flipped :: lh [UNDER REVISION]

o2.breathe

Luke groaned, his abdomen aching along with every other part of his body.

He pushed himself up on the palms of his hands, clothes stained in carmine splotches from where he'd bled the night before. He carefully slipped from bed, taking the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his mussed up hair and off his slender frame. Luke tossed the Nirvana tee onto the floor, not really caring to retrieve it later, as he had similar ones hung in his closet. Swinging his legs over the edge of the plush comforter he finally felt the full extent to his pain; every inch of his back ached, blood dripped from his nose onto his lip, and his stomach felt as though he was hit by a truck. He ignored the constant pounding in his head, a loud drum with feverish rhythm echoing back and forth.

It didn’t take long before the blonde realized he’d fallen asleep in someone else’s bed. Pictures of a girl—and who he’d assumed were her friends—lining a mahogany desk, the teal lamp beaming down on an empty glass. He hadn't gone home that night. His mum would be furious, but at the moment that didn’t seem like the most important problem. Right now he had to get to class, his first hour beginning in an hour or so.

With a final glance at his watch he clumsily made his way to the closed door, it was a miracle some random girl didn’t end up in bed with him he thinks. The moment the door opens he scrunches his nose trying his best to repress a gag at the back of his throat; there was a strong stench of spilled beer, and vomit lingering in the air. Surrounding him were seemingly hundreds of empty beer bottles, a few discarded cigarettes, broken ceramics—from a vase nearby—and bras littering the hardwood flooring.

How he’d slept through the rest of the party and somehow ended up upstairs was a mystery even to himself. Luke flexed his arms, his breathing shallow from the amount of smoke infecting the air. The front door of the house wasn’t hard to find, but making his way home without a shirt would be a bit more difficult. He laughed, the thought of himself running down the street bare-chested and messy hair was silly. But his house was only three blocks away, not as far as most.

Chill air enveloped Luke, goose bumps lining his fair skin. Outside the trees danced with the breeze, the branches rustling green leaves. He exhaled, a puff of white ghosting away in front of him—Luke acknowledging the temperature with short frigid shivers that shot through his body. Maybe walking around without a shirt wasn’t such a great idea he thinks, especially in August. Either way he makes the trip home, occasionally kicking away at loose pebbles along the pavement.

 ✦  ✧  ✦  ✧

When Luke finally approaches his house he notices his mum’s car is gone from the driveway. He doesn’t figure it to be anything strange, she works long shifts and he’s used to being home alone. The days that seem to drag on are usually the days Luke writes the most songs, his blue inked pen held between his fingers, the notepad placed in front of him, and a guitar hung around his neck. He can almost feel the way each chord bounces off the walls of his room, harmonies, and seemingly meaningless notes filling the silence.

A thinning smile etches its way onto his lips before disappearing altogether. He can see through the thin white sheet of curtain that prevents the sun’s rays. There in the kitchen is Luke’s father, and if he hadn’t been home Luke would have skipped out on class entirely—though that wasn’t the case. His brows furrowed downward, his tongue poking out between his teeth in thought. How was he supposed to explain to his dad why he was shirtless? He sighed before his eyes landed on the frame of his window—it just conveniently being on the second floor—the glass panes reflecting the sunlight in a rainbow prism. An idea pops into Luke’s mind, though he’s not quite sure if it’s a good one.

Three falls and a knock of his knuckles later and Luke is pulling himself in through the open window (him being grateful that he keeps it unlocked despite his mum’s protests). The walls are covered in posters of varying shapes and sizes, each containing a band he loves or even a lyric he’d admired. There are a few Pink Floyd posters lying against the plush carpeting and even more stuffed aside in a box. CDs liter his indigo duvet, his guitar set aside in its own personal space.

When Luke was seven he’d been given his guitar as a gift from his mum. She’d always believed he would go somewhere, be somewhere bigger than the town he was at. She would tell him that he could do anything he wanted, that no one could stop him but himself. He quickly developed a passion for music, loved to sit and listen to the way instruments blended together to create such euphoric sounds—harmonies and melodies together. Though others didn’t quite see what he saw. Nonetheless he kept his guitar.

He made sure to take care of his guitar, as silly as it sounded it was his best friend—the oak coloured finish polished whenever it’d become scratched. He spent most nights huddled up underneath the stars—usually sitting on the roof of his house—his pen, notebook, and guitar—he’d named ‘Summer’. And that’s where he’d spent the first night he’d come down with insomnia, on the tops of the roof, shoes swung off the edge and guitar pressed against him.

He’d written his first song two Decembers back, it wasn’t meant to be for anyone, nor anything but himself. He’d felt such pride in the simplistic lyrics, a melody meshed from his favourite movie cords. The way he was able to pen the lyrics as they flowed from his fingertips and onto the paper. He’d smiled, a beautiful smile.

Luke doesn’t take much time to pull on another shirt similar to that he had worn the previous night. Quickly fixing his hair up and pulling his worn shoes on. And he thinks maybe he should’ve skipped the party—it would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. He sighs, running his hands down his face before spotting his bag thrown in the corner. He really doesn’t want to go to class, and he thinks he should go down to the park instead. But he knows he needs to catch a ride otherwise he’ll miss out, though no one would really notice his absence.

With a final walk around his room and a huff of annoyance, he flings his bag over his shoulder—the dull pain in his stomach aching with each movement. He had to climb out the window again, which was easier said than done. The sun at that point was high above the world, looking down with gentle warmth and radiance. Seasons should be changing soon, he can’t wait for it.

Since he didn’t have a car yet (something his mother told him he had to earn) he still had to chase down the bus each morning, making sure to arrive a bit earlier than the others, that way he’d be able to find a seat at the very back away from everyone else. It wasn’t such a far walk, the birds chirping away like morning conversations.

When he’d gotten on the bus he selected a seat nearest to the window at the back. He plugged in his earphones, his iPod put onto shuffle. He wasn’t feeling the upbeat songs he usually listened to, today felt mellow, melancholic almost. He ignored the taunts from his classmates, ignored the glares they shot him. Music was his escape, his way to relax, to pretend reality didn’t exist. The ride was long, almost an hour away but he didn’t mind. The sun beat down on him, warming his bones, his hair hidden underneath his hoodie. He let himself relax, allowed himself to fall away, drifting in and out of consciousness.

His eyes flitted to a close, the soft melodies of a lullaby drifting in his ears, filing in the spaces between him.