cigarette butts ➸ michael clifford

12. Ruby

Michael was being over dramatic and I have a big mouth. I could see a thousand sunsets, the northern lights and every shooting star, but none of that could ever compare to how prodigious he was. Maybe I wasn't completely sure how to convey my appreciation for his presence, but I was certain he was aware of it.

Until now.

My thoughts, that had seemingly aligned themselves in my time of inprisonment, had once more become an unorganised and crowded mess. Feeling humiliated, I stood up, not bothering to put the tray away and quickly walked towards the exit. Turning around the corner, I felt a hand tighten around my arm and I was pulled to the side. My eyes darted from left to right, my back slammed against the wall, as I searched the face of my attacker.

"You're pretty cute, huh?"

My eyes narrowed, the muscle in my jaw jumping as I clenched my teeth, "All in a days work."

"Fiercely sarcastic," the girl grinned devilishly. "I'm April, but you probably know already."

"Hi, April; go fuck yourself," I hissed, hocking a spit at her offending face.

She instinctively flinched, her eyes screwing shut, but it only made her more angry and made her slam me harder in to the wall. Looking at her right now, I wondered why I was so angry. Was it because I felt she had taken Michael from me? Was I jealous of her? Or was it because she had no respect for herself, never mind other people?

"You seem so pleasant," she drawled. "It's amazing he turned me down for you."

"No one turned anyone down for me," I snapped, kicking her in the shin and pushing her back.

April scowled, slightly hopping on her good foot, "You keep telling yourself that. He won't say 'no' forever."

"It's not a competition and Michael is not a fucking dollar store prize," I growled, turning on my heel.

"Nice seeing you," she giggled artificially.

Not bothering to turn around and give her the satisfaction of a fight, I continued to walk. I was angry. I was jealous. I hated her. Turning the corner, disappearing from her view, my hands balled up in to fists. My anger got the best of me and I swung my left arm, my knuckles jarring against the brick wall. That familiar wave of satisfaction and relief rolled over me. My fist flew again. And again. And once more. It felt good to hear my knuckles crack, to feel my skin tear, the blood smear and squelch. I felt alive.

Anger was never my strong suit and whenever I thought about it, I would be taken back to being a 7 year old ball of hate. My mom thought discarding me in an anger management class with other kids would help me control my episodes. Listening to ambient music and lying on the floor whilst someone instructed we pretend to be spaghetti was ludicrous, scarring and offensive, to be honest.

Calming myself down, I quickly left. Being caught with torn knuckles and a blood smeared wall didn't seem like a situation I was interested in. My feet led me towards the main staircase and elevators. All I ever seemed to do in this place is spend time in my room or on the roof, but being anywhere else unsettled me and was plain awkward. Coming up to the elevator, I jabbed my thumb against the button three times.

"You're dripping."

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Michael looking dazed as hell. His hands were shoved in his back pockets, his forearms facing me and I quickly scanned them, noting how smooth and unscarred they were. I was envious.

"Just that time of month," I joked.

His face scrunched up in disgust, "Wait... Did you just...? Oh god, please don-"