Pompeii ➳ muke

one

It's just one simple day.

Twenty-one year old Michael Clifford reminds himself every morning just as he opens his eyes.

Just one day. You made it through yesterday, so you can make it through today.

It may be just another day to the average person, but Michael is anything but average. Whether it be his bleached blond hair, eye brow piercing and plethora of tattoos or the key fact that he is the front man of an international pop-punk band; Michael is simply not average.

Today starts the same as all of the others. Michael sleeps through his alarm and is woken by his manager, Wilde, pounding his fist onto the wooden hotel door. He repeats his mantra several times over in his head as he has a quick shower and dresses even though his pale skin is still wet.

He knows that he is due for a press interview in less than an hour, but he cannot bring himself to move any faster. He's tired, exhausted really, and his steps are more of a slow shuffle across the carpeted flooring.

The previous night, the band had played a show in Chicago and had decided to celebrate afterwards by going to a local bar. Michael had promised to only have a drink or two, but those two turned into ten and then he was beyond drunk. Of course, in his drunken state, he had managed to punch a paparazzi in the face and in turn broke the man's nose. Wilde was anything but happy with him and noted that he would soon be in touch with Michael's lawyer.

Michael, on the other hand, does not care. He despises the paparazzi and everything that they stand for. The man had been far too close and would not move when Michael had asked him to.

Now, Michael has a terrible headache. He can hear his pulse in his ears and wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed. But then Wilde is pounding on the door again and Michael needs the noise to end. He unlocks all three locks on the door and swings it open, revealing his flustered manager stood in the hallway.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty!" Wilde jokes as Michael locks the door behind him, stepping out into the hallway,  "Thought maybe you died of alcohol poisoning after last night."

Michael rolls his eyes, unimpressed, "What a blessing that would be."

The blond makes his way through the hotel halls, into the elevator and descends to the main floor. All while Wilde discusses their plans for the day.

"You have an interview with Beyond The Stage in less than an hour, that's where we are heading now. Tristan will attend this as well, I have Rossi bringing him over. The interview is press for the release of the new album, I need you on your best behavior."

Michael scoffs at that, wanting nothing more than for Wilde to be quiet. He has been in the music industry long enough, he knows how interviews work. Typically, Michael is interviewed on his own, seldomly do any of his band mates accompany him. But today, his guitarist, Tristan, will also be there. This makes Michael feel much more comfortable with the whole ordeal.

The pair walk along the streets of busy Chicago to a small coffee shop on the corner of First and Main.

"Alright Michael, do you see that girl over there?" Wilde points to a short brunette sat in the corner of the shop, "That's her, she'll be conducting the interview."

Michael studies the woman for a short moment, assessing her. She's very tiny, probably a foot shorter than Michael, and her brown hair is long and curly. She appears young, too young, and Michael questions her credibility.

"That's her?" He asks aloud, "Is she even eighteen?"

Wilde bites his bottom lip, "Yes, she's eighteen. She's an intern, actually.",