Always, Michael

“I think the eggs are burning,” Michael mutters from across the table.

I glance at the stove. He’s right, unfortunately. Thick black tendrils of smoke have begun to rise from the pan in the kitchen.

“Ah, shoot. Honey!” I call over my shoulder. “The eggs!”

Leaning in, grinning like a Cheshire, Michael chuckles, “Bet she’s going to oversalt them again. Remember when Mom used to do that all the time?” He rolls his eyes. “Man, I’d rather drink seawater.”

“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

“What?” Alice turns, spatula in hand.

I hesitate, caught off guard. “Nothing. Just… talking to myself.”

My brother smirks over his coffee mug and I narrow my eyes at him before resuming my daily reading of the morning paper.

“I think I can still salvage these,” Alice states, the back of her hand dabbing at her forehead to blot out her increasing perspiration. Between the rising fumes from the stovetop and the bright morning light shining through our wide windows, her fresh face of makeup stood no chance. Though she was beautiful without it, of course.

“Need anything before I sit down?” Alice calls out, grabbing a plate for the food.

Folding my paper, I scrape my chair back and join her in the kitchen, wrapping my arms around her waist and taking the plate from her hands.

“I got it, Babe,” I murmur, taking the plate from her hands. “You’ve done enough damage control. Go sit down—I’ll bring the rest.”

She laughs, the sound light and warm like Sunday morning sunlight. I watch her walk back to the table, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she goes. For a second, just a glimpse of a second, it feels normal. Easy.

I gather the glasses and the last of the food, balancing them carefully as I make my way over. I jerk my chin toward the kitchen, silently ordering my brother to leave.

He doesn’t budge. Just raises one eyebrow and sips his coffee with deliberate slowness.

I glare at him, channeling years worth of fights lost into two eyes.

He finally sighs, albeit loudly, scraping back his own chair with mockery in every movement. “Don’t forget to salt the eggs, Chef,” he mutters as he passes by me and retreats into the kitchen shadows like he lives there. Like he owns the corner of my eye.

I set the food down. Alice beams at me, and I try to return the gesture, though it feels strained now. We eat in silence for a few moments, the clink of fork against plate far too loud. My mind begins to drift, thoughts tangling and blurring like wet ink.

“Everything good, hon?”

Her voice brings me back with a jolt. I glance up. She’s studying me—forehead creased, mouth pursed, concern radiating off her like heat.

Lost in thought is right. More like lost in something I can’t name.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, offering a smile that doesn’t reach anything behind my teeth. “All good. Incredibly happy.”

She shifts in her seat, eyes searching mine. “Okay.”

There’s a pause. A breath held, she shifts in her seat. Then,

“Do you want to move in together?”

The question throws my hair back and I’m lost for words. Noticing my hesitation, her smile falters and she hurries to explain herself.

“Well. We’ve been seeing each other for six months already.” A quick pause as she gauges my reaction. “And half my stuff is already here.” She smiles, her fingers dragging against my jaw. “Would it be so bad to take the next step? I want this. With you.” She smiles tentatively.

My heart picks up a beat and slams it down into my throat until I choke down the air for my next breath. It’s an obvious next step. We’ve been doing so well together and she’s perfect. I could do with a personal chef and some stable company. But behind her, all I can see is my brother. His arms are crossed, eyes filled with malice, and he's shaking his head like a warning sign.

“She’s trying to erase me,” he mouths.

I know he doesn’t want this. Honestly, he’s been trying to break us up for months. With Alice here, there’s no room for him anymore — in this house, in my head. I look back to Alice, whose eyes are fixed on me, full of hope and expectations. If I wait any longer, it’s going to be awkward, although I might argue it already is with my brother raging in the corner of the room.

“That sounds lovely!” I reply in a breathy voice, not daring to look at Michael again. I lean over to where she sits and kiss her forehead. “You truly are a dream.”

Sighing in relief, Alice reaches over and grabs my hand before standing to clear the dishes. Forgetting myself, my eyes wander back to where he stands, and my smile disappears. His eyes fill with violence as his fist begins to clench and unclench.

“Okay! Glad we got that sorted.” I make a show of standing and grabbing our used dishes from her hands. I know that I’ve got to get her out of here before Mikey blows a gas valve and brings this whole thing down before we can even start. “Why don’t we start today? You don’t mind packing up your stuff to bring it here, do you?”

