The Darkest Of White

I hate to promote my own works but thanks to Faily, I want to post it on here. So this is going to be a very, very long post. The fiction surely has something autobiographical, so, understanding the fanfiction would mean understanding a part of me, a part of me I finally got rid off.

So, er... if you don't like angst!Mike or suicide!Mike or child-like!Mike, then you shouldn't read the following.
For those who do, feel free to comment. ♥♥♥




The Darkest Of White


Blank white walls, white wooden floor, which he's sitting on. Some paint here and there, green on his shirt, blue on his hands and arms and cheeks. Even some red and purple on the canvas in front of him, but still no idea of what to create with the colors. The given colors, green, blue, red and purple. He has wasted the red paint; still there's red on the canvas. Fingertips moving on it, tracing a purple line which in the end, forms a figure. And as he notices that all the purple lines are red now, the red from his index finger drops down, hitting the canvas right under the figure's left eye.

“Oops,” escapes his mouth, he analyzes the new red point, not a second later holds the canvas up vertical, so the red color runs down the cheek of the figure until he puts it back on the floor.

“It cries.” His only words, accompanied by a wide smile.

He looks at the painting a few minutes longer before tossing it over the floor to the other, mostly red, paintings. Everybody would get sick of all the red paint after a while but he still prefers to draw and paint with it. Even if it's long empty, the bottle of red paint.

Sighing, he lays down on his back, trying for a few minutes to position himself in the most comfortable way, fails, gives up. Sits back up again, looks around, then closes eyes. Feeling the way he's feeling for weeks; lost and abandoned. His thoughts are stuck in his head, their own little prison, with no window, with no hope for a rescue.

The white surrounding him makes him feel dirty, makes him feel used. However a fresh new canvas is even brighter as the white in which the walls and the ceiling is painted, neither does the wooden floor look as shiny. Depressing, he thinks. Frustrating, it is.

Only he does not want to leave the white room. Still he feels caught. Caught in his illusion of being safe in a simple room, with no windows and just a broken door. That's when he tells himself that his creative mind protects him from falling apart, from losing grip. But the holes in the door, the cracks in the wood he uses to sleep on every night, it all distracts him from soothing himself.

He doesn't know if there is someone out there who thinks of him. They promised to look after him. Maybe they're still in time, maybe they're too late. What time is it? What day? Is it still February?

An other canvas gets assaulted, touched by red and blue fingertips. His fingers stroke the white under them, painting another face. Again without a mouth to speak. Because he doesn't like speaking, he doesn't like to talk. What's the point in talking? You only say things that either you shouldn't have said or aren't heard. So why wasting words? Why wasting thoughts when you rather keep them for yourself and repeat them over and over again in your head.
Which feels so heavy from all the thoughts. From all the memories that he turns into hungry, never satisfied monsters on the paper. Somehow, it's sad, he thinks sometimes. The memories of better times come to him at night, with their claws reaching out for him to pin him on the ground and rip out his heart.

He shifts some, looking down at the painting, grimaces and kicks it to the other screwed up paintings. All he needs is a change. A change in this room, for the beginning. The rest would follow someday, he's convinced. With a look at his hands, he gets up, walks over to the pencils and brushes. Between those, there's a broken glass cup, he uses to put the water in.

For now, he doesn't care if they're still in time to look after him. He's fine on his own, he needs no one. Releasing some of the pressure that's on him, is all he needs. For now.

After breaking the glass cup another time, taking the broken piece of glass and cutting his hand along his life line, he tips a finger into the blood on his hand and starts to paint on the white walls. This is supposed to be his best work ever, it's made with all his passion, with all his love and pain, it's painted with blood.

And as he's lying there on the ground, exhausted from the painting, they're on their way to him. Keeping their promise to look after him and, they're not too late to break the promise. On time to find him lying in his own blood.

They all knew, that day would come, but no one wanted to realize it. Still, there are shocked voices echoing his name in the almost empty room.

Mike, Mike, Mike...

And on the wall, his last words, “I couldn't wait.”