the kid who fucked up his vocal cords

The doors are open when I reach the school building. I take a quick look over my shoulder before heading inside. During daytime the hallways would be full of kids carrying textbooks; on evenings and weekends, the school auditorium and basement would transform into a creative space for local kids to express themselves through the arts. There was even a studio and recording equipment.

When I was still in the band, I would spend most of my time right here.

I pass empty classrooms and rows of lockers.  The locker that was mine still looks the same. It stands out. I'd left it covered in random stickers and scribbles of bands I liked in permanent marker. M+T was carved into the inside forever, even though my first relationship had only lasted three weeks or so. On a Thursday afternoon, I had made the decision to drop out of school. I still remember it as if it was yesterday. I got a whiff of stale cigarette smoke when I close the blue locker door once last time. It was still lingering from when I'd smoked my first one just a couple a days before. I twisted the lock. My cheeks were bright red and burning when I threw the key to Luke so he and his teacher's pet personality could hand it in at the principals office.

There was a warm and nice feeling spreading through my body. I was free I felt completely untouchable. Like I was soaring on clouds and nothing could bring me down. The band was finally more than just an after school thing. We were going places.

Back then, my steps were light. Today I'm walking through quicksand.

My palms are sweaty. The paper I'm holding between my fingers is shaking slightly. I take a deep breath to pull myself together. The plan is simple. I only need to get to the notice board, put my ad up and then leave. It really shouldn't be this hard.

I've just reached the board when I hear a faint bassline bouncing against the walls of the hollow corridor.

Shit.

That's Calum playing. I'm sure. He's got a special sound, it's easy to recognise. Like his own strand of DNA running through the notes.

I glance over the different ads on the noticeboard. People looking to buy it sell instruments, bands looking for members. A teen dance group needing a new choreographer. Some pretty elaborate ones with glitter and big, fancy lettering. Mine is pretty simple.

Guitar Lessons

Beginner to Intermediate

Michael Clifford

I remove a free pin, pressing it into the piece of paper that has my name and number written on it. It looks a bit shit next to the creative ones, but it will have to do. I guess I could have tried a little harder on the handwriting. Or used a slogan, maybe.

Guitar teacher extraordinaire. The kid who had his vocal cords ruined. Positive attributes? I won't let your twelve-year-olds smoke or do drugs, and I can teach them guitar. Negative? I might swear too much. God, I hate kids.

"Mike!"

I know that voice. Fuck, he's seen me.

I'd pretend it's not me. But it's too late. Ashton has already called my name, and it doesn't take long until he appears at the corner of my eye.

My oversized hoodie has failed to protect me. Even with the hood up as a shield. I'd kept my head low the whole time, but he's still seen that it's me. How? I'd even grown a beard. Unintentionally. The shadow on my jawline is a result of not giving a damn about anything for the past few weeks - but still. I look different. I feel different. But not different enough to be invisible.

I press another pin into the other corner of the paper. Then, I slowly turn to meet Ashton's friendly face.

It's been forever since I last saw him, but he hasn't changed much. His then straightened to death hair is now a little shorter and curly, the front bits are swooped up and to the side, but other than that he's the same.

Ashton's eyes are still round and curious as always, searching for smiles. There is something inviting about the way his eyes smile before the rest of his face does. Like it's his mission to make people feel good or laugh.

"Clifford! Finally come out of hiding?"

Spot on.

For a moment, I wish the universe had brought bad luck on someone else and not me. Maybe on someone who was old. Maybe someone who hated music. Maybe someone who was talking a load of shit and didn't need their voice. But it doesn't work that way; the universe doesn't pick and choose from a naughty or nice list. It attacks at random.

"Yep." I roll my lips into my mouth, wishing he would go away. It doesn't work. Ashton is just too nice to get the message, always believing the best in people.

"We've missed you," he says, carefully. As if he's afraid of saying something wrong. "It's not the same anymore. The band thing, I mean. . ."

He's tiptoeing around me, it's so obvious. Everyone does that lately. Like I'm a ticking bomb. Handle with care.

