Dangerous smiles

Ashton

*Ash's POV*
Who's this guy? I thought. I was ALWAYS left alone. Now this guy just sits down next to me. I knew who he was of course, but I had never talked to him before.

He was Josh. He was the model guy; in cross country running, strong, Christian, and I'm not just gonna say he isn't hot. Hair parted in the middle with thin lips, and a straight nose. Broad shouldered but yet skinny. I had at one point drawn him. He didn't know that. But then again I never show anyone my sketchbook.
"Hey."
SH*T. He's trying to start a conversation!!! But why? I'm skin and bones, quiet, and nothing attractive about me. I write and draw but heck, no one even knows what my wrists look like because I always hide them under my hoodie. I don't know what to do!!!

"It's Ashton right?" He asks.
"Ye- yeah." I stutter. I can't talk to anyone else. The last time I got close to someone they left abruptly. Or they might have been killed. Knowing my experiences, probably the latter.

"I- I just realized I have to go do some work." I told him.

I hurriedly gathered my things and rushed off to my art class, the only place I knew would be quiet.

I opened up my sketchbook and continued my most recent drawing. A silhouette with the only thing to have positive space are tears of blood, reflecting and refracting very little light. I had finished the tears and needed to start the outline of the person.

The hair and face outlined I began filling it in, getting darker the closer to the middle I got. It looked like someone had drilled a deep hole into my page.

I added highlights of red into her hair and then signed the page with my initials and date. I loved looking back at old sketchbooks, that is, as long as it wasn't destroyed by my father.

If he found any of my art supplies he would destroy them, as if trying to enforce superiority. I hated him. And yet every day I had to go back to that dreadful house. I never knew if he would be in a good mood, or have been drinking. Most commonly it was the one with broken bottles on the floor and a belt in his hand. If not a belt, then likely something worse. But I had to go back there every day because I cared too much for my mother and my little brother.

Kara and Preston married when they were both twenty six. They have been married eighteen years, but not by her wishes. When I was born fifteen years ago, he became abusive and drunken all the time. Daniel is only twelve years old, way too young to comprehend leaving the only people he has ever known.

Foster care is not an option either. No one has the capacity to handle my anxiety attacks and Daniel is deaf. He learned to speak before his hearing left, so he speaks normally, but he needs American Sign Language to carry a conversation. I'm the only one in my family who can translate. That means that if I'm not there, he can't talk to anyone, and that is terrifying to him. And if I am there, then my back is the one who must bear the scars of the day.

My father is smart. He never hits in an area that will be noticeable. Purple marks line where he punches and red is the color most of my shirts are. Most were white to begin with. He has been drinking since I could comprehend what it was. On the days where I actually find him sober, he profusely apologizes and promises never to do it again. I call bullshit when it's the twenty seventh time he's said it. As far as I know, he has never touched Daniel because of me.

I love Dani to death but he's not actually my brother. Step brother? Yes. He's the bastard child of my father and a girl named Viktoria he was having an affair with. She died giving birth. Because he had no where else to go, he came and became a part of our family. My mother and I made an agreement not to tell him that unless it was absolutely necessary. My father seems to unwittingly agree with the agreement, even if often too inebriated to know.

I have twenty three scars permanent scars on my back, a scar above my eye, two on my lower neck, and four on my wrist. My wrists were self inflicted.

My art teacher, Mrs. Knight, doesn't ask any questions and I don't give any answers. I go in there every day but maybe have said a max of fifty words within the two years I've been going in. She revises my art and gives slight adjustments but overall we never have anything to say.

The final bell rings. I have to go home. Back to my father. Back to broken bottles and scars. But I have no other choice.