ice [michael clifford (◕‿◕✿)]

1

january

The frigid winter air climbed up my back through my open jacket. I pulled it tighter around me, even though it made no difference. My lips were chapped and I wet them every now and then to avoid the stinging sensation I felt every time the wind hit my face. My eyes teared and burned, becoming drier and drier by the minute. Why I moved to New York was beyond me, when I could be spending my days somewhere warm, somewhere like home in Australia. But then I remembered; I need to make something of myself, I need to pursue some kind of career. I can't always be a loser.

I finally reached my destination, rubbing my hands together before swinging open the old wooden door. The smokey filled room was inhabited with guys my age playing pool, girls clustered together in groups of three or four, and the regular drunks at the bar.

"Michael!" The guys greeted me, the girls laughed. I shuffled over, loosening my coat around me. I flashed them all smiles, my cheeks and lips red from the cold.

"Hey guys." I patted a few of their backs, embraced others. A drink was handed to me and I finished within seconds. It was illegal in America to drink under 21, but what they didn't know wouldn't kill them. I was almost there, only three more years.

The pool game before me had become progressively agressive. I had slipped my coat off and leaned closely against the table, watching every move intently. My intoxicated state caused my eyes to dance back between the players in sparatic motions. The ball was hit, but it wasn't the outcome expected, and there was a clatter of glasses on the hard carpeted floor. The cause of the commotion was my drunk friend, Tom. He always bet on these pool games, and when he'd make a stupid move, he'd get angry and end up throwing a punch, which is exactly what happened next.

He swung at my other less drunk friend, Joey, who he bet against before the game. He backed away, dodging every fist to his face. The girls shrieked and huddled together like always. This was routine. It was about now where I'd go in to break it up.

"C'mon guys, don't fight." I rushed up, setting my hands apart between them. Tom went to punch Joey again, but instead, made contact with my right eye. Typical. I cupped my eye and sucked in a sharp breath, wincing in pain from the blow.

"See what you did, Thomas!" I heard another friend of mine, Cooper, shout, his footsteps traveled in my direction. I had sunk down to the floor and leaned against the pool table.

"He was in the way of that prick." Tom mumbled, stumbling in the opposite direction. Joey cackled from behind me, quickly changing the subject before he got hit.

"Michael will be fine, he's a man." He cackled again, along with a few others. I rolled my visible eye at him and noticed Cooper beside me with ice from the bar.

"You alright?" I pressed the ice against my eye and nodded at him. He pat my back before standing up again, extending his hand and helping me up. "He's a prick, you know how Tom is." He was already laughing with Joey, only mintues after he wanted to strangle him. And of course, I pay for it, which wasn't fair. I shook it off before taking the ice away from my eye and blinking slightly. It stung and I shut it again.

"I'm going to head home." I said to no one directly, but loud enough for them to hear me. I grabbed for my coat and their heads turned.

"So soon buddy?" Tom spoke above the other voices. He walked towards me and I slipped my jacket on.

I muttered out a 'yeah' as he grabbed at my shoulder. "Sorry about your eye, Mikey." He lightly slapped my cheek before walking off again.

I took a deep sigh before my departure. I liked Tom, but he wasn't always my cup of tea. He was a good friend, when he wanted to be. He always did things to piss me off, especially when it came to girls. I wasn't what you'd call a 'ladies man' so I wasn't used to girls talking to me much, only in friendly ways. But, whenever a girl took interest in me, drunken Tom would swoop in and steal her away. I guess it was okay, he was proven better looking than me. I was just average, you could say. But, I never went unoticed, considering my hair was bleach blonde with a black stripe flowing straight down the middle. It was different, and unatural, much like myself. So, why not have the hair to match? Also considering my circumstances, being part of the creative and artistic society, it made sense. I lived the life of a stereotypical hipster, but I was so far from it. I was, what you could say, a punk. I did alright in school, acedemically, but I must have been doing something right to recieve a full scholarship for my skills in art. I was an artist, a punk artist.