Michael's Song

Michael

"Michael!"

...

"Michael Clifford!"

...

"Michael Gordon Clifford I swear if you don't get out of bed right now I'm throwing your PlayStation straight out this window!"

The heap of a person that was barely visible under a mess of blankets groaned loudly at his father's request. "It's a Sunday, what do you want?" Michael murmured, surfacing from beneath the mess.

"It's a Wednesday and you're a slob." His father crossed his arms impatiently, looking down at his son. "Go help your mum with some things." He continued, starting to walk out of his room. "I don't care if you're a celebrity now, you still live under my roof."

Begrudgingly, and without much less than a small tantrum, Michael threw the blanket off him, and not bothering to get dressed in anything other than underwear, stomped out of his room and down to the kitchen.

The home that Michael had grown up in was a nice family home. Not too small, not too big. It was his. It was a comforting consistency in his current life, so mixed up of twists and turns. He rounded into the empty kitchen, where dishes stood neatly waiting to be put away.

Michael, however, side passed all of that, and reached straight for the line of cupboards above the kitchen bench. He flung door after door open, seemingly irritated as he couldn't find what he was looking for.

"Mum!" Michael called out, the doors of the cupboard left open in his search. "Where are my Fruit Loops?"

A tut was heard from behind Michael, making him spin around.

"Absolutely not." His mother, Karen, stood in the living room, looking at her son with disdain. "I'm not letting you help me with housework when you're just in your underwear."

Michael shrugged. "I won't help you then."

Karen scowled, giving him a look she had given many times before in his adolescent years.

"I'm kidding, mum." Michael rolled his eyes, before his mum called tell him off. "I'll get changed, just for you."

Michael started to walk back to his room, but not before calling out back to his mother. "You know I have an Aria award, right?" He said with a smirk.

"Cool." Karen called back, with a tone that indicated she had heard this argument a lot. "You can sell it to buy some better clothes."

Michael returned, wearing sweatpants and a torn Misfits shirt. Karen narrowed her eyes at his attire but didn't say anything. "Alright. I'm wearing semi acceptable clothing, can I have breakfast now?"

Karen ignored him. "You can put the dishes away and then have breakfast." She told him, getting down a packet of Fruit Loops down from a hidden section behind the fridge, and placing them on the counter.

It was Michael's turn to scowl. "But breakfast is the most important time of the day, we all saw a nutritionist-"

"And did the nutritionist suggest you eat Fruit Loops at 11 o'clock in the morning?" Karen interrupted, a bemused expression on her face.

"As a matter of fact, mum." Michael started, smiling at the smart ass he knew he was being. "She said I had a very serious artificial sweetener deficiency."

Karen couldn't help but laugh at her son. She had missed him, attitude and all. After all, it had being so long she had heard his voice, even his smart ass words were comforting to her. She walked off with a basket of laundry, leaving Michael with the packet of Fruit Loops and the dishes.

Not surprising to anyone, Michael ate the Fruit Loops first. Throwing the bowl in the sink with much disregard, he started on the dishes. "I've had number 1's on the Billboard but I still have to do the bloody dishes." Michael shook his head. "What the hell do I have to do to never do dishes again?"

Within 5 minutes, Michael was done, and drumming his fingers on the counter top, debating whether to help his mother out with a few more things. Maybe if he did a few more chores she'd let him play the PlayStation for a while. Bloody hell, Michael thought to myself, it's like I'm fourteen again.

"Mum." Michael called out to the house. "I'm done. What do you want me to do now?"

Michael waited a few seconds for a response, but not warranting one, he decided to search for her.

"Mum?" Michael called out again, rounding around the corner to the living room. He pushed the door of her bedroom open slowly. "Mum?" He asked softly.

With a lurch, Michael saw his mother, sitting on the ground, struggling to breathe, her face pale. He ran to her side. "What happened?" He breathed. He didn't wait for a response, but pulled his phone out, calling 000. His mother continued to struggle beside him, and it was all Michael could do not to panic. He pulled his arm around her. "It's ok, mum." He whispered to her, holding her tightly. "It's all going to be alright."