Paper Hearts.

nueve

Ashley

A fictional character once told me that being unable to breathe sucks, but most days I beg to differ. Carrying my bags filled with mangrove-smelling trainers and clothing, I bump into Jessica Stewart, the schools' most popular prostitute, and Alya Zia, the schools' most popular bitch. That's just great, don't you just love being around people who find happiness in other people's downfall? Delightful. They shove me again and laugh as my bags drop.

I'm joking. Honestly, I hate her so much. I can only count how many times I have had to resist myself from shoving my foot up her pacific sea vagina so her damn uterus is in her throat. She has to stop sucking dick; it's easier to get pregnant with a uterus in your mouth. I resist the urge to cry as eyes follow me back to the gate. I hear snickering.

"Hey, Panda!"

"Asian."

"You think you're so cool when you're not."

"She's so weird."

I sigh. Although it was true that I wasn't the school's verbal principle punching bag, I wasn't completely safe from frequent verbal attacks. Not everyone liked Ashley Grace Valentine, and often, the ones who did tended to say shit behind my back. I was alone, sometimes, but that really never bothered me. I liked being alone. I didn't need friends to cure my insecurity, I didn't need anyone.

"She thinks she can get Brad, hah!"

"I heard she was such a bitch to him."

"She had a B on her arm and a V on her forehead, didn't you realise?"

I pretend it doesn't hurt, but it does. No one can see through my shield, only him. He could. He used to be able to.

I roll my eyes at the snickering, don't they have anything better to do with their lives? Everyone in this school was either a bitch, annoying or two-faced. Six-faced, more like. Sure there was the occasional perfect girl or boy, but that is like what I said it to be. Occasional.

Huffing, I sit on the pavement of my compound's clubhouse, my face in my hands and my hands on my knees. I smelt like salt and my hair still wasn't washed. Damn you, mangroves.

Damn you Brad for helping me.

Damn you Brad for being perfect.

"Hey, you okay?"

My eyes widen at the source of my self deprecating interruption. It's the new kid who'd just moved in. We've talked a bit and I guess you could call us friends but I'm not so sure. I don't know anything about him, really, only that he's 16 and half French and half British; I guess I really couldn't help myself from gawking upon his toned figure, shamelessly raking my eyes up and down.

He realises and smirks. "You done staring, love?"

I blush and look down, embarrassed. "Fuck off."

"Already do to a picture of you," he winks, snapping his fingers. My eyes widen in horror. Collecting myself, I roll my eyes and scowl, ignoring him, continuing my sorrow and returning my face into my hands.

A look of pity forms on his carved facial features and he crouches to face me, lifting my face up with a push of his index finger. "Hey, I'm sorry, having a bad day?" he questions softly. I glare at him and for a split second he is taken aback.

"I guess you could say that," I mumble, refusing to look at him.

He holds out his arm and I raise an eyebrow in suspicion. "Come on, I know what can make you feel better."