12 Months//michael clifford short story

january

A new year, a new me.

A new year, a new me.

A new year, a new me.

The saying replayed itself in my head when I woke on new years day. I was in Michael's bed, pinned under his arms and clutched to his chest.

After forty minutes of this endless chanting, I untangled myself from his hold. I was obviously hungover, and I wanted to get dressed.

I looked around, and then realized, that I hadn't done laundry. Again.

I wrapped a spare blanket around my body, and went into the kitchen.

Michael's friends had slept over last night. The majority of them were sleeping, legs tangled, on the tiny and sinking couch. Except for Luke.

He sat cross legged on the cluttered counter, eating an unfrosted strawberry poptart.

"What's up?" He asks, crumbles falling out of his full mouth. I shook away the disgust and smiled at him, doing a little wave.

"You don't talk much, do you?" He asks again.

"Not anymore." I look around for something to eat. Luke ate our last poptart. Asshole.

"Cool." He shrugs, taking another bite of my poptart. I said nothing.

I popped the last bag of microwave popcorn into the microwave. It was morning and my head hurt like hell. I didn't want to eat this. But what choice did I have?

"You and Michael were really loud last night." Luke remarks, smirking. I wanted to punch him. Or do something. Anything but smile at him.

I knew we were. We always were.

"I'm not surprised." He says again. I suddenly felt well aware of the fact that I was wearing nothing underneath this blanket.

The room started to feel suffocating. I heard someone else wake up in the other room. My head spun and I counted down the second until the popcorn was done.

I pulled the steaming hot bag out of the microwave before it could even beep, just wanting to get away from Luke.

On my way outside, I grabbed a full bottle of Tylenol, and went onto the balcony, just wanting to get away.