Ashton Irwin was different. For years, I have experienced personalities almost indescribable. From hippies with crazy eyes to confused old men aimlessly wandering the streets, I knew it all too well. What shocked others as well as myself is how well I could convince these strange personalities that I understand them and their thoughts. For the first time in years, I am 100% completely confused on Ashton Irwin.
Asking about his story would be wrong, especially at this moment. Instead, I observe as he wanders around the shop,flicking mindlessly through vinyl after vinyl with a slight tilt of his head, as if thinking hard about something. With his back towards me for most of the time, he lifts a vinyl and turns to meet my gaze at last. "Cage The Elephant," he speaks. He looks down in admiration for the vinyl, running his thumb along the edge. "They're great."
"Ahh...yes," I say. "Their 2013 album: Melophobia. It means 'the fear of music'." I walk towards him, but stop when he flinches and takes a cautious step back. He turns his head sharply and shuts his eyes tight, as is preparing for a punch. His face settles seconds later as a tint of red fills his cheeks.
"Sorry," he speaks quietly.
It's moments like these that make me the most curious. Why is he so cautious and nervous about everything? Even his voice shakes with the smallest response. Then I remember his sign.
A majority of the homeless make signs. Some are a plea for money while some are a plea for care and support.
"Just got out of an emotionally and physically abusive relationship...anything can help...please..."
The image of Ashton holding that sign floods my mind suddenly. His puffy, tired eyes roamed the crowded streets. His teeth chattered and his fingertips were as red as blood. Every missing piece suddenly comes together like crows during a death in a cornfield.
"It's no problem, don't worry. I was just going to say that you can have it if you like," I reply.
He laughs slightly while shaking his head, now looking down at the vinyl. "I think you have forgotten I'm broke and don't own a record player, Farah." Though this was possibly intended to sound playful, the tone in his voice made it seem almost insulting to my offer.
I subconsciously bite my lower lip, thinking of what to say. "Well, you don't need one. You can come in whenever you like and listen to the album in the backroom. That's also where I got the hot chocolate."
He blankly stares at me for what feels like an eternity. "This is what I was worried about."
This is what I was worried about.
What does he mean?
Why is this all the sudden an episode of The Twilight Zone?
"Why do you say that?" I ask.
"Because, Farah," he sighs. "You're making me think you're a decent human. This isn't what I want."
At this point, I was done with his soap opera storyline. I throw my head back in annoyance and grab my hair like a college student writing an essay at 3 a.m. Without thinking, I spoke. "I'm being fucking nice you asshole! Who said I wanted to be best friends with you? My intentions are not to stay up all night giggling and sharing my deepest darkest secrets to you as we sit next to a pile of teen magazines and John Hughes movies. I'm simply trying to let you know that not all fortunate people are asshole to the less fortunate."
His voice raises above a mumble for the first time since we've met. I can now hear a thick Australian accent. "Oh, cut the fucking bullshit. Less fortunate? Stop making it sound like I'm just a little low on money and shelter, but I can still get by with my job at a gas station and my families support. There is not a single penny is in my bank account. I have no home. No family. Nobody to talk to when my day fucking sucks," he takes a deep breath. "Homeless."
"Then why don't you let me fucking help you in even the slightest bit? Has what I've done not been enough proof that my intentions are not to treat you how your ex girlfriend treated you?"
His face drops not even a second after I finish my sentence. His lips closed together tightly as his eyes shifted to the ground. After several seconds, he looked up, making direct eye contact with me. The last time he looked at me, I was furious, and my face showed it. Now, he's looking at my face full of regret. He swallowed the lump in his throat before he spoke.
"You want to know what I've been told the most these past 24 hours? No, not an apology for my current state of being. Oh no, not the sound of coins hitting the bottom of my jar. Because, how silly would that be? Instead, I have been blamed for the abuse done to me. I have been told that the woman I was in a relationship with was the one they felt sorry for. I have been told that she, my abuser, was the one who was emotionally and physically abused." He contemplated something for several seconds before stripping down to just a dirty, white shirt and sweatpants before I could even stop and question him. He then continued to lift up his shirt from the bottom, exposing half his torso. On his stomach were dozens upon dozens of slices, scars, and dark bruises. Even more were lined up on his arm. I then realized, after seconds of studying his arm, that those slices and scars upon his arms were self-inflicted. He took a shaky breath. "They were wrong."
He turned and walked out the door.
I didn't stop him.
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YOOOOOOOOOO sorry this is so boring and emotional but im trying to give you guys an idea of how bad I imaged the abuse done to ashton. I'll make it interesting soon don't worry omg. Please vote though and I'll be back next saturday/sunday!! :-)
