Rating: PG13

Disclaimer: Roswell and its characters belong to Jason Katims and Melinda Metz. No infringement on their creative genius is intended.

Summary: A glimpse into Michael's life before he was emancipated.

Author's Notes: The events in this fic take place before "Independence Day."

***

Aimlessly, I walk around town, thoughts and memories of the past filling my mind as I try to make sense out of my present situation. So much has already gone on before this, and tonight was only more of the same. I try to sort it out, to find some pattern or some buried logic in what my life has become, but find none. And in the end all I can come up with is this: It started over the dirty dishes, but exploded into way more than that.

As a rule, I try to stay away from the trailer until after seven. By that time, Hank has already downed at least a six pack and is too lazy to do much more than yell from his chair at me. So, I wander around town or find a book at the library and sit in the park and read. Whatever it takes to keep me out of his sight between 5:30 and 7:00 at night.

It’s then, when Hank first gets home, that he’s dangerously mean. He’s only had the one beer he drinks during the drive home from the plant and that’s not enough to sufficiently dull the edge of his anger. And he always comes home from the plant in a rage. He thinks the world has cheated him out of what he deserves from life and that’s why he’s stuck in such a "dead end, low paying, boring as dirt" position. He’s never considered it might be related to the fact that he’s never made it through a pay period without having me call in sick for him since he’s too hung over to work. But all that’s beside the point.

I had come home from school this afternoon, one of the rare days I actually felt like going, exhausted. All I wanted to do was take a nap. I suppose I could have hid in a quiet corner in the library or even slept on a bench in the park just as well, but for some reason I ignored my own rule and went home to the comfort of my bed. I just stepped through the garbage and dirty clothes strewn over the floor of the trailer back to my room and flung myself down on the mattress. I don’t even remember taking off my shoes I was so tired. That was the problem--I was so tired and slept so deeply I didn’t even hear Hank get home.

When he kicked the kitchen cupboard door shut and threw a pan against the wall, presumably because it was in his way, I woke up. Immediately my chest constricted and I rolled over on the bed to hide my face in the pillow, praying that he wouldn’t look to see if I was home. But like most of my prayers, it wasn’t heard, wasn’t answered. Hell, who said I believed in a God anyway, right?

The door of my bedroom slammed open and I knew I was in for trouble. Long ago I learned about Hank’s temper and how to avoid it, but there are those times when nothing can get you out of the cross hairs of his displeasure. This was definitely one of those times. However, for whatever reason, this was also one of those times I didn’t want to play his stupid game. Perhaps it was because I had already used up what little tolerance and people skills I possess with being at school all day. Or, it could have been that my exhaustion just aggravated my usual frustration over being stuck somewhere I don’t belong: On Earth, in Roswell, New Mexico, living in a pigsty of a home with Hank.

If I had been smart, I would have just gotten up and done what he asked. He still would have yelled the whole time, telling me what an "asinine, piss poor job" I was doing while I did it, but I’m used to that. It’s gotten to the point that even when Hank isn’t around I can still hear him hollering at me, letting me know how worthless I am. Or possibly that’s just my own thoughts about myself, agreeing with Hank. I mean, come on. If I don’t listen to him about doing the stupid dishes, why would I bother to listen to him about anything else?

Like I was saying, Hank saw me lying there and told me to get my "lazy piece of crap ass" out of bed and make him dinner and do the dishes. Moving my arm out of the way, I could see his figure looming in the doorway. With the hall light lit behind him, his face was obscured by shadows. Maybe if I had seen his expression I would have reconsidered my course of action. Well, you know what they say, hindsight is 20/20.

Walking behind him into the kitchen, I wondered if he had picked up any groceries after work like I reminded him to that morning. My question was answered when I saw only one six-pack of his favorite brand of cheap beer on the counter, minus the two cans he had already drank. If Hank didn’t have enough cash to buy his nightly allowance of alcohol during his visit to the liquor store, there was no way he would have gone and bought food. Funny how after a couple of beers he doesn’t seem to understand why I’m hungry when he’s not.

I decided to rummage through the cupboards in order to find something, anything suitable for dinner and located a can of garbanzo beans, some cayenne pepper and one of those prepackaged pasta dishes. I figured the garbanzo beans came from one of the pity packages we used to get from a local charity group--that was, until Hank tried to feel up one of the volunteers. Stepping over to the refrigerator, I looked inside. No milk. Problem was, I had to have milk to make the pasta. I attempted to explain that to Hank, trying to speak loudly enough without sounding like I was yelling to get his attention over the blare of the TV.

Finally, Hank heard me and said forget it, he wasn’t hungry any more. Go figure. He’s had his fourth beer by then and was even gloating over how he managed to discover a half-empty bottle of vodka under his chair. Unfortunately though, he hadn’t forgotten about the dishes quite yet so he tells me to get my "goddamn ignorant self" back into the kitchen and clean it up. Right then was pretty much when I decided to stop playing his game and kissing up to him, regardless of the fact it wasn’t even near being after seven.

