crap out of him suddenly. He grabbed the chin that was heavy with stubble and gently turned his father's face towards him.
His breath suddenly seemed to leave his body when he got his first good look at his father's face. It was almost unrecognizable, even to him. There was so much blood that Jimmy didn't understand how the man still had a pulse. The area around his eye was enormous and looked like it would pop if Jimmy so much as laid a finger on it. Michael's hair was caked with dried blood, his nose had to be broken, there was a deep gash on his forehead, a split in his lip...Jimmy finally stopped taking note of all of his injuries because there were just too many and it was freaking him out.