What happens when you can't even recognize your own parents, but you're able to identify the most notorious playboy in school? //
Asher Thomas lives in a world where she isn't able to recognize people's faces, including those of her parents and even...
I tip the bottle back, draining the alcohol from the glass. The liquid burns down my throat like a trail of wildfire, eliciting the most delicious tingle.
I set my fourth bottle of alcohol aside, letting out a groan as I drag myself into bed. Every moment passes in a blur, swimming in my view. I know I'm drunk. I know I do this to myself every night. For reasons I cannot fathom, I can't stop.
Suddenly, there's a knock on my door. My mother's voice filters in, bright and chipper. "Aaron?"
I crush my face into the crook of my elbow, withholding a scream. She cannot see me like this. She cannot walk into a room inhabited by her alcoholic son, wasting away his life and money on poison.
She knows I'm usually out of the house, believing I'm at the library in some sort of study group. She's too quick to believe her lying son, to my own benefit. I remain silent on the bed, willing her away.
I breathe out a sigh of relief as soon she begins trooping back down the hall. Safe. I am guarded by my own lie, though for how long, I don't know.
I picture a teenage boy with unruly hair splayed on his bed, eyes bloodshot and hazy. Breathing a sigh of relief for escaping his mother's watchful eye, hiding in his bedsheets with four empty beer bottles.
I would trade anything not to be that boy.
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The next day in Biology is unbearably uncomfortable.
Asher has her hair shielded between us like a curtain. Her brown locks make it hard to make out her features, so I'm forced to sit next to a chestnut colored wall for fifty minutes.
Before class ends, Mr. Riley waltzes up to us, holding our graded report. We turned it in early, with Asher finishing the entire thing and even constructing a professional cover. It seems as if he has no idea.
"Splendid job, you two," he says proudly, setting the leaflet on our desk. A gigantic A+ is jotted on the top, and I feel my stomach twist uncomfortably. I shake my head. Since when did I feel bad about cheating? The act has almost become nature to me. Normally, I would be surprised if I didn't use someone else's work.
Asher doesn't look up, just continues packing her bag. She's faced away from both of us, hunched over to zip up her bag. I stare at the curve of her back as she leans down, the hem of her t-shirt edging up. Her skin is pale but tan, like mixing golden brown and albino white and dousing her in it.
I look away quickly, focusing my attention back on Mr. Riley. "Thank you," I say, tucking the packet into my folder. I'm sure that Asher doesn't want to see the project ever again, and neither do I. The second I'm at the door, this thing will be in the trash.
"For the rest of the week, you two can go to the library," he says. His eyebrow twitches. "We don't want others cheating off you or your work, eh?"
I swallow uncomfortably, standing. "Of course."
Mr. Riley stares pointedly at Asher's back, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she's shaking.
