violet skies / michael clifford

"i can't change"

27. can you change, michael?

"I paid good money for that! You know I'm like broke as fuck," I say to the girl who is backing away. I can feel the anger shooting through my eyes, aimed right at her. I wish I could hold back, but once the words come slipping out, there is no way for me to stop it. "What do you know about my smoking habits, anyway? Fucking nothing, that's what you know."

She keeps her head down, as if trying to protect herself from my fire.

Maybe it's like Luke said; her skirts and pretty hairbands don't go well with who I am. But she's changed. The girl standing in front of me is not the pretty little girl falling over in the park. Here she is, hair unbrushed, eyeliner smudged by tears and nails chipped.

She looks broken. Like a doll that was dragged around, face down in the dirt by the mean girl in the playground.

Did I make her this way?

If I could go back and warn the innocent girl scraping her knee and agreeing to get a lift from me, I'd tell her not to get in the car. But I can't change what's happened. And I can't change who she has become.

My stomach twists when I think about it. I've fucked her up.

"I only wanted to help," she says. Her response is merely a whisper.

"No, you didn't!" I shoot back, my voice sharper than I mean for it to. Each word cuts her a little deeper, I see the pain in her face. "If you wanted to help you wouldn't have taken it from me."

"I've tried," she says. "Who took care of you last night? Sat with you up there? Held your hand and wiped your tears? Can you not see I'm trying to help you?"

Why can't I stop hurting her? I promised her I wouldn't hurt her again.

"I–"

"I try so hard. Why can't you see that?"

"I've already told you. I need it to help me relax," I mumble, running my palms over my face when I realise I've upset her. "Of all people, you should understand."

"Are you saying my anxiety is less real than yours?"

She wraps the hoodie tighter around her body, shivering slightly. The fabric reaches down her thighs, and the sleeves well beyond her fingertips. She wipes at her eyes, leaving make up stains on the sleeve.

"You can control yours."

"Wrong," she says, shaking her head. She rids herself of the hoodie. It falls to the floor, just by her feet. She takes a step away, as if it's toxic. "You just don't see it."

"See what?"

"You slept like a baby while my biggest fear and nightmare was played out right in front of me."

"I didn't know."

"The reason my anxiety has been better lately is because you've been here to distract me from the bad thoughts." With her hair hanging down, and her hands close to her face, she hides away from me.

I guess I never knew there could be bad thoughts running in that pretty little head of hers.

"How are you getting home?" I ask.

"I'm not going back there, Michael," the brunette says, looking around to gather her things. Her phone and some other things are scattered around the flat. Her backpack is thrown in the hallway, her shoes were kicked off in my room last night.

"I'll drive you. Anywhere you want to go. Ashton's? Where do you feel safe?"

"No."

"Please."