Ashley ✓

Thirty-Eight | Prayer

SOTC: Polygraph Eyes by YUNGBLUD

I woke up.

It maybe five in the morning. Or maybe some timeframe similar to that hour due to indications of the Sun attempting to climb above the horizon behind the picket fences visible from outside the cream, rusty windows.

But it wasn't the Sun I was worried about because I woke up.

I woke up cold, specifically.

The fact that I faced the wall on the living room couch when I did had been my first realization of a former presence. My chest noticed completely, for the only warmth available there now was the little garnered from my hands, which were placed on my stomach.

The oddest part was that my stomach was the location of the strongest warmth. It was one from a phantom presence of a head resting between a space of my neck—

"Oh my god," I whispered.

I then nestled by head against the couch, my lips parted as I breathed out.

Mustafa and I actually cuddled, as in it wasn't a dream.

Mustafa and I cuddled.

My brain silenced again, leaving my body dazed in my current position. Maybe it was the shock at the whole situation I just woke up from and the bubbly yet heart-stopping vibe it left, but all I could do was watch the wall. All I did was watch the wall.

But for some reason, that's when the memory came of it. One memory that I once vowed to cherish until Kanye West or Lil Xan became the second coming of Jesus, so basically never. It was a memory that made Ashley Walker the Ashley Walker.

The first time I had ever ruined someone's life.

The high from pulling my first boyfriend lasted my entire freshman year. Matt Fisher had become my gateway drug to a greater pool of worshippers and friends, and with that came the perks of fucking over everyone in between and morphing into a catalyst for multiple explosions of chaos throughout Mother Teresa. So from popping sedatives in my Geography teacher's peach tea for not curving a test in March to rear-ending Anna-Joy Harron's Mercedes for her shitty pararrel parking in July, it meant serious rage throughout the Californian summer— and dudes.

I mean, did you really expect Ashley Walker to be loyal?

But of course, the repetitive conquests had gotten monotonous, which leads me to my next victim.

Sydney Prescott.

Specifically, she was Mother Teresa's student council president. Teachers worshipped the ground her Sunday-school-looking flats grazed upon. Her giggle-like gasp of a laugh, breathy feminine voice, and the way her ever-so pristine ironed skirt to her knees swished made a priest look like a cocaine-snorting pimp. It also made just about every type of person unnaturally fawn over her.

Of course, except me.

Whenever I'd heard her speak with her helium-infested voice to her gaggle of girls who'd never seen a margarita, I wanted to shove her breathable cotton panties up her ass. She talked about changing the school policy so poor income students could have better access to emergency services within the nurse's office to lessen the likelihood of acts of prejudice like she was solving world hunger. I personally found that piece atrocious.

Now onto why I had fucked with Miss Mother Teresa.

The why arrived to me on a sliver platter on one fine Tuesday, particularly when I walked by her giggling with my boyfriend. I didn't snap because of the fact she was just talking to the boy I cheated on all summer, but the fact that some Disney princess-looking chick was around my area induced every cell in my being to want to throw myself off Mother Teresa's roof. However, not even the voices had to claw to the depths of my consciousness to pose the question first.