somebody to you || m.c

Chapter 26

I woke up in a horrible mood, like usual. I shuffled out to the kitchen to find Rachel and Luke chatting away on the couch.

"Hi," I mumble, pulling out a block of chocolate and returning to my room.

"George, that's so unhealthy. You need to start looking after yourself," Rachel sighs, walking towards me and snatching the chocolate from my hands.

"Fuck off!" I yell, snatching it back and walking back into my room.

"I'm just looking out for you, Georgia! Stop always being so awful to me!" She yells, before I slam the door in her face.

It's been a month. I haven't spoken to Michael. I broke my promise and didn't pick up his calls. It was gut wrenching, listening to the messages he left me. It literally brought me to tears every time he called, and made me scream when I heard the messages. Hearing him say he loves me and hearing how desperate he became after a week or two of me not picking up. He knew I was listening to the messages, he knows I can't leave texts unread or voicemails not listened to. He knew how hard it was for me to listen, but he just kept calling. Until two weeks ago. And I fell apart. I stopped eating for what seemed like forever (it was only two days but I usually eat a lot so it was very alarming for Rachel) and I stopped going to University. I'm pretty sure I'm going to flunk out, but Rachel explained that I'm having a hard time at the moment and got me an extension on my psychology assignment.

I cry every day. Every single day I cry because he stopped trying. I'm glad, though. I'm glad he stopped trying. It will make it easier; eventually. I know it will get better, it's just that it's really fucking sucky right now. I feel like a walking bag of garbage. Everything reminds me of him and it sucks.

"George?" Rachel says quietly, sniffling.

"What?" I groan, rising from my bed and walking towards the door, swinging it open.

"Are you alright?" She sighs, wiping under her eyes.

"Fine," I mumble, grabbing the door, ready to slam it in her face again.

"George, I'm really worried about you--"

"Don't! I'm fine!"

"You're not fine, Georgia. You haven't left the appartment in over two weeks!"

"I don't want to leave, is that so bad? It just reminds me of," I stop myself, holding back the tears that were about to pour from my eyes. I will wait until I get back to my bed, then I will cry. Not in front of Rachel, she'll just want to hug me. And I don't want anyone to touch me, or hug me, or tell me that everything was going to be alright. Because you know what that reminds me of? Him.

"You don't have to say his name, I know you're hurting. And I can accept that. But you're being really mean to me," She says, her bottom lip quivering. "And it makes me really upset. That my best friend is acting like she hates me."

"I don't hate you, Rach. I just need some time alone. I love you."

"But--" Before she could ramble, I shut the door, gently, in her face.

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Michael's POV

"Michael!" Someone yells from behind me, shoving me forward by my shoulders.

"Hey, Zayn," I reply, rubbing my shoulder.

"What are you doing here? This didn't really seem like your scene in high school," He chuckles, taking a puff of the cigarette in his hand.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap, taking the cigarette from his hands and taking a long drag, blowing the smoke in his face.

"You were a loser," He laughs, punching me in the arm. "I didn't see you as the 'getting high' type. So what brings you here, Michael?"

"What makes you assume that something brought me here? Maybe I just decided to fuck everything and stay high all the time," I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

"See? This is why you had no friends"

"Fuck you"

"Ooh, you're feistier than I remember. But maybe that's because some girl fucked you up," He smirks, scanning my face as it turns from pissed off the hurt, on the verge of breaking into tears.

"I'm right on the money, yeah?" He asks, and I just nod.

"I fucked her up. It was my fault," I sigh, starting to cry.

"Hey, man. Don't cry. Lets get high," Zayn says, grabbing me by the wrist and over to his group of friends. To get high as fuck.

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"Come on man, it'll be fine," Zayn laughs as I anxiously sit in the huge, intimidating black chair.

"So what do you want?" The tattoo artist asks, pulling out a huge needle.

"Uh.. that one," I say, pointing to the cross written on the paper.

"On my knuckle. Oh, and those two on my arms," I say, pointing to the paper and then my arm.

"Are you 18?" He asks.

"I am. But I don't have my ID," I groan, realising I ran away without my ID or anything.

"Whatever. You look 18, and if anyone asks, you showed me ID," He shrugs, walking over to the sink and washing his hands.

"Fuck, I'm going to cry," I laugh nervously, taking my bottom lip between my teeth.

"It doesn't even hurt," Zayn laughs.

"Easy for you to say, I have a really low pain thresh hold," I say, looking around nervously for the tattoo artist. "He better come back before I pull out like a pussy."

As soon as I say the words, he walks back in with a tray of needles.

"You'll be fine, kid," He shrugs, taking picking up a needle and setting my hand down so that he could do the tattoo correctly.

"Fuck, I hope so," I say, scrunching up my nose as the sharp pain jolts through my body.

"Doesn't hurt my ass," I say through gritted teeth, throwing my head back in pain.

"Stop moving," The tattoo artist scolds me.

"Sorry," I mutter, trying my hardest not to scream.

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"They look good, mate," Zayn says, placing the bandages back over the new tattoos.

"Thanks," I say, shrugging at the compliment.

"Do you want to talk about the chick?" He asks, lighting a cigarette and taking a huge breathe in, breathing out slowly and feeling the immediate effect of the marajuana.

"Nah," I say, feeling sad thinking about her.

"Don't worry about her, dude. You're way cooler than I remember you," He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck.

"Thanks. You've made me feel very punk rock," I laugh, taking a puff of his cigarette.

"Shut up, Michael," He laughs, shaking his head at me. "Next up is an eyebrow piercing."

"Tomorrow. I'm fucking tired," I say, lying down on the couch I was currently sitting on.

"Alright, mate. Sleep well."

I feel like such a failure, lying in a crack house with a drop kick from my high school. I'm drowning away my sorrows and regrets with alcohol, weed and tattoos. And you know what? I don't give a fuck.

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oooo Michael you lil punkster