My stomach was growling, I was still exhausted and I felt a headache beginning at the base of my skull. All I wanted to do was grab my jacket and walk out of there. I didn’t know where I’d go, as long as I was gone. It was still too early to head over to Max and Isabel’s since they’d be in the middle of enjoying their perfect family dinner, but maybe I could go and buy a hamburger at the Crash Down Cafe. That was what I was thinking of doing anyway, while standing there in the kitchen staring at the greasy bald spot on the back of Hank’s head.

I guess I was still catering a little to my alcoholic guardian though, because I waited until a commercial break to tell him that I was leaving and I’d do the dishes later. Hank didn’t take too well to that. He told me to get those friggin’ dishes done this instant or he’d "beat me to a bloody pulp." I thought to myself how if he did maybe then the full on migraine I’d developed probably wouldn’t hurt as much, but instead I opened my mouth and said I’d like to see him try it.

The expression of shock on Hank’s face as he turned in his chair to look at me couldn’t have surpassed my own shock. I could barely believe I actually said what I did. I had thought of it plenty of times before, but I had never voiced it out loud. Plus, when I had played the scenario out in my imagination, it was always within the safety of the clock showing after seven and Hank being too drunk to pay attention to what I said. The last thing I want to sound like is a yellow bellied coward, but there is a grand chasm between not playing the game anymore and confronting him. And with those seven little words I just leaped across, or should I say just fell down into, that chasm. It was as if some hidden part inside of me had decided in that moment I’d had enough and I wasn’t going to take Hank’s crap anymore. Or at least not this night, despite the consequences, and those consequences were quickly on their way too.

What happened next seemed all too surreal, with everything playing out around me as if it was in slow motion. I watched numbly as Hank got up from his chair, the blood vessels in his forehead bulging in his fury. And while I realized his loud bellowing was making the blinds over the windows rattle, I couldn’t hear him. All I could hear was my own staccato heartbeat amid a loud buzzing sensation that enveloped my brain. I guess that kind of reaction is typical of the rush of adrenaline my body released in response to my state of mind. But then, I have to ask myself if that is realistic considering I’m not human and who knows if my alien makeup actually includes adrenal glands?

Hank noticed that I didn’t seem to be listening to him and strode toward me menacingly. He wasn’t going to let what I said go unpunished and I realized it was no longer about the dirty dishes in the sink, but a power struggle now. It was about how much control Hank wanted to wield over me; About him exerting his will over mine until I became subservient, mindless and gutless. Because with all his failures in life, Hank had to find something he felt dominant over and that included taking perverse pleasure in being able blame someone else for his misery. My verbal dare didn’t fit into those conditions. Now, he wanted me to back down, step back or do anything else that would indicate to him that I was afraid of him, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I stood my ground and looked him straight in the eye.

Letting out a growl of frustration, Hank lunged toward me, aiming his right fist for my jaw, but his speed was dulled by the amount he had drunk and I saw it coming from a mile away. I dodged his punch and shoved him away, intent on getting my jacket and reaching the door. I didn’t make it two feet. Hank wasn’t done with me yet. He reached out for me and I moved back in order to evade his grasp again. Except, as I felt my foot come down, I realized too late that I had stepped on an empty bottle, which was a beer bottle of course, and I was falling down onto the carpet you could barely see beneath all the mess.

My fall gave Hank the only opportunity he needed. Instantly he was hovering over me and the stench of his breath filled my nostrils. He reached down and grabbed me by the throat, his desire to squeeze the life out of me glaringly apparent in his eyes. While his fingers bit into my skin, he began to ram my head into the floor over and over again. And it’s amazing what you think of during times like these, because I can remember being eternally grateful that the floor was carpeted. The thought was fleeting though, as I started to feel light-headed from the lack of oxygen. Part of me wanted to give in to the warm darkness I could feel slipping over me, but the stubborn part of me wouldn’t let it happen. It was screaming at me, louder than Hank ever had, reminding me that I wasn’t going to let this bastard break me, not now and not ever. Determination filled me then and I drew upon everything in me in order to break free from Hank’s grasp.

See, over the years I’ve learned to repress my emotions. It started out as a survival skill and then progressively grew into a way of life. The difficulty with repressed emotions though, is that they don’t just disappear into thin air like the morning mist. Rather, they build up inside of you, in some deep hidden recess of your soul in an ever growing pool. They are constantly churning and splashing about, just waiting for their turn to be let loose and to wreck havoc on your life in revenge for being locked up so long. I’ve always been acutely aware of that dark reserve within me, but until Hank tried to choke the life out of me, I never had the courage to call on it for strength. And so, lying there on my back, trying to strain my neck muscles to brace my head against the next impact, I let all those shunned feelings of depression, rejection, frustration, loneliness and anxiety well up within me and fuse together into a white hot burning anger. With their combined force, I brought up my knees and pushed out with my arms simultaneously, throwing Hank across the trailer.

