A/N: ITS NOT ASHTONS P.O.V ANYMORE JUST THOUGHT I WOULD MAKE THAT CLEAR. AND THE GIRL (KNOWN AS YOU) STARTS TALKING ABOUT HER HAIR AT ONE POINT AND A PICTURE OF HER HAIR WILL BE IN THE SIDE BAR.
Your eyes are glued to the ceiling, but occasionally they droop closed only to have them shoot open again. Usually when you sleep, you sleep in peace and quiet but apparently you can't do that anymore. Not in this household. Not when there's a twenty year old who loves playing his drums at any given time of the day, even now. You think by now Mrs. Irwin would've made Ashton's room soundproof because this is absolutely ridiculous.
You groan and turn over, grabbing your iPhone off the nightstand and check the time. It's half past one in the morning and the drumming still continues. You honestly can't even tell if he's playing them for his own enjoyment or just to annoy you. Either way, it disrupts your sleep.
You rip the covers off and adjust your outfit at least before proceeding into the main house. Ashton is hot, you'll give him that. You at least want to look presentable in his presence. As soon as you make it upstairs, the drumming stops and you halt. You listen closely to make sure that you weren't going deaf and you notice Ashton's door is wide open and his bedroom light is on. You contemplate whether or not it is a good idea to go and tell him to stop banging on his drums or just go back to sleep.
You sigh and shuffle toward his room anyways. You'll tell him to stop before he begins playing again. You just hope he'll listen, it's half one in the morning for crying out loud.
"Ashton," you whisper as you peek in his room. No sign of him. "Ashton?" You call again and this time you tiptoe into his room.
Your eyes scan over Ashton's bedroom walls. Slipknot, Blink-182, All Time Low, Famous last words and many other bands that remind you of your teenage hood, you went through a rocker kind of phase and you liked to be unique so you dyed your hair a pale lue with purple tips and you really liked it so you kept it but it doesn't matter what you look like you can have whatever music taste you fucking like. But it was wierd knowing he liked these bands because back in England you was an "outcast" and an "emo" or a "mosher" for liking this music and the way you dressed and also because of your hair.
Ashton's bed was completely unmade and half the covers were thrown off the bed. His covers were black and it suited the room perfectly. There were two doors so you assume that one of them is his closet due to lack of a dresser. Ashton had a shelf with an endless amount of CD's on it. How can someone afford all of this?! Oh yeah. He's rich. Money isn't even an object to him.
Ashton's dark room fits his dark, moody personality.
As you glance at Ashton's bed, you have the sudden urge to just fall on it and crash because you are so beat. Suddenly, you notice a small brown book sticking out from underneath the pillowcase. You glance around to make sure you are still alone before you grab the book.
It looked like a journal. It was extremely old and worn, and its cover was leather. You carefully open the book as your heart beats rapidly out of your chest. You scan the first page and see small paragraphs scattered, not even neatly written along the lines:
My memories are bruised places,
Black and blue outlines,
In the shape of your fingers.
Wait..... Was Ashton abused?
You continue to read another paragraph on that page:
I've dreamed about her,
Her boots left at my door,
Leaving a trail of fabric,
And innocence behind her.
This sounds like it must've been Ashton's first heartbreak. Ashton actually has a soft side to him and you start to believe reading it was a good idea. You're reading sides of him you never knew existed:
I've always struggled to find a word,
For what I feel,
Nothing seems to fit it quite right,
Like I can see the sky,
But the stars are blurry,
You expect me to hold your bones together,
When I can barely keep upright myself,
Maybe I want them,
To notice,
To help me,
To care,
But just maybe,
I want them to take the gun from me,
And pull the trigger.
Chills run across your spine. Is this a suicide note Ashton wrote?
