A Drunken Mistake

A Drunken Mistake - 'I need to find whoever drew this picture.'

Here we are...

You've seen their prologues, now for their story...

Enjoy <3

'Behind my smile is everything you'll never understand.'

Chapter 1

Katy's POV

I'm walking down the school corridor with head down. That's my strategy with school. If I keep my head down and try to blend in, people won't bother me or try to talk. So far it's worked.

I pull my grey hoodie tighter around me, wincing slightly as I brush my newly bruised ribs. My foster dad, Michael, came home in a bad mood again last night and there was nowhere for me to hide.

The bruises on my ribs and arms are because I coughed when I was upstairs and he won't stand for that. He's a very strong believer in that children should be seen but never heard and that goes from everything like a cough to actually talking to them.

Safe to say I live my life in silence.

It's the main reason I don't try to make friends. When they'd get close enough to me, they'd start to see the bruises scattered up and down my body, the scars and the cuts, and the pain. They'd see the pain I've been trying so hard to hide, and then the alarm bells would start ringing in their heads and they would try to help. It's not like I don't want help, it's just that I know there's nothing anyone could do. This is my life and I have to deal with it on my own.

I've been doing it for nine years, two more can't really hurt.

I finally make it to Art with minimal name calling and pushes, I call that a success. Normally I hear a few choruses of 'Katy the loner freak' and feel a few pushes into lockers but there was barely any today. Maybe today won't be so bad.

'No stupid Kate, stop getting your hopes up, you know they're only going to come crashing back down again' I have to remind myself.

My only sanctuary is Art class. It's the one lesson where the teacher doesn't try to make me sit with the other students, or to speak up in class. In Art, I'm allowed to go into my own little world of drawing and painting.

I head to the back of the classroom to my usual seat alone in the corner, get my sketchpad out and start drawing.

I don't normally know what I've drawn until I'm finished, I get so caught up in my own thoughts that there are none spare for me to think about what happens when I put pen to paper.

Why does he always go for me? I know this sounds horrible, but my foster mum is there too, so why doesn't she ever get beaten? Why does he always take his anger out on me?

My foster mum Sarah's not much better. She likes her drink a lot more than normal people, to the level where she may be a borderline alcoholic. The drink makes her different.

It makes her cry a lot and lash out, the bruises and cuts on me aren't always just from Michael. When she drinks, she hits, and it's for pettier things than what Michael hits me for.

I get hit from her just by walking through the door after school, the disappointment that I came home runs through her and she strikes, saying I shouldn't have come home. That I should've left by now and that I'm just sponging off them. I never ask them for anything. All the money they use is mostly rightfully mine

But like I said, the drink does weird things to her.

They truly are the perfect couple.

I come out of my daze and look at the picture I've drawn. It's a pair of bluey grey eyes that match mine exactly, with sadness radiating out of them and a black tear drop falling out of the right eye showing how sad the eyes truly are.

It was too personal. People will figure out something was wrong if they ever see this. They'll know I'm not alright.

I rip the page out of my sketch book and stuff into my bag. No one's ever going to see that drawing. Never.

Dylan's POV

Ergh! School, lessons, teachers, more expectations.

My parents make me go to this public school in order to make me look more down to earth. Like I said before, I'm nothing but a publicity stunt to them.

At the moment I'm sitting in Art with my latest fling hanging off my arm, whose name I can't even remember, as she whispers in my ear while I'm trying to concentrate on my painting.

"Come on baby, why don't we skip class and go behind the bike sheds," she whispers in my ear, trying to sound seductive but really sounding like she has something stuck in her throat.

"Err how about no. I need to get this picture finished," I sigh.

"Oh come on, it's just art. Don't act like you have to take it seriously. Now put down your paint brush and meet me by the bike shed in five minutes, ok?" she says, once again trying to sound seductive.

I really don't see any other way that I'm going to get rid of her.

"Ok, I'll be there in five."

"Perfect," she purrs as she goes to ask the teacher if she can go to the toilet before strutting out of the room.

I watch her retreating figure before turning back to my painting, having no real intention to actually follow her.

I love art and I really need to finish this painting before the terms over or I don't get a grade and I need a grade.

I don't want to be an actor anymore. I hate having to be someone I'm not, both on set and in real life, just to please the people around me. It's pointless though, I never please them anyway.

I want to be an artist. To travel to Paris and paint skylines and the Eiffel Tower. To paint portraits of people for a small amount of money, I don't need money, it never brings anything good.

I want to travel anywhere and everyway when I want to do it, not when someone else is me telling to, and to paint it all from the Pyramids in Egypt to the Taj Mahal in Indian. I want to see and paint it all.

But I know it's never going to happen. My parents disapprove of my love for painting, they tell me it's a waste of time and money, besides they love the fact I'm an actor just like they are. Its the only thing about me they love, my career.

The bell rings signalling the end of the lesson. I sigh; I'm nowhere near done with my painting.

I pack all my things away and get up to leave. Just as I do someone bangs into the side of me, slightly knocking me off balance. I look up to see a grey hoody disappearing and a faint sorry as they walk away.

I go to walk out again when something catches my eye. It's a drawing lying on the floor where the person who knocked me was a second ago. They must of dropped it out of there bag on their way out.

I know I shouldn't be nosy but as I pick it up, about to hand it to Mrs Jones on my way out, I can't help but to unfold it and to look.

The picture is amazing. It shows the most stunning and detailed pair bluey grey eyes I've ever seen drawn before and as they stare up at me, I can feel the sadness they're showing.

Whoever drew this is just as miserable as me, probably more judging by the depression in the eyes and the tear drop rolling down from them.

I need to find whoever drew this picture. They might be the only person who knows what I'm going through.