Michael knows all the ways of how to escape. Knows it intrinsically, it seems, but not truly. Knows it because of his head, his eyes, his brain they say, so much to know. He knows so much, they say. He's always looking for escape.
He knows they don't know that.
He's four, young and pale, big bright eyes and dark, dark hair. He is striking and small and ever so quiet. He holds his mom's hand desperately and she walks with sharp staccato clinks through the smell of antiseptic and the blinding off-white of the walls.
They whisper rumours about him when he walks down the corridors of that hospital with that specialist who doesn't know how to stop talking. They watch him with wariness and he knows, he knows that they know nothing about him.
But he is trapped and although he looks, eyes darting desperately, there is never escape enough. There is never escape.
-
-
--
-
-
He is seven and on the verge of a growth spurt, but not really. That's just what Lincoln says. And Lincoln is only marginally more right than he is wrong. Problem is, every time he's wrong he's so very wrong. And that leaves impressions more deeply than all the times when he's right.
Michael never believes him anymore.
He is seven and he bites into the flesh of his arm like an animal when he's upset. It doesn't help, the feeling of being upset doesn't dissipate, it simply gets masked by the pain. It's enough.
He never cries. They're there, the tears are always there, but he blinks them away furiously and stares at the ceiling in fake contemplation. But even in fake contemplation he notices everything. He notices everything.
Exhausted, he sleeps all the time. Lincoln doesn't bother asking him to play anymore. It's of no use.
He makes maps of his house, of his neighbourhood. Maps of strictly colours, representing areas of feeling. His school is safe, red, fading into purple on the outskirts. His house is navy blue. His room is black. He is colours of passion that all merge into nothing. This is what he is.
His maps slowly turn more precise. One day they are colours, they are smudges and softness. Then one day they are edges. Sharp edges and precision a surgeon would kill for. This is what he is now.
-
-
--
-
-
He is eleven and he's leaving. As he leaves his house and his dead mother and everything, everything, he shrinks into a smaller, sharper person. He's not a kid anymore. He is ageless in a tiny shell of a being. Delicate and awkward, controlled and careful, but always striking.
He is eleven and The Closet is his enemy. He hates it. And he hates Lincoln for being stupid enough to get them separated. And he hates this man and that schoolmate and his brain. He hates his brain. And his eyes and the teeth marks upon his arm and wrist and palm, wrapped around the base of his thumb like a demented ring.
His papers, his maps and plans and strategies, always go missing. Or maybe he just rips them up. Sometimes he forgets things that he does when he's angry. He is silent and trembling and sitting in the dark. He is sitting in the dark with layers of fabric that hold no use to him, but he adjusts. An animal in a corner. He has to bite.
He has layers upon layers of escapism routed into his wiring. He's up and he's ready and he's leaving. Every time. There's a hole in the far corner of the bedroom The Closet occupies, small and steadily growing larger. A pinprick of light that's invisible from the closet. He's going to escape.
He's leaving. He's always leaving.
And they'll never know until he's gone.
-
-
--
-
-
He's twenty. He's twenty and tired and ... just tired. He studies and he learns and it's good, it's good. But it's never ending. The information is endless, and his capacity to learn it is endless, so there is no end in sight. Until he gets bored again. He's always getting bored and angry and tired.
But he's going to get through this utilizing sheer willpower. He keeps updates on his brother however he can. Lincoln is always in his mind, inhabits a significant portion. Sometimes, before he's asleep but while he's not quite awake, he wonders of how he can think of anything else when Lincoln lives in his mind. Festers like a tumour.
Like his mother's tumour.
Before. Back in that life that doesn't belong to him anymore. That life that he gave away for underage drinking and constant stimulation and freedom.
But never true freedom because there are always chains. 'Chains' is just a synonym for family, after all, and he'll never be rid of that. He's tired and confused and he wonders, so many sleepless nights and hazy mornings, he wonders if it's better or...
It doesn't matter. Situations can't be wished differently. He's over it. He's getting through this. He's moving forward.
It doesn't matter who's behind. But it will. And he knows it will.
It always has.
There will never be true escape. Not like he wants it, not like he craves it. True escape never has an end. But it's wired into his blood like his brain is, like his eyes are, like his past is. Like Lincoln is. Terrible and wonderful in his memory, staking his claim upon a mind that cares little for more thoughts to be occupied by.
254 more days. 7001 more hours.
He's leaving.
-
-
--
-
-
AN- Don't shoot me for any canon-irregularities. I haven't seen the show in a year now, it just came to me. Hope you enjoyed!