I remained lying on the floor for awhile then, gasping for air and straining to hear any sound that would indicate Hank was getting up from where he landed. By the time my lungs stopped burning and I thought my breathing had somewhat returned to normal, I was growing increasingly concerned that Hank had broken his neck when he landed. It would have been just my luck too if he did. Pulling myself up, I walked toward his body and studied him closely until I saw his chest rhythmically rising and falling. I sighed in relief then and turned around to get my coat and leave, which was exactly what I had desperately wanted to do ever since I woke up from my nap.

Listening to the blessed sound of the trailer door slamming shut behind me, I revelled in the sensation of the cool evening air against my skin. Gingerly, I ran my hand across the still throbbing skin of my neck and hoped that Hank’s hands wouldn’t be imprinted there in dark red and blue bruises. But then I noticed a neighbor peering intently at me, obviously curious as to what had just gone on in our trailer. I dropped my head down and hunched my shoulders over and started to walk out of the trailer park, toward the freedom of the empty street.

Time lost its meaning for me then. I don’t know how long I walked or exactly where I walked. The events of the night kept replaying in my head and if they weren’t, I was devoting my full concentration to staying awake. I had no way of determining if I had a concussion as the result of the fight, or if my body just wanted to give out after all the exertion. I remember hearing someone say once that after such an adrenaline rush, it’s common for a person to pass out afterward. But passing out wasn’t an option for me, and neither was getting run over by a car, I told myself as a car honked its horn at me for walking in the middle of the street.

It truly was ironic, I thought. I’d hated my life for so long, felt like it was just as worthless as Hank always told me it was, I had begun to fantasize about dying. Of course, I never really seriously entertained the idea of suicide, but I had considered how dying by some freak accident would be a welcome windfall. It would only take some driver taking a turn too fast or an accidental slip of the foot wherein I hit my head on something sharp. That way it wouldn’t be so devastating for Max and Isabel as if I had actually killed myself. Because I knew I couldn’t live with the guilt of putting them through that. They may have the perfect family, but we still share the same heritage and the same fears.

Still, the irony was that when Hank was so close to taking away what I had considered so trivial, I knew that I didn’t want to die, but that I wanted to live. Whether it was from the desire to spite Hank, or if it was because the adage is true that you don’t really value what you have until someone tries to take it away, I don’t know. At any rate, after this ordeal, I came away with the knowledge that I had to find something of value in my life, something to strive after, something to give me hope that was strictly mine and unrelated to anyone else. And I had to find it quickly as I wasn’t going to be able to get out of my current situation any time in the near future.

Once, when I maybe 9 or 10, I actually had the audacity to try and trust the system. Back then, my case worker from Social Services came to visit me on a monthly basis and I told her about Hank’s yelling. The only constant in my life it seems, his yelling. The hitting didn’t come until I was a little older, when he wasn’t as afraid of breaking a bone and having to pay for the doctor bills. As I was saying, I told my case worker and waited expectantly for her to tell me she would make things okay. I had thought she was so pretty, so maternal looking, exactly what I would have wished my mother to look like. Picture how ashamed I was when she responded to my complaint by asking me what I had done to make Hank yell. That was the pivotal moment wherein I learned the value of secrets; when I decided that Hank’s abuse would be one secret I’d never share with anyone, not even Max or Isabel.

After that dismal attempt at a cry for help on my part, I mulled over what the case worker said and tried to be the perfect foster child. I cleaned the trailer, made whatever dinners an 10 year-old can manage to prepare, worked hard at school and tried to get good grades. I poured my heart and soul into being a child that someone would want, who Hank might even grow to care a little for, even though I wasn’t so cute or adorable as the other kids I had seen at the orphanage like Max and Isabel. But my endeavors soon became ashes blown away by the slightest of winds when Hank slapped me for the first time after I accidently dropped his beer. With the logic of a child, I noticed how all-important that beverage seemed to be him, and had pondered rather cynically if I looked like a beer can or at least wore t-shirts advertising beer, if he’d pay more attention to me. However, the first time I tried out my idea, they sent me home from school for wearing "inappropriate attire" and Hank slapped me around some more for having him called home during work. And just as then, tonight was more of the same.

Anyway, these are the thoughts and memories that fill my mind as I aimlessly walk around town. I keep trying to make sense out of what my life has become, searching for some way to reconcile the difference between what I want and what I don’t have. But no matter how hard I try to sort it out, no matter how hard I look for some sort of pattern or buried logic in it, I find none. So, I just shove my hands deeper into my pockets and shake my head in an attempt to push all these unpleasantries from my mind. And then, I tell myself that right now, the only thing I need to worry about is remembering to never show my face in the trailer until after seven, no matter what. Because as I was forcefully reminded tonight, there was a compelling reason why I made that rule, and I plan to never break it again.

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