The Zombie Apocalypse with MCR (Complete)

Hidden Hardship

I fall into my room like a whirlwind, panicked at the sight of Mikey's drawn face.

My towel hits the floor, and my wet hair slaps against my spine, but I quickly rummage through my dresser.

"You okay?" Frank's sat up, book forgotten. Eyebrows crinkled as I yank a loose pair of jogging bottoms on and a sports bra, with a heavy jumper over the top of it all.

I hesitate. Mikey asked for me - no one else. But I don't know what I could offer that his brother or his friends couldn't. Regardless, I don't want to worry Frank unnecessarily.

"Mikey caught me in the hallway," I tell him casually, yanking a brush through my hair. "He asked to speak to me."

Frank swings his legs off the bed, ready to stand. "Do you want me to-"

I brace my hand on his shoulder and keep him on the mattress. "It's probably nothing. Maybe he's got a list of supplies he wants me to get, or just needs a chat."

His dark eyes are concerned, but he nods. Scrubs a hand through the nest of his hair. "You'll get me if something is wrong?"

I smile, and kiss him quickly on the mouth, "Course."

He gives me a pat on the base of my spine, signalling I should go, and I do. The hallway is dark, everyone quiet or asleep in their rooms. I find Mikey's door, almost directly opposite mine, and knock quietly.

He doesn't answer, and I knock again after a couple of moments. Still nothing.

Maybe he's thought better of talking to me. Perhaps he's climbed into bed, or plugged in his earphones, and I shouldn't bother him.

I cast my mind back over the last couple of days, searching for odd behaviour. Frank has occupied my brain so loudly, there's barely room around him for images of everyone else. Maybe Mikey has looked a little gloomy, but he's always quiet. I'd struggle to see a change in behaviour.

Risking an invasion of privacy, I twist the handle and swing the door inwards, just a slither.

"Mikey?" I murmur, he doesn't answer. "Mikes?"

He's a lumpy outline on his bed. He's curled up on his side, back to the rest of the dark room. I see the ridges of his spine through his shirt.

I step inside and close the door. I'll shake him awake, make sure he doesn't need me desperately, and we can speak properly in the morning.

Groping for the switch, I flick on the brighter overhead light, hoping to startle him into moving. He doesn't.

"Mikey?" I hiss, and cross his room.

It's a smaller space, with comic books and clothes all over the floor. His desk is strewn with projects; art and Lego and little contraptions. His TV glows blue, some kind of fantasy game paused, mid-play.

His bed is a double, but he's curled on top of the covers in a tiny, contorted ball. Knees tucked into his stomach, head curled down towards his chest.

I seize his shoulder and give it a wiggle, cautious in case he takes a panicked swing. His torso rolls, and his head flops, and panic stutters through my chest.

"Dude!" I demand, and rattle his bony shoulder. "Mikey! Come on-"

He flops onto his back, almost slipping off the bed. I manage to catch his torso and keep it up, flat on the mattress. My eyes are on the strewn packets, the empty plastic bottles, the lids discarded, that he was curled around. My eyes zip over the rubbish, trying to catch a name, a treatment, a purpose.

My heart stutters, and my breath rattles, because some of the bottles are labelled as sleeping pills. Some of the packets are for pain relief. There's at least half a dozen different brands. And there are dozens of empty capsules, more than a couple empty, tiny bottles.