Long story short, this was the first chapter I ever wrote for this fic, but I'm only posting it now because I had rewrite a lot of parts because I wasn't satisfied with it. I felt quite dirty writing this one because it's when Michael cheats on Amanda, but decided to do it because it's such a turning point in their relationship.
What am I doing?
That was the only thought that could form in Michael's drunken, confused mind as he mindlessly fucked a girl who wasn't his wife in his own bed.
He remembered a fight. Vaguely remembered his wife looking at him like he was a stranger and the argument that followed.
"God, I feel like I don't even know you anymore! You're either out doing who knows what or you're staring miserably at the clouds, you only talk to the kids when you're drunk-"
"I don't only talk to them when I'm drunk! I don't think...it gets kinda fuzzy..."
"I am tired of your bullshit, Michael. Tired…"
"Jesus...what the fuck do you want from me, Amanda?"
"I want you to participate in this marriage again! I want the man I love back..."
"Yeah, well, he's never gonna come back! Sorry, but life ain't fair, sweetheart."
"The way you're treating me isn't fair, Michael," she'd told him before storming out and slamming the front door behind her.
He shook his head, trying to forget their latest fight. They argued more often than not now. Oh, they'd argued about money all the time back in North Yankton and of course there was the typical married couple arguments...but these were different. They were...hateful.
This was how he ended up here, he supposed, with a stripper underneath him and his wife oblivious to what he was doing. He barely even remembered how he got here other than going out, getting drunk, and seeing the neon lights of the strip club across the street from the bar.
A little voice in the back of his mind had told him to get the hell out of there before he ended up doing something he regretted. It wasn't hard to realize now that he'd failed to resist temptation.
Michael just growled in frustration at his failure and kept going, harder and faster. His lips found the side of the stripper's neck and listened to the moans of the girl beneath him. She was nothing like Amanda, but his wife wasn't even on his mind anymore. His head was swimming in a rough sea of alcohol and he just needed a distraction. A distraction from the mess that his life was, the anger and misery that was bottling up and poisoning him, a distraction from his doomed marriage.
Neither of them noticed the doorknob starting to turn, Michael too distracted and too wasted to care and the girl too busy gasping for breath.
"Michael?! What the fuck are you doing?!" Amanda yelled, standing the doorway in shock.
Michael immediately stopped and turned his head to look at her. His blood ran cold, suddenly feeling sober, and the weight of what he'd just done hit him. "Amanda, I...I can explain…" he stuttered out, even though there was nothing really to explain when she had literally caught him in the act.
Her tear-filled eyes darted between him and the stripper, who had gotten up and started to get dressed. Amanda just stood in the door, eerily silent, with her hands clenched into fists, looking like she was ready to leap at the other girl at any moment.
She was seething with barely contained rage as she quietly said, "Get out of my house." The moment the stripper shot her a smirk was when she lost it. "GET OUT!" she screamed, jumping forward with Michael barely able to hold her back in time. She fought hard against his grip. "Let me GO, you fucking asshole!"
After preventing his wife from murdering the stripper he never should have met, Amanda ran off, slamming the door behind her. Michael hastily got dressed and chased after her, swearing to himself. "God damn it, what the fuck did I just do?"
He found her on the balcony near the tennis court, staring blankly at the bright skyline of the city. Michael reached out to comfort her, but Amanda quickly pulled back in disgust. "Don't," she said, tears running down her face. "Just fucking don't. Leave me alone, Michael."
So he did. He got in his car and drove aimlessly around the city, hoping that this whole day was all just a nightmare and he'd wake up beside his beautiful wife. He didn't really have anywhere he needed or really even wanted to go, he just couldn't face Amanda right now.
The look on her face...he saw it every time he shut his eyes. She'd looked so betrayed, so...broken. There was no going back from this, he knew. The blind love and innocence she'd always had in her eyes whenever she looked at him had been gone, replaced by sadness and pure hatred.
He'd done a lot of stupid, bad things in his life and he regretted them every single day, but he already knew that this would be the one that he'd regret the most. Now he was the bad guy in his own family.
Michael had circled the entirety of Los Santos before he finally gathered up enough nerve to go back home. The second he laid eyes on his house, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go somewhere far away. And he nearly did before saying, "Fuck it" and deciding that it was time to face the music. As he pulled into the driveway, he wondered if seeing Amanda's car still there was a good or bad thing.
