SO I WILL NOT ASK YOU
WHY YOU WERE CREEPING
IN SOME SAD WAY, I ALREADY KNOW
Growing up, I read so many books that I no longer felt as if the world I lived in was real; nobody I had ever met felt as real as those I read about in my books. That was un...
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From a young age, the Pelletier boys were taught to hide their emotions like real men, and if their father caught them crying, the punishment was ten times worst than whatever reason they were crying for. Richard and Kenneth mastered the skill of hiding away their feelings way before Micheal even came along; never in his life has he seen either of his brothers cry.
Micheal, however, still struggled with it.
No matter how many beatings, no matter how many ridiculing remarks he's gotten from his father. He just couldn't hide away his emotions like his brothers and father, like "real men".
Mike wasn't a real man.
He wasn't a man; he wasn't even real.
Micheal reached up to wipe the emotions from his face; huffing quietly to himself before fixing his eyes to his mother's back. Carol Pelletier stood a few feet away, folding the groups laundry into neat little piles. "Stay here, don't move a muscle, young man. I mean it". That's what she said to him as she sat him under the tree.
This is where Micheal spent most his time; sitting and watching his mother do household chores.
It was rare she'd let him out of sight.
He watched his mother folded Rick's pants and put them in a neat pile, slipping something from his pocket into her bag on the ground. His mother was a small, fragile woman with light blond hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin was pale, making her bruises more prominent on her complexion.
She looked weak.
"Micheal", a hushed voice called out. The boy looked around with a perplexed expression, trying to find the person calling out to him. A hand grabbed his shoulder, causing him to flinch and whip around. Carl's taunting grin fell as he caught sight of the swollen, black, eyes his father had given him last night. "I-....--".
When everyone woke up this morning, Micheal was already up, sitting at the embers of last nights campfire; two black eyes and a busted lip. His dark eyes were bloodshot and droopy from tear stains and exhaustion. Micheal didn't sleep at all last night. His father made sure of that. When people would ask, he insisted he tripped trying to go to the bathroom last night. He made up some huge elaborate story that it was almost impossible not to believe. However, Sophia knew, and so did Carl Grimes. Other people probably knew as well, but were too afraid to do something about it.
Micheal wasn't upset no one helped, he understood. If he was in their situation, he doesn't think he would help either.
Micheal looked past him at his sister, "what are you doing?".
