Graffiti Girl // Michael Clifford

|| 27 ||

So here we are. We're waiting for a fall. And on the radio they're calling on satellites. Like they're going to save us all. So here we are. I guess I'm praying after all. We're calling all, calling all satellites. This is a wake up call. 

«Satellites» Sleeping With Sirens

——-

"Just wear the fucking skirt!" R shouts at me, throwing her hands filled with different articles of clothing around the room. 

"We're not doing anything special," I groan. "Or if we are, I'll be leaving, so there's no point either way." 

"I like it," Luke comments from where he is propped up on the end of my bed. 

"Yeah, because you're basically staring at my ass hanging out." 

A blush rises to his cheeks and mutters something as he looks down at him hands. R slaps the back of his head and he yelps.

"Hey!" he whines. "You people are the ones who wanted my help!" 

"No, your girlfriend wouldn't let me kick you out," I correct. 

"He's here to help with a guy's perspective!" R defends. 

"So then why am I getting slaps for pointing out that I am sure Michael would appreciate the skirt?!" 

"Because you're an idiot," I say. 

"Hey!" he whine... again. "Babe?" He looks up to R with puppy eyes. She stares back at him blankly, arms crossed against her chest. 

"I don't know what you're looking at me for," she says with a shrug. 

"She called me an idiot." 

"Again... What are looking at me for?" 

Luke pouts his lip with a huff and shuts up. 

"Okay, now can I just put on some real clothes now?" I groan. 

"No, you're wearing that." 

I look down at my outfit: a tight black skirt barely covering my ass, my favorite red flannel that is probably ten sizes too big with the sleeves rolled just below my elbow and once reached about an inch past the end of my skirt, but I had cut it a while ago so that it now loosely falls around my waist. I refuse vehemently to wear anything other than my favorite black lace-up motor boots. I'd complained about being cold so R gave me some black lace tights to wear underneath. 

I'm done with dealing with them, and I suppose it could be worse. 

"Fine," I sigh. "But I'm not doing all fancy hair or whatever other shit. It will be on a bun on the top of my head and I will be done in under a minute. No need to worry about anything more than that." 

"That works!" R squeals. Sometimes she's heartless and sometimes she loves rainbows and kittens. "Just go do your makeup and we'll be done!" 

"Yep," I mumble and leave the two to go to the bathroom. 

I go through the motions of washing my face and brushing my teeth. I comb through my hair somewhat thoroughly and throw it up, tying it off so it is left in basically a big knot on top of my head, but it works. I put a simple layer of cover and blush, adding bronze and highlights here and there. I brush on some dark brown eyeshadow, blending it with a few shades and add a bold line of dark navy blue eyeliner on both lids. Most people think it's weird, but usually you can't blatantly tell the color is actually blue. It's subtle enough to not draw attention but enough to draw out the color in my eyes. I double check everything in the mirror and go back to my bedroom.