She follows me to the door, her smile permanent. “Of course not.” She hooks her arms around my neck and looks up at me, into my eyes. My soul. “As long as you’re not trying to get rid of me already.” Alice narrows her eyes in mock suspicion and then cracks her face wide with a smile. She breaks her grasp, turning to the door, and calls over her shoulder, “See you in a few!”

The second the door closes, the air seems to darken. I spin around to where Michael stands, his eyes black as onyx stones, and my pulse begins to race. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this.

My chest tightens as Michael takes a step toward me. The lines of his face blur for a moment, like he’s glitching in and out of the present. Half-ghost, half-memory. But the pressure of him, the weight of his stare — it’s real. It’s all real.

“You don’t get it. I need this,” I mutter. “You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”

His mouth quirks. “I’m always here. You made sure of that.”

I close my eyes and see it again. The hospital, the sirens, the fractured windshield, the blood. His blood. Mine. The last time I saw his real face, it wasn’t smirking. It was slack. Cold. Gone.

I step back, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. “You’re a delusion. You’re not real.”

Michael shrugs. “And yet, you’ve chosen me. Again and again. Remember Rachel? Or Tino? Or that one really annoying girl with her weird teeth?” He tilts his head. “You pushed them away. Because I told you to. Because it was what was best for us.”

My throat burns. “I was sick,” I breathe. “I am sick.”

I’m lightheaded now, hyperventilating as the word sick seems to echo in the room, in my brain. My vision starts becoming fuzzy as Michael splits into two, into twins, then circles around the room like a record player.

“I’m sick,” I pant. “I’m sick.” I’m turning, trying to catch sight of him as the world spins around me.

“No,” he says, stepping forward and grabbing my arm to steady me, soft and terrible. “You’re mine. And I’m what’s left of the real you.”

A bead of sweat trickles down my back and I refuse to meet his eyes as I whisper to myself, “I’m sick.”

His grasp tightens. “No. You’re slipping. You know what’s going to happen. She’ll have you locked up when she finds out. Medicated. Numb. You’ll forget me.”

I plead with him, “Let me move on, Michael. Please!” My voice cracking. I feel the air closing in, and I’m choking on it. Choking on the reality of past memories. Choking on the decisions he forces on me.

“You don’t get to move on. Not after what you did." He steps closer and forces me to meet his eyes. “How many times do I have to remind you?” His endearing tone shoots through me, into me, and lodges into my bloodstream. “It’s her or me. Make your choice.”

I shake off his grip and shoot backward, my back hitting the wall, and suddenly it’s the only thing holding me up. My eyes water with tears I’ve long refused to shed and I slide to the floor.

I whisper, more to myself than anything else, “You’re not real,” hands on my head, shaking.

He grins. Too wide. Too many teeth. Wolf-like, just like the night before the accident.

“Then why are you talking to me?” He raises his finger and taps me on the nose. “I’m as real as I was the day you said you wished I would die.”

I’m sweating now. Shaking. My breath is coming in quick and I’m paralyzed, stone cold on the floor.

“Nothing to say now?” He crouches to my level, hands taking my head to make me look him in the eyes. “You sure had a lot to say last week, yesterday, even twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re not real,” I pant, mouth dry, disbelieving even my own words.

He tuts, standing. “Semantics. You’re still speaking to me.” He stretches his back. “And let’s not forget I can still make your mind a living hell.”

I shut my eyes, counting backwards, forwards, any way to make him go away. No luck.

The doorbell rings and suddenly we’re both alert. My eyes meet Michael’s and he motions me to stand up. His head jerks toward the sound. “Showtime.”

In a trance, he helps me to my feet and guides me to the kitchen. His hand lands on the knife block.

“No,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he replies. Calm. Gentle. Certain.

His hands frame my face, and he presses his forehead to mine.

“Just like we promised when we were kids,” he hugs me, “it’s just you and me. Always.”

I wrap my fingers around the largest knife, its weight grounding and terrifying. My hand trembles.

“I don’t think I can do it, Mikey.” My eyes water and my face pulses with unwanted heat.

“You can.” He pats my shoulder, grabbing it and leading me to the door. “You’ve done it before, no?”

I grimace and swallow my answer. Knife tucked behind my back and a smile pinned on like a mask, I yank the door open.

There she is. Clothed in a warm smile, arms full of boxes, the future trailing behind her, fused with perfume and possibility.

I suck in a breath and give a convincing chuckle. “Just in time.”