Skips A Beat ::Wattys2016::

Chapter 28

(A/N): anything in italics and without quotations is Michael...

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"It was the fourth of July..."

The music blasts through the black speakers as I tear the posters off of my wall, not caring as the paper rips between my fingers. I don't want them. I hate them.

"You and I were....you and I were fire...fire..fireworks!"

I rip my papers about UVA. Throwing them around my room. I take a pair of scissors, stabbing my soccer ball. I throw the books off of my book shelf, unaffected by the sound of their bindings ripping.

"I miss your early morning company. If you get me. You are my favorite 'what if'. You are my best 'I'll never know.'"

I take a hand full of pencils, snapping them in half with ease. I empty my sports gear onto the floor, throwing my newest cleats against the wall as I yell in anger and frustration. When we left the burial yesterday, I couldn't even look at the stone. I don't know what his stone looks like! Why didn't I look?!

I take my 2010 Fifa World Cup poster off of my wall. My dad got it signed by Tim Howard. He's a goalie. I remember being so excited about it. Michael was excited too, even though he had no clue who Tim Howard is. He was just excited because I was. I shred the poster with my fingers. I stare down at the pieces of poster.

Now that my anger has died down, I could cry. I completely ruined my room. I pick up my soccer ball, pulling the scissors from it and putting them back.

that was dumb

"I know." I sigh. I look over my shoulder at Michael; I forget that Michael isn't going to be there when I look. My eyes take in the empty spot where Michael should be. And I remember.

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It's my first trip to Michael's grave today. It's been one week. I really should have come sooner, but I couldn't get myself to come. It's too much for me. It's just me. I stay at the car for a moment, before moving to the grave and finally standing in front of the raised ground that hasn't settled yet. I sit down next to him, keeping my hands in my jacket pockets.

I stare at the grey stone. Part of me finds it almost humorous that it reads "Michael Gordon Clifford" because he absolutely hated his middle name. He would be throwing a tantrum if he knew they put it on there.

November 20, 1995- February 3, 2015

That's obnoxious. I rub my temples for a moment, unsure of what to do. What is supposed to happen at a grave site? Nothing.

"I-I forgot to put your Jack Barakat guitar pick in with you." I say, pulling the pick out of my pocket. "So I'm just going to..." I push the pick against the stone, pushing it down into the soft ground.

thats so like you

I sniffle. It really is like me to forget to give him his favourite guitar pick. I'm the worse boyfriend ever. I bring my knees close to my chest, crying. This isn't how I wanted us to be. I didn't want him to be the first to go. I wanted him to get old with me. I wanted to adopt with him. I wanted him to sit with me on Sunday afternoon's and watch our grandkids playing. But, we'll have to adjust to the current situation. Instead of watching our grandkids, we'll watch the sunset from this hill. Instead of cleaning up after kids, we'll clean up the flowers and the dirt at his grave site. We'll adjust.

The grave says "smile like you dont give a damn about the consequences" on the back. That makes me smile through the blur of my tears, because it's an All Time Low quote. I lay down beside the mound and close my eyes, pretending that he's laying beside me. I pretend that he has his arms folded underneath his head as he looks up at the clouds.