He sat in his car for a few minutes before getting the courage to go inside. He found Amanda asleep on the couch, a nearly empty bottle of wine by her. A million regrets went through his mind when he saw that even in her sleep, she looked sad. He debated whether or not to disturb her, but eventually decided that their room offered more privacy.
Michael picked Amanda up, sighing a bit in relief when she didn't wake up. Bridal style, he thought numbly. He carried his wife through the living room and up the staircase, almost admiring the way she felt light as a feather in his arms. Halfway up the stairs, he tripped, barely managing not to drop her.
"Shit," he cursed softly, hoping that she would stay asleep.
Sure enough, she woke up, an almost peaceful look crossing her features before the reality of the horrible, horrible situation they found themselves in set in. Amanda looked around drowsily before realizing Michael was carrying her. She immediately broke down crying again, fighting against his arms. Michael ignored her protests and continued going up the stairs.
"I hate you...I hate you…" Amanda sobbed, her anger fading into exhaustion.
"I hate me, too," Michael muttered mostly to himself, opening the bedroom door. He set her down on the bed gently, hoping she'd fall asleep quickly. Slowly, he walked out of the bedroom and quietly shut the door behind him. He leaned against the door and sank to the ground, shutting his eyes. "What have I done?" he groaned, putting his face in his hands.
Michael knew he should get up and do something, anything, but the rush of adrenaline he got was wearing off and the alcohol he'd had started to affect him again. So, instead he just sat there for a few minutes, cursing to himself. Cursing himself, cursing that stripper, cursing Amanda for having to see that. Just cursing the world. He barely glanced up when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
"Daddy?" Tracey asked him hesitantly.
"Hm?" he grunted, not even bothering to lecture her on how late it was.
"What happened?" she shifted uncomfortably, obviously having heard the encounter he'd just had with his wife.
"Uhh...nothing," he lied, even though he could still hear his wife's bawling in the bedroom. Michael raised his head, sighing. "Just...get some sleep, sweetie. It'll be okay," he smiled faintly at his daughter, even if he was still trying to convince himself.
Time seemed void as he sat there for God knows how long, listening to a reminder of his mistake through the bedroom door. He only got up when Amanda's crying became too much to bear and ran straight back to his car.
Michael drove even more recklessly through the streets of Los Santos, probably breaking more than a few traffic laws on top of the fact that he was still a little bit drunk. He honestly didn't really care if he got pulled over or crashed his car, he just wanted to deal with anything but what had happened a few hours ago.
Before long, it was morning and he had somehow found himself sitting at his dock slip, staring lifelessly at the water.
Michael sighed and shut his eyes, trying to forget last night. He had came to the docks for a couple reasons that morning, one of them being to escape Amanda's rage. If there was one thing he'd learned in all the years they'd been married, it was not to piss her off. Of course, he'd done way more than just piss her off, but like the coward he was, he was avoiding her for as long as he could.
The other reason he went to the docks was the relaxing effect the ocean had on him. Michael didn't even want to touch alcohol after last night so the docks seemed like a better option than a bar. He paused for a moment, gazing lovingly at his boat. Sure, he didn't really use it much, didn't really have anyone to go with anyways... but it calmed him just looking at it. It allowed him to dream about a world where he actually used the damn thing, a world where his family would want to go with them, a world where they'd all be happy.
The sea allowed him to think, too. To think about what his life would be like if he wasn't such a fuck up. What if he hadn't cheated on his wife? What if he hadn't gone to the strip club and got wasted? What if he hadn't argued with her even though she was right? What if he really had died seven years ago in North Yankton? He sighed in frustration. There were no two words filled with regret and longing than "what if."
Michael was jolted from his thoughts by a shadow looming over him. He glanced up to see Amanda, her face contorted in rage. Just when I thought when my day couldn't get any better, he thought bitterly.
"Fuck me..." Michael muttered under his breath, uneasily standing up.
"Someone already did," came the sarcastic reply.
"Funny…" he snapped as he glared at her, obviously not amused, before his expression changed to confusion. "How'd you even know I was here?"
"You always come here when you're avoiding something...or someone," her voice grew soft, pitying almost, before the mask of anger returned. "Why? Why did you do it? I know things have been falling apart between us these past couple years but not like this…."