"I saw you played a gig a few weeks ago, seems you're doing alright without me," I mutter, unable to hold back the bitterness.

I know it's unfair, being so cold. Ashton doesn't deserve it. He only ever means well. He's the older brother I've never had; he protects and I push him away. 

"Yeah, we did," he struggles not to let his face light up too much as the magic words are being said.

In his head, he's reliving the moment.

I can see it, too. A dimmed room. . . Dizzy fans pushing forward towards the stage, smoky air lit up by neon spotlights. The place smells of sweaty bodies and underage drinking. Guitars are being shredded, drumsticks breaking and the speakers are blaring the music we had worked on for so long.

I want that. I need that.

I can see all of it shine in his eyes for a second and a bit.

But the vision is all wrong. I'm not on stage with them and they've shared out my solos between themselves.

Ashton's dreamy smile dies. The spark in his eyes is put out instantly.

"Michael, I'm sorry." And he honestly looks like he is. "We missed you."

What I don't tell him is that I was there. I saw it all, but from the wrong side of the stage. I was in the crowd when really, I should have been right there on stage with them, enjoying the moment.

Their poster caught my eye on one of my late-night walks. The loud, red text shouted at me to look at it - it was hard not to.

I had to go. I had to be there – playing that venue was my dream. I'd worked on getting it booked for months; kissed some serious arse and annoyed people to the point where they couldn't say no to letting us play. It was the gig.

It ended up being absolutely unbearable. I was getting mentally and emotionally beaten up while Calum sang out the lyrics that were meant to be mine. A kind of pain that teases you, licking at the wounds but never deadly enough to kill. It just sneaks and lingers.

I left after the third song.

"S'okay." I feel my head nodding in agreement. As if the movement would make my words seem more believable. "I'm happy for you guys"

"What's that?" Ashton changes the subject, nodding to the note I've just pinned up. 

I shrug. 

"Need some money, so I'm giving guitar lessons." I feel the need to sound casual, but know as the first sound leaves my lips I have failed once again

Ashton nods slightly. "Nice mate. You're finally—"

"Doing something with my life," I finish the sentence so that Ashton doesn't have to.

"Not how I was going to phrase it, but alright." Ashton looks at me with slightly furrowed eyebrows before he cracks a smile. "Bet you would get loads of calls if you put a picture up as well. Girls would be lining up, trust me. Mums even."

Some kind of laugh escapes my throat. For a moment it feels like before surgery. Then, my throat feels dry. I've gone from being part of an up and coming band one day to not being able to sing the next. Without my voice, I'm nothing.

Fishing up his phone out of his back pocket, Ashton gives me a pat on the shoulder. "You'll be great." He swipes his finger over the display. "I have to go. Rehearsals."

There's a twitch to his lower lip. I can see his hopeless urge to flee the situation. He knows just where he's hit me.

Smiling through the fire, once again sneaking its way up my lungs and throat, I simply nod.

"I need to go home and wait for all the calls from the chicks," I reply when my airways are finally free and I'm able to breathe again. It's supposed to be a joke, but lately my jokes have been both saltier and deader than the dead sea.

"Good luck with everything. Come back and hang with us again sometime," says Ashton. Then he walks down the corridor and disappears into one of the soundproof rooms.

"Good luck," I mutter to myself, punching my hand into the board. Luck. As if luck has ever been on my side. As if if whoever decided my luck ever been good to me. "Fuck it," I growl under my breath, giving the wall another jab.

Music had been everything; my love, my future, my everything. This one thing I had put my all into. And now, instead of being on a stage with my best mates – who, by the way, were doing fucking great without me – I'm stuck teaching guitar to kids.

I bite my cheek, looking down at my balled up fist.

I'm the kid who fucked up his vocal cords.

Fuck's sake. I hope Ashton's right about hot mums calling me.

-
stacey's mum?

this is a bit different but i hope you guys will enjoy it anyway

what do you think so far?

~lauren