the boy with the white eyes [muke af]

et les souvenirs

et les souvenirs

Michael never really had his life planned out. He just did the motions of waking up and then going back to bed.

Every morning for twenty-six long years, he would wake up to his phone vibrating on his bedside table. He would hit snooze a few times until someone (his mother, his then-girlfriend, or even Clémence) made it clear that the sun has risen from its grave.

His floor would be a mess as he searched for clean jeans and a tee shirt. Usually the same black jeans paired with a tee shirt he's had since he was young. His life was a routine.

These days, though, he would panic about what to feed Clémence or if she was ready for another stressful day at kindergarten.

He was lonely when his daughter was gone, sometimes it gets hard.

Michael was sat on the top of his apartment complex roof, his bare feet hanging over the edge. His green eyes were staring at all the city lights of New York City a few miles away. It was truly the city that never sleeps, even at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

Mike went back to mentally criticizing his life.

After getting dressed, he'd make sure Clémence was up before continuing to the bathroom. He would stand in front of the dirty mirror for several minutes. He starts to understand why people don't love him—he's a mess, he thinks he's an ugly mess. He forgets to shave, forgets to eat, forgets to brush his hair. He makes sick jokes and forgets to remind people he loves and cares for them.

After that, he'd dip down, throwing water on his face, and brush his teeth. His short fingers would run though his hair as he silently debated when he wanted to redye the color or change it up. Clémence would usually wander around his bathroom at this point. "Daddy, I'm hungry," she would whine, pulling on the seam of his shirt.

Michael looked down at his hands, tracing the few tattoos on his fingers. An anchor on his thumb, a 'x' on his middle finger. He has a few designs running up his right arm, to the moon on his left bicep. His fingers traced over each inked line.

His mind wasn't really filled with any thoughts, he was just sad and lonely. There was no reason, there was no rhyme. There wasn't a verse nor line he could come up with. He was just sad, sometimes he doesn't really need a reason.

Next off his morning checklist, he'd make the duo frozen waffles, pulling out a container of mini chocolate chips and dumping handfuls on Clémence's special light purple plate, knowing she liked to drown her breakfast in chocolate.

They sit at their table he bought for seventy bucks, with Sharpie-drawn dicks and lyrics that his friends wrote after too many shots. He would make sure Clémence brushes her teeth before heading outside to their car.

Mike scooted closer to the edge of the tall building, his pajama bottoms rising up on his thighs, he still thought about jumping. Sometimes, he thought about free-falling until he hit the ground. He didn't have a lot to live for, but he had Clémence to live for, and that was enough for him, at least for now.

He would drive her to school next in their morning routine. The first few days he drove her, he was embarrassed for a few reasons.

One, most parents asked if he was Clémence's brother. Two, she was dressed in tutus and band tees, usually smelling of fast food as she hummed a melody line to Blink-182.

But, hey, he made half this child, and he was proud.

After making sure the small blonde had her lunch, backpack, and nap time blanket, Mike headed back home to get ready for work.

Every day was like this, and guess what? He's tired, he's exhausted, he's drained. Michael stands for hours at end, putting boxes into bags, and boxes onto shelves. He lets Silver go on and on about the boy she's with for the week. He doesn't mind, she's allowed to date who she wants, when she wants, and for how long she wants. He likes Silver quite a lot, he'll go to her music gigs on the weekdays when he doesn't have Clémence. Michael doesn't really want his five-year-old exposed to drunk men just yet.

The faded-purple-haired boy figures that it's time to go inside when the club lights a few blocks away turns off, but he finds himself enjoying the November breeze. He knows soon enough the snow will start to fall, the parkas will come out, and he won't be able to hang off the edge for hours. Everyone needs a place where they can sit and clear their mind, it's better than living with an active battle in their head.

Mike would spend the rest of his day with Clémence, playing Mario Cart when she's awake then Call of Duty when she's asleep. He would let her snack on Goldfish when she should be snacking on the organic crackers and celery her mother sends over each week.

He doesn't have many exciting days anymore and that frustrates him. He shouldn't get excited every time Luke gets kicked out of his apartment. He shouldn't get excited every time Ferris Bueller's Day Off comes on. But, he does.

He spends his nights in his cold bed alone wishing there was someone to hold him close, but there's not. He's twenty-six, most of his friends haven't even started thinking about having children, and he already has a five-year-old.

Michael backs up on the roof and stands up. It's time for him to sleep.