"Look, I don't even remember what happened last night, Amanda," he tried to convince her, but her face showed that she was having none of it. "It was a mistake, but god damn it if I needed a distraction from all of this shit."
"So...what? You decided to screw a stripper because I decided that I'm not just something that you can play with when you get bored?! You are unbelievable, Michael," she shook her head in disappointment.
He scoffed. "Don't act so high and mighty. I've seen you flirting with guys at the bar."
"Yeah, and that's all it is! Flirting! I wish I could say the same for you," Amanda rolled her eyes, managing to look even more irritated. "You know what...I should have seen this coming a long time ago."
"What are you talking about?" He was starting to get annoyed himself, wishing he didn't have to be having this conversation at all, much less right now.
She was practically on the warpath. "Are you kidding me? For years now, all you've been doing is drinking yourself to death, ignoring me and the kids! I've been trying to single-handedly raise our kids while you're off self-loathing!"
"I'll try to change, alright? Look, I'm really not in the mood for this..." Michael said, rubbing his forehead, trying to chase away the pain of the hangover he had.
"I don't care! Did ever take a second to think about how I felt? About how much it hurt to come home and find my husband of almost twenty years fucking some whore in my own bed?" her voice rose with each sentence. She was yelling by the time she was finished, which earned the looks of some nearby people.
He anxiously looked around at them. "Amanda, calm down."
"Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "This is a role reversal."
After that comment, all of the anger suddenly went out of her and her shoulders slumped in exhaustion. "Amanda?" he asked as gently as he could. His own frustration faded away, the guilt starting to consume him again.
When she looked up at him, she looked so tired and so done with him. "I...I'm done. I need to get out of here," she said, starting to walk away.
"Amanda, wait," Michael said pleadingly, stepping in front of her. She just glared at him and expectantly waited for him to move, but he wasn't budging.
"Get out of my way," she growled and roughly shoved him aside. Michael, still a little bit drunk and reeling from the force of her push, stumbled off of the small dock and into the murky, polluted water with a splash. When he got over his shock and confusion and came up, gasping for air, he saw that she was about as shocked as he was, but soon smiled in satisfaction.
"What the hell?" Michael spluttered angrily, wiping the water from his eyes.
"That wasn't even close to what you deserve," she smirked.
Something in Michael snapped. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed like they were broken beyond repair, or maybe it was that his wife finally hated him, but he felt something break in him and he was yelling at her before he could stop himself. "You know what? Fine! Do whatever the fuck you want! See if I care!"
"Fine!" Amanda shouted back and quickly turned around and started walking away from him. She didn't let her tears fall until she was in her car so he wouldn't see her break down again. She, like her husband, hid her pain behind anger.
Not again.
Michael stood there, face red with anger, as he finally figured out that she was screwing the yoga instructor. It was all too familiar, the way she smiled at him, the way she pressed her body against his. It was then that the red mist descended and he charged headfirst at the other man.
Before he knew it, he was tripped into the pool and his wife was yelling at him as soon as his head appeared above the surface of the water.
"We are leaving and we are never coming back!"
"Good!" Michael replied as he coughed out water, crawling to the edge of the pool.
"You are alone, you pathetic psychopath!" Amanda yelled and stormed off, boy toy hanging off her arm, leaving him there to sulk.
"Fuck you! And that phony French...fucking yogi!" Michael growled, finally managing to get out of the water. He sighed, trying to dry himself off. He tried to shake it off as just another stupid fight, she'd be back in a few hours and they'd act like nothing ever happened. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. The last time he'd seen her that mad was three years ago, which was where everything started going wrong.
Later, when he finally returned home, he realized that his worst fears had been confirmed. She was gone, taken the kids somewhere far away from him. Maybe it's for the best, he thought as he took another drink. He'd long stopped being any good for them. Long stopped being good for her ever since she found him with that stripper.
Halfway through the bottle of whiskey, he'd figured out that she'd had the affairs to show him how she had felt that day, but, of course, he kept ignoring her and let her sleep with other men. At least, until today happened.
"So stupid…" he said under his breath, taking another swig, before putting the bottle down beside him after remembering the last time he was drunk like this in his bed.
That night, laying in bed alone with only the alcohol beside him, he thought of something he should have said to her today, something he should have said three years ago, I'm sorry, Amanda.