I'm really sorry that I abandoned all of my writing for so long… I really haven't been in the best of mental states, I'm still not, but I need to write, something to get my mind away from where it has been. And of course I come back to the writing scene not with a new chapter for something that I've been working on for more than a year, oh no. But a new thing for a new fandom(s, because this is gonna be a cross-over, sorry not sorry into two things that I've never written for before). Anyways… Sorry if this is all over the place. I just started writing and it kinda turned into a projection of my own mental state with a kinda plot, not really but I'm gonna make that happen. This. Is. Not. A. Happy. Fic. At least not right now, we'll see how it goes. Trigger warnings (for this chapter): SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, BLOOD, SELF HARM, ANXIETY ATTACK, RECREATIONAL DRUG USAGE, BAD COPING SKILLS, OOC-NESS, probably something else that I forgot. Sorry for this being such a long A/N… Like I said, this is my first time writing for this fandom, and I'm definitely projecting my own own thoughts and actions onto our precious cinnamon roll son and I'm really sorry about that and all the OOC-ness that is bound to happen. Anyways, I hope you can enjoy this (as much as possible, I mean… It's depressing af and all), but be sure to take care of yourselves! Don't let yourself get to the state of mind where you're self medicating or hurting yourself to feel better, okay..?

This was something Michael Mell was incredibly used to and it was becoming even more familiar as time passed. The ashy air rushing into his lungs, singeing his throat as he took it down. The way his head would begin swimming before floating into a pleasant emptiness and the hollow sensation would take over. And once he had decided he had smoked enough for the moment, the smoldering embers at the end of his joint were smothered into his red and black swirled ashtray before the tray was lifted to reveal another form of release, a way to escape his emotions along with his thoughts. He pulled off his beloved hoodie, this time tossing it onto his bed as he rests his forearm against his knee and brings down the still sharp blade, glinting even in the low light as he slides it smoothly across his skin. He presses deeply, avoiding tracing it along the still healing strips of skin, some as fresh as the day before, as he carves mindlessly into the tiniest bit of his arm that isn't covered in scar tissue or scabbing. Even just the one stroke of his singular blade helped, his breathing becomes a bit more steady and his emotions pour out, flowing along in the steady dripping of his blood onto his floor. Lifting the cold, unfeeling metal from his skin, he repositions the blade again and again until he feels satisfied with his work. Making his way to the bathroom, he washes the blood away, finding the water, tinged with the evidence of his emotional instability swirling down the into the drain satisfying as he dries off his arm, easily retrieving the first aid kit under the sink to patch up his arm until the bleeding subsides.

Once he cleans up all of the blood on his arm and on the floor and returns his hoodie to his person, Michael sinks down onto his bed, clutching a pillow close to his chest so he could sob into it softly. The glasses usually perched on his nose had found their way off his face and down onto his mattress as he curled in on himself , sobs shaking his body as his breathing came even more erratically. His head went fuzzy, in a different way than it already was, his eyesight blurred, and little black spots popped up in his vision and he takes that as his cue ro begin to slow his breathing, to actually intake some oxygen, even if he almost chokes on it at first. Eventually his breathing returns to normal and he squeezes his pillow tighter to his chest. This was stupid. He knew that. Knew that all of this self destruction wasn't helpful, knew that in the end it wouldn't be his own hand forcing him down into the nothingness of death. But he also knew that he couldn't just stop this deleterious behaviour. The only sort of structure and comfort he had in his day to day life.

With a sigh, Michael rubs at his face, drying it of tears as he pulls on his glasses and gets up move across his room and turn on his TV, readying his gaming system so he could distract himself with the senseless slaughter of digitized zombies. He knew that it wouldn't help, not really, but it was something to do. Something to pass the time so that his moms wouldn't worry if either of them came in to check on him. And he knew, he knew, that he should tell them. Say that he wasn't okay. That he hadn't been for so long, but he couldn't. He couldn't handle the concern or worry or pity or any other emotion they might feel over the realization that their son was a fuck up. That he wasn't as happy and cheerful and carefree as they thought. He was so honestly done with this stupid, empty existence he was stumbling through day after day after day, but he didn't, he couldn't just stop. Stop doing exactly the same thing he had been for years. Just stop going through the motions. Stop pretending. Stop lying. Stop living. Stop existing. Stop, stop, stop. Stop. STOP. STOP!

Michael took a shaky breath, grounding himself once more into his reality. Taking in the air that still had a hint of smoke in it, the scent of burning herbs helped a bit as he refocused his gaze onto the screen in front of him, starting up his game, choosing the single player option, as he was becoming increasingly used to after Jeremy had decided that twelve years of friendship between them had meant nothing. But he couldn't even pretend to be surprised. Jeremy had already given up him up so easily, only coming back when he needed help. It had gotten better for a little bit, but then it was back to unanswered texts and silence in school. Sure, he wasn't entirely alone, he still had one or two people he could talk to, but it wasn't the same. They weren't close. He wouldn't even call them friends, not really. They just mutually had no one else, they were together in their solidarity, but they were all content to have nothing to do with each other. Except Michael. Michael who was drowning in his loneliness and self-deprecation, his self-loathing and depression, his anxiety and barely existent self-esteem. He was done with it.

He made a decision. Steeled himself. Wiped at his eyes again before actually focusing on Apocalypse of the Damned.