recovery // a.i.

20 // pink roses

Please vote and comment on your favorite parts! I apologize for how long and sad* this is

*=sad at times

michael's point of view

Waking up and scratching my head, I realized it was another day of Fourth of July vacation from the hell I have to call work. Almost immediately, I called my boss and said I couldn't come in. My hair, freshly dyed green, stuck up in different directions. I put on black basketball shorts over my red boxers and a Sex Pistols t-shirt that I pulled from my cluttered dresser on the far wall of my room. From the view from my window, it looked like it'd be a nice day.

Ashton's room was down the hall. He got the master bedroom when we moved here. He pulled the longer straw. Knocking on the door a few times, there was no answer. I turned the knob and opened it to see a bunch of sheets pushed around. I set the glass of water I filled for him on his bedside table and looked around, checking to see if he fell off the bed or something. He didn't. He wasn't in his bathroom, either.

"Ashton?" I called throughout the house. He had to have left early in the morning, if he even did leave. There wasn't a note, like there always was when he left. Even the porch was empty. He always smoked a morning cigarette. Smirking to myself, I realized something. Ashton had to have gotten laid last night at Hayden's house.

Grabbing a small plastic bag, I put in Ashton's pills and got my car keys from the bowl on the counter. My scar was distinct against my skin, since I was so pale. I put on my black sunglasses to cover it, even though it was still noticeable. New York City's biggest pop station started playing when I started the car and I immediately turned it off. Damn Americans and their fucking pop music.

The bridge's amount of traffic was strangely large for ten thirty on a Friday morning. People got to work early and rush hour didn't start for a few hours. I could see why Ashton walked everywhere. There was no waiting. He only drove on occasion, such as when I was drunk or he had to pick up Hayden. He would do anything for that girl. It was obvious that sooner or later he'd tell her he loves her. He hasn't been that happy in over a year.

Tapping my fingers on the black steering wheel, I thought back to when Ashton first asked out Whitney. Mrs. Julia sat us down, Ashton, Peter, and I, and told us about relationships. Not the birds and the bees, we had gotten that talk in seventh grade. To this day, I remember her words. She told us not to kiss someone or have sex with them unless we loved them. I certainly didn't follow those words, cause, well, look at me now. Not that I'm a manwhore or anything, but I've kissed girls whom I didn't even know at parties and stuff. Peter, too. He got one of Whitney's friends pregnant our senior year. She got an abortion, of course. Ashton was so pissed at him. He is to this day. Whitney was mad at Peter, so Ashton was too. None of us really talk to Peter that much anymore.

Ashton listened to her words. He had always been good at listening to and following directions. He's only ever kissed two people: Whitney and Hayden. He was so in love with Whitney. She was his soulmate. They were probably going to get married someday if it weren't for what happened. I had never seen a person so heartbroken, ever. I remember the day like it was just yesterday. I don't want to remember it.

"Michael! Michael, oh my God. Michael, hurry up!" cried Ashton. I was downstairs, getting my laundry from the dryer. Dropping the basket and running upstairs, I looked in every room to see where he was. I'd never heard him yell like that before. I heard talking coming from Whitney's room, so I ran in there. Sitting on the floor was Ashton, holding Whitney's pale body in his arms. His cheeks were red and beginning to swell from crying.

There was an empty orange pill bottle on the ground. A huge blood stain coming from her wrist covered the rug. Whitney had committed suicide, and there was no fixing things now. Neither one of us suspected it.