lost [muke af]

6.0 - michael

6.0 - michael 

More tattoos scattered Michael’s skin and he found peace in them. The small ink drawings are so clean cut, Mike often wonders if his soulmate traces his own. 

“I’m miserable!” He shouted at his parents. He finally looked up from the drawings on his arm, his bloodshot green eyes staring at the two who produced him. He often wishes his dad had a stronger pull out game. 

“That doesn’t matter, Honey, you’re not dropping out,” his mother said, her voice was sharp with a no-nonsense attitude.

“I’m about to fail out of eleventh grade anyways,” he said, rolling his eyes and looking back down. 

“That better not be true,” his father growled. 

Michael wasn’t scared of him anymore. He was taller now, he was stronger (both physically and mentally). “Nah, Dad, I’m just as much of a f.uck up as you,” he said, his brown eyebrows raised as they dared his father to say something else. 

“You better watch your tone,” he responded, taking another sip of his dinner drink.

“I’m leaving,” Michael said. He stood up from the dining room table, the wooden chair underneath him scratching loudly. 

“Sit back down!” His mother yelled. His mother, the women who never raises her voice, is yelling at him. 

Michael didn’t look back as he picked up his shoes and left out the front door. His parents didn’t go after him, they never go after him. He’s positive they wouldn’t notice if he never came back, they wouldn’t care. 

He sat down on the curb once he was a few houses down. He slid on his black boots, tying the laces tights as he didn’t know how long he’d be out here. 

It was cold outside, his breath came out in puffs. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He hated his New York home, he hated his parents, he hated himself. 

Michael decided that night, that if he were to graduate high school and make it to college, he’ll major in something he loves and get the hell out of that household.

He stood back up, pushing blue strands of hair out of his face. It was slightly windy, leaves rustling around him. He continued walking down the street, not really sure where he was going to go. 

He wanted to be in LA or Nashville. Maybe London or Sydney. Anywhere but where he is now.  

At eleven, he wondered if happiness was real, or maybe it was a figure of everyone’s imagination. 

Thirteen years old, he almost got his wish of death. 

At fifteen, he learned that sticks and stones break your bones, but words hurt more. 

At seventeen, he knew he wasn’t going to die. He knew he had to hope and pray he’ll make it out alive.