wasting time » lh ; mc

fourteen

:: 14 ::

       The world wasn't on his side, Michael decided. Nothing has worked in his favor lately.

Ever since Saturday, Michael had been so anxious and paranoid about every task he did, even if it were something as simple as taking the garbage out. Losing always messes with his head, but this time around it seemed much worse than it had ever been. Maybe it was because someone so important was watching him and he allowed himself to get sidetracked and distracted. It was all his own fault.

He completely embarrassed himself in front of everyone, too. Not only with the loss, but with how much he overreacted and had a pathetic panic attack over something so usually simple. Michael may get upset when he does something wrong, but he'll never admit it. He knows he never will, because that's who he is.

He's a Clifford. They all seem to run from their problems.

Even if Michael did admit it, going back to school would feel so awkward for him—something it never is. Michael has always been the one with his head held high and an attitude that people are intimidated by. If he walked into school with the attitude he has now, he'd seem weak.

Of course, his dad wouldn't let him just not go to school. If Michael told him that the reason he wanted to stay home was because he was terrified of having to face the entire student body, and he felt like crying the moment he woke up, the man would brush him off and tell him to get up or they'd be late. It's just how things were. Michael didn't want to believe he had something wrong with his mental health at the moment and his father has never believed that his family could ever have anything wrong with their mental health.

That's why Michael had to walk into the school so he wouldn't get suspicious or start asking questions. Then, somehow, find a door out of the school that didn't set off an alarm and have his security camera picture sent to every teacher's email. It was hard, but he managed. And it's not like his father could check on him throughout the day and see him in the halls, because the man had to stay in the gymnasium all day.

The walk home was worth it, even though Michael hates going fifteen minutes with no entertainment. Staying home didn't help anything, though. All of the thoughts he had and sadness he felt was still sat brewing to a point where it felt like all he could do was cry.

Michael has never felt legitimately sad. That's the problem with this whole situation, and why it's so hard to handle. He was still trying to figure out the reason for any of it. Sure, Andrew Hemmings was there. Luke was there, and it's been determined that maybe Michael kind of has the smallest attraction toward him. But, Michael has had people he needed to impress before—all the time, really. Proving himself to two more people shouldn't have been a problem.

It should be evidence enough that he was good through the trophies organized on his dresser and team pictures hung up on his walls. That's never enough for Michael. It won't ever be, he thinks.

With a sigh, Michael stood from his bed and walked through the hallway into the bathroom. Along the way he winced with the pressure added to his side and spine. Sometimes even with equipment made to protect you, it never did. When he got checked hard into the side of the rink a week and a half ago, the pain was still there—not that he's done anything to rest himself besides that day his father made him take off, but still.

Taking his shirt off, Michael turned to the mirror and looked over the almost faded, yellow bruise on his side, wondering if he was ever too hard on himself. Because, a normal person would rest for at least a few days after something like that, right? Yes, usually—but not when it comes to sports. Such a weak injury—if it could even be classified as one—shouldn't be taken as such a big deal.