Clean Slate » a.i. au

Five

"What?!" I yelled at him, my voice barely louder than the traffic outside, "You're fucking crazy, I can't just walk out of a moving car on the highway! I'll die!"

"I want you to die!" He yelled back, louder than me, and turned his entire body to me so he'd give me a look that's borderline psychotic; and stopped paying any attention to the road. "I want you to fucking die, you good for nothing-"

"Ashton!"

I jerk in my spot, the sharp pain that fleetingly went through my broken leg waking me up for good. I slowly pull myself into a sitting position, my shaky, sweaty hands on the mattress on either side of my body to support me, while I try catching my breath and remembering what the hell made my heart beat so fast.

Then it hits me – I don't know how I could have forgotten a dream point five seconds after waking up, but I don't know if it's a good or bad thing that I remembered it a minute later; it surely doesn't feel good. Not when I dreamed of myself as a third person and watched myself and Ashton fight, about ten seconds before he crashed his car.

These kinds of things are always the ones that make me stay up late, stare out the window, and sometimes crying myself to sleep at four in the morning. I know it's pointless to regret anything that happened since I can't go back and change any of it, and, if nothing, Ashton and I are not on hate-terms, but I just- God, how I wish I had this mindset a year ago. My decisions and actions from back then got me to rock bottom, which is faking amnesia and lying to the people I love most.

I sigh at my thoughts and run my fingers through my hair, then slide them down to my face; it's not just going to go away, it never just goes away. I can either lay here in the dark and stare at nothing at all, or get up and at least try to pass the time somehow.

Reluctantly pulling the comforter off of me, I slowly pull my legs out of the bed and blindly search for the lamp on the table next to my bed. Once I switch it on, I carefully stand up and limp over to my crutches that are against the wall, cussing out the enormous cast on my leg. I'm literally counting down the days until I get it taken off. So far, seven days and eight hours.

I sigh internally as I glance at the spot next to mine in the bed, that's empty, and the bed is still neatly made, but I shake the thought off as I reach the door, and walk out of the room. On my way to the kitchen, I can't help smelling something weird in the air; and seeing light from the next room that's not coming from a lamp, or anything.

Frowning, I continue walking forward, tilting my head to the side to catch anything unusual. And that word perfectly describes the sight that I eventually catch – Ashton, wide awake on the couch, sitting with his arms stretched over the backrest, and watching something on TV with his feet on the coffee table. Not to mention the cloud of smoke that's basically enveloping his body. The only comforting thing about the image of him like this is that he hasn't got any kind of shoes on his feet.

"Um..." I stammer, loudly so he'd realize I'm here. "Ashton?"

He doesn't respond, just throws his head back, as if giving me a sign that he's heard me. I walk further into the room, taking in the sight of him in his ripped up Kiss shirt and skinny jeans- he didn't even go to bed tonight. It's nearly four in the morning, what's he been doing all this time?

"Ashton?" I call again, walking over to sit on the arm of the couch, continuing to look at him, watching his every move – even though he isn't moving all that much. He's actually only blinking. And I can see his stomach moving underneath his tight shirt as he breathes, rather slowly.

"What are you doing?" I ask carefully, slightly furrowing my eyebrows at the side of his face. Instead of answering, he takes a minute to continue staring at the TV – of course he does. Then, all of a sudden, he takes his arm off the backrest and reaches for something on his right, that being a box of Marlboro cigarettes, and takes one out.