Michaels POV 🥀
It was my 7th day. I'd been in Clemmie Woods for a week now, and something different was about that day.
That's what people usually say when they mean something good, or new, is going to happen.
It was neither new nor good for me. I felt on edge, all the hairs on my body stood up. Something bad was gonna happen, I felt all the pain building up.
I was unloved. Ugly. Worthless. Alone. It would never stop, i needed to die, and quickly.
But I knew if I had any hope of getting out of this place I had to be good. No more suicide attempts.
I wanted Hope. I moaned and scratched my hands down my neck, drawing blood, barely feeling it.
My moans got louder and I clawed at my face, and then the tears came. So many of them, snot running down my face, tears soaking my cheeks and dripping down onto the bed.
I couldn't do it anymore. I screamed. I was shocked at the sound, like I was having my insides clawed out. I sounded like an animal in pain, there was no other way to describe it.
I heard footsteps running and the door opening, but I couldn't help it, I screamed again, louder, sobbing and crying and howling and swiping at my face, my neck, my arms.
I wrapped my hands around my neck and tried to crush my neck until I couldn't breathe.
I failed.
I wailed.
"Hey, hey, Michael." It was a man. Was it Derek? He was the man I knew the most. I couldn't see if it was him. I didn't care.
The poison was bubbling in my body, I wanted to shove my hand down my throat and claw all the pain out, I couldn't breathe. I needed to breathe.
I let all the pain out, I cried and cried until I was exhausted. But I still cried, and then I recognised that coconut perfume smell, a soft arm around my shoulders, small hands wiping tears from my face, stroking my hair.
Hope.
I leant into her shoulder, still howling, and she rocked me back and forth, whispering over and over "It's okay, it's okay sweetie, let it all out"
My tears were dripping all over her but she didn't seem to mind. She tucked a curl that was stuck to my wet face behind my ear. "It's okay." She repeated.
She held my face in her hands and turned me to look at her. "Tell me what's wrong, Michael."
Then the effort of crying so much, the nausea feeling, the headache, all built up and suddenly I realised I was about to vomit.
I turned away from Hope quickly and threw up on the bedsheets.
"Oh, baby." She held my shaking body, pulling my hair away from my face as I was sick again. "Can we have a sick bowl in here please?" She called, and wiped my face with a tissue.
I fell back into her arms, stomach empty, and wailed again. I was a freak. A pedophile. Ugly. A Jacko. People didn't realise how much their words hurt me.
The abuse case took it all out of me, my father traumatised me for life, I was lied about, belittled, harassed and bullied.
I talked about it with Hope. I cried and cried and told her everything, the way I'd never told anyone anything before. I told her about the pedophilia sexual abuse case, how my father treated me, how I was laughed at for my appearance. I got it all out, the poison was gone.
I was free.
I sort of fell asleep on her shoulder, and she rocked me for a bit and then lifted me off her and lay me down in bed.
Finally, I was calm. Even when she left, I was calmer than I'd been in weeks, months!
I'd got it all out.