But I'm Alright Though

1. Pictures

> Blue hair Mikey is so cute. Btw I stole the picture from Instagram so don't steal it and call it yours please <

"Come on, Michael, smile," the photographer says and I give him a pretty pearly white middle finger.

"Michael!" My mother scorns slapping my hand down. "You do not treat anyone like that. Just smile for the picture and you can leave."

"Fine," I mumble rolling my eyes before giving the man the nice fake smile I've mastered from my years of being in this family.

The flash goes off and I blink. It's always so bright. I automatically move to leave the room after the man says "got it." But of course my father had to stop me. He gives me a lecture about our image, the one I heard when I dyed my hair blue or did anything they think is embarrassing. All I do is roll my eyes and leave the room.

There's no need to make a bigger deal out of what I already did. It's over. Move on. I stomp up to my room to change. Another thing my parents don't like are my clothes. They have a full wardrobe of clothes for me to wear. I can wear whatever I want in my room but outside of it I better be in my finest.

I don't get why they have to pester me so much. Why do I have to wear formal clothes in my own home? It's just silly. I'd rather be comfortable than presentable. But I won't push this rule too much. I already have the hair I want. Who knows what they'd do to me if I got myself a new wardrobe. I mean they locked me in my room for a day with no food when they found out about my hair. Whatever. It doesn't matter anymore.

I quickly change out of this bloody suit they've got me in and jump on my bed. It's way too enormous for just me. That's how everything in this house is like. Big and lonely. I mean we have and East and a West wing. I turn over to face my ceiling trying to think of something to do other than this. I could play my guitar but my parents don't like the noise. I'm surprised they can hear it, being in the other side of the house, that is.

I shrug thinking there's no harm in a couple of songs. Sitting up, I move to the edge of the bed, my feet not touching the ground and grab my guitar near my nightstand. I take the pic in my hand and strum the lines of a song I wrote about nobody but I wished was somebody. No one has been so special to me that I've wrote about them. I desperately long for someone like that though.

It isn't long for my mom to burst through my doors with smoke fuming out of her ears. I stop to hear her yell about something minor but she calms herself down right away. She sets her hands by her side and takes deep breaths. It must be a new technique she got from her therapist.

"Please. Don't play that stupid music of yours in this house," she pleads with a voice that wasn't very nice.

"Why are you judging it so soon?" I ask annoyed that she called something I wrote stupid.

"Because it's not right for this house. I don't want any punk rock sounds coming from this house," she explains practically cringing at the thought.

"Cry me a river," I say and she groans.

"Just not today, Michael," she pleads rubbing her forehead like I give her a headache which I probably do considering they give me one too.

"And not tomorrow or ever," I remind her and she lets out an annoyed huff.

"We have rules in this house, Michael, and you will listen to them. Be glad I haven't taken that thing away from you yet," she threatens and I stand up holding my guitar away from her a bit more.

"You wouldn't," I state.

"I would."

I put my guitar down and glare at her like she threatened my greatest love. How dare she threaten to take away my guitar? She didn't even buy it. I did. With my own money may I add. Ugh she'd probably say something on the lines of "from the job which I got for you" if I ever said that aloud.