cigarette butts ➸ michael clifford

14. Michael

Pain. That's all I could feel when I came round. My head was pounding, eyes sore, no feeling in my legs and I had the picture of an annoyed Ruby swirling around my thoughts. The last to arrive, was the thick wave of nausea that rolled through me.

Déjà vu, to be honest.

My hands balled in to fists and my eyelids twitched from squeezing them shut. I wasn't aware of the time, but I had a fleeting thought of the fact I was still in rehabilitation and the tedious activities we have to do day in, day out. Turning over, my heart dropped to my ass and I was sure I was having a stroke.

"Get up, Mr. Clifford."

This person looked like they were dressed in pure white scrubs, their face set in an unfriendly and unimpressed manor. Not wanting to question their authority, I leaned on my elbow and rolled out unsteadily on to my feet. The fact that Ruby was nowhere to be seen and this person was here, told me I had slept in. Also, the fact they were holding up the box that held my last few cigarettes didn't ease the tension.

"This facility has been way to lax in the way it's run things; contraband and truancy will not be tolerated anymore!"

I couldn't help but look at this man with wide eyes. How much did he know? Had he found about Ruby and I's late night rendezvous'? My adam's apple bobbed slightly, as I thought about everything. I drank. I smoked weed.

Weed.

My heart rate worryingly increased. The box was still under my mattress. I was supposed to be getting better, but in reality, I was disappointing everyone and barely keeping myself on two feet.

"Put on some shoes," the man ordered, looking at me with a frown.

Following his stare, I looked down at myself. I was wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday and could guess I looked like a scruffy, unclean prick. Grabbing my shoes, making a disgruntled noise, I slid my feet in and trudged out the now open door. He looked happy with my compliance and let himself further in to my room, picking up my bag.

"Don't make a mess," I sighed.

Snorting, he gestured to my clothed body and the already pretty messy room.

"It's an organised mess," I muttered, arms tightly crossed.

Ignoring me, he emptied my bag on to the carpeted floor; kicking around the contents in hopes of finding some sort of paraphernalia. Heading towards the bathroom, he looked irked by the lack of evidence against me. I had my bed in my my peripheral vision, my palms itching to pick the tin up and throw it out the window, but that would only get me kicked out and a possible drug charge.

"No razors allowed," he stated, holding up a used razor.

"I shaved my ball sack with that," I commented nonchalantly.

The razor hit the floor with a thud; a look of pure disgust and regret swamping his features.

"You will dispose that yourself," he growled. "And if you're in need of any facial hair removal, it'll be done by an orderlie."

"Chill," I saluted sarcastically, hoping this was the end of the spot check.

Seemingly done with my bullshit, he turned to leave, however stopped dead in his tracks. He snapped his fingers loudly, the sound cutting through the air.

"I forgot about your bed."

Panic set in, the room instantly feeling like it had gotten ten times smaller and ten times hotter. These past few months, I had gotten away with a lot more than I should have and now it was all coming back to bite me on the ass. The man stood next to my vacant and unmade bed, hands hovering right above the mattress. My tongue felt like sandpaper in my mouth; uncomfortable and dry. Nothing could stop the sweat that built up around my shirt collar.