Zero

Chapter 4: Ashton

~Ashton's Point of View~

The rest of the school day is like looking through someone else's glasses; everything was a blur. When the bell rang releasing us from school, I all but basically ran to the parking lot. It's not that I was excited about going home; I'd much rather be here than there.

Opening up my driver's door, I throw my backpack in the truck and get in. Putting the key in the ignition, I feel the weight of something being thrown into the bed of the truck. Getting out, I see the blonde hair and I regret not just leaving anyway.

"Jessica, what are you doing?" I ask frustrated.

"Just catching a ride." She says, stretching out her tan long legs, and throwing her British flag backpack to the side.

"Get out." I say, walking over and putting the tailgate down.

"What happened to the fun Ashton, huh? The one who used to give everyone a ride to the parties and used to get totally wasted. Where is he at?" She asks jumping down from my truck.

"He moved." Is all I say as I slam the tailgate closed.

Getting back in my truck, I put it in reverse and drive past Jessica without even looking at her.

Jessica and I dated for 5 months. In the beginning everything was okay, but then she started wanting to go to a party every weekend, and she would get totally wasted, so I told her we were too different.

I lied.

When I reach my house, I see Dad isn't home and send a quick thank you to God. Facing my dad right now, is not something I want to do.

Going upstairs, I pull off my shirt and put on some basketball shorts and start working out. Some people do yoga, or Pilates to clear their head. I lift a 250lb bar to clear mine.

When I'm pouring down sweat, I decide that I'm finished. Standing up, I look at myself in the mirror and sigh.

My body is covered in sweat, muscle, and bruises.

The bruises are my "punishments." When I fail a test, or don't make enough touchdowns in a game, or if I'm not being handed an award at some ceremony, I'm ruining our family name. So in order to help me realize what I'm doing is wrong, he beats me.

After Friday's game, which we won, I only threw 4 touchdowns. Which isn't enough for my father. When I came home, he started beating me and cursing at me.

Fueled with this new anger, I head to my bathroom and get out my razors. I rip off my bracelets, and look at my collection of scars.

Elizabeth said something earlier today. About me never understanding her. She probably thinks I sleep on a bed of gold with a person tending to my every need.

She couldn't be more wrong.

I had to work my ass off, to get where I am. She probably thinks she has me all figured out. But she doesn't.

She will never understand me. And with that thought, I drag the razor across my skin.

*********
Next Day
*********

Putting my truck into drive, I wince at the use of my right wrist.  Sliding the bracelets down, I see the cuts have already bled through the band-aids. Sighing,  I continue on my way to the hell hole that is high school.

The beginning of my freshman year was the worst time of my life.  Going through my parents' divorce, I felt so alone.  There was so much pent up emotion inside me that I had to take it out on something.  Of course I had heard of cutting; everyone has.  My best friends at my old school had been cutting for a while, they said it took away the pain.

The day my parents' divorce was finalized was the day I started cutting.  This was also the day my bracelet collection started.  When I first dragged the razor across my skin, it burned like hell.  Once the pain was down to a dull pain though, I felt a thousand times better.  Grabbing the blade again, I kept dragging it across my right wrist.  By the time I was done I had 6 cuts dripping blood down my hand.

Dad never, and still hasn't, noticed my cuts.  I'm not even sure if he would care.  Getting stuck to live with my dad was one of the worst things that has happened in my life besides the divorce.  He won me by saying that my mom could never support a child, saying she was an alcoholic and drug addict.  I'd hate to admit it, but he was right.

She would come home once a week, staggering inside smelling of vodka with a bag of marjiuana in her purse.  Before Dad called her out in court for marijuana, she had already been caught twice by the police.  This having been her third time, she had to spend 3 years in prison.  Dad had filed a restraining order against her, saying she can't come within a 5 mile radius of me while I'm still under his parental guidance.

If only the judge had known what was to come by letting my dad take care of me.  If he had known of all the beatings, of all the times he starved me, of all the times he'd be gone for days, until finally coming home drunk and angry, would the judge had changed his mind?

True, I'm an 18 year old man-child who lifts more than my dad, I could probably take him.  The thing is, I don't want to.  I know that probably sounds weird and pathetic even, but I don't want to.  I'd rather take the beatings and the starvings than beat up my dad.  If I beat him, I feel like that would be the final tug on the strings holding on to my childhood.

With all these thoughts swirling like a hurricane in my head, I barely realize I'm at school until I'm pulling into the parking lot.  Grabbing my backpack with my left hand, I get out of my truck.  Walking towards the front doors of the school I see Elizabeth getting out of her mom's car.  When she turns around to slam the door, we make eye contact.  I offer her a smile and wave at her.  In return she glares at me and gives me the finger.  This is going to be a long day.