Future

                                    

                                          
Asher
I sat up in bed and cradled my left arm. It felt heavy in its cast. Reaching across to the bedside table, I grabbed the sling and slid it over my head, placing my arm gently inside it. 
Fuck. It hurt. 
Grabbing the bottle of pills, I popped a couple in my mouth and reached for the glass of water next to it. The pain medication was good, but because they were so strong, I was only allowed a couple of pills at a time. 
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and placed my feet on the floor, my movements slow and deliberate, while the medication took its time to kick in. 
I blinked a couple of times, my eyes adjusting to the dark room. 
My own bedroom.
I'd been discharged from hospital earlier today. Dad had picked me up, pretending to be concerned, fussing over me like he actually cared about me.
What a load of shit. 
Mom had been crying when she'd seen me in hospital yesterday. She'd kept stroking my hair, kissing the bruises on my face. I was her 'baby' apparently. 
Aaliyah had looked horrified. Shocked at the state of my face. She hadn't said much. Just stared at her freak of a brother. 
Feeling like my legs could support my weight, I stood up carefully. My chest felt tight and there was a dull throb behind my eyes. 
I walked carefully towards the bathroom, keeping close to the wall, just in case I needed the support. 
Opening the door, I switched on the light and shuffled over the sink. Turning on the tap, I ran my right hand under the cold water, splashing some of it on my face. I dared to glance at myself in the mirror. 
And saw the freak my sister had seen yesterday. 
Both eyes were puffy and bruised. There were bruises along my jawline. My bottom lip was swollen. A lump had formed on my forehead. Lumps and bumps dotted my shoulders. There were dark bruises on my chest, a couple of cuts across my collarbone. 
I looked a fucking mess.
All thanks to my dad. 
Every time he came to see me in hospital, he'd make a big fuss out of me in front of the staff, but then he'd threaten me once we were alone. Told me that I couldn't see Oliver again. Dared me to speak up against him. Ordered me to keep quiet about how I really got my injuries. All the while smiling for the doctors, the photographers and the press. 
I felt sick to the stomach. 
This was my life. 
And it fucking sucked.
I gingerly turned and headed for the door, not wanting to see the mess that was my face any more. 
I shuffled my way back to my room and closed the door softly. Leaning my back against it, I caught my breath. 
The pain medication was starting to work. Slowly. It still hurt like a bitch to move at the moment, though. 	
Carefully padding to the bed, I used what strength was left in my legs to lower myself down till I hit the mattress, then swung my legs up and cautiously lowered my body till my back hit the sheets. 
Fuck.
Panting, I held my left arm closely to my chest while my other hand grabbed the comforter and tossed it over my body.
The moonlight shone through a gap in the curtain, casting a white stripe on the opposite wall. I stared at it. 
There was always a gap in the curtains in Oliver's room, too. It often spread light across the bed, and on us while we lay in it, cuddling, kissing, loving. I closed my eyes and let my mind take me to Oliver's room, to Oliver's bed. Away from this room, away from this house, away from this nightmare.