Things Can't Be Bad When You're Famous... Right?

Ashley's POV

I tell Andy to feel better and say a quick goodbye to Ronnie. The rest of the guys have slowly dispersed and I was the last to go. I hated seeing Andy hurt, I've loved him since we first met and seeing him injured in any way makes my heart shatter and anger bubble up inside of me. I remember 8th grade, when I first found out about his abusive stepfather. He had been beaten every night his mother wasn't there to see it and forced to hide it with makeup and fake smiles. The beatings got so bad around the time 9th grade started that he had his hip dislocated to such a degree that it's fucked up for the rest of his life. All of the bones in his tiny body have been broken or fractured at least once but he never got medical attention for any of them. I was there with him, I would clean him up to the best of my abilities and try to make him better but it didn't stop until he turned 18 and he moved away. I know his stepfather is still hunting for Andy and I take it upon myself to make sure he stays safe from any harm, hell, I'm the only one who knows about his stepfather. Seeing him hurt makes me think back to all of the times I would climb in his bedroom widow to find him unconscious and bloodied. Sometimes so broken he couldn't even stand, nonetheless walk. Seeing him with bloodied, cut up hands and a bruised face is all too terribly familiar.
I pull up in front of my house and climb out of my car, thoughts of. Andy still swirl around my mind. I guess I'm just lucky he has someone like Ronnie to look after him.

Andy's POV

Andy Biersack's Journal
Over the last week since the hit cocoa incident, Ronnie has gotten more and more violent towards me. It used to be one little thing then he'll end up apologizing for hours constantly cuddling and checking and loving, making sure I'm okay. Then, the hitting got more common and the apologies got less extensive. Now, they've stopped all together. Every time I look at Ronnie, I see only the face of Craig, my stepfather. He won't let me leave now, I can't leave for concerts and recording and other things but I ways have to come back. What did I do to make him hate me so much?

I put down the pen and slide the small journal back into its place in between my bed and the wall so Ronnie won't find it. I can't believe this is happening again, this whole sick process of getting beaten then covering bruises with makeup, smiles, and faux happiness. I deserve it though, just like I deserved getting beaten by my stepfather. I'm glad Ronnie doesn't know about that.
I get up from my place on the bed and limp to the bathroom. I close and lock the door behind me while turning on the shoulder to avoid from sounding suspicious. I tug my tight Mötley Crüe shirt over my head and look at the damage to my chest and stomach. Deep bruises litter my pale skin, contrasting it and making it seem even paler. I make eye contact with myself through the mirror and let my eyes wander over my swollen, purplish cheeks and split bloodied lip. Next I remove my pants and see bruises and blood there. Self harm scars litter my legs and my hips and my arms and my wrists, all from my childhood of abuse. They used to help me, I used to rely on them to calm me and make me feel better. Maybe they would work now too. I tear the bathroom apart until I find one of Ronnie's razors. I pull one of the replaceable razors out of the plastic covering the sit down on the toilet.
The sharp razor bites into my bruised hip and I hiss from the pain. I push it down harder and drag it across my flesh faster. I repeat the process nine other times adding ten knew marks to my hideous collection of scars. The blood starts to flow, and fast. In a bit of a panic I grab tissues and press them to the bloody mess before hopping into the cold water of the shower and watch as the water turns a light shade of red.

I yank on all of my clothes and cautiously make my way into the family room. Ronnie is sitting on the couch watching some sports match. I try to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed. I'm pretty hungry.

"Are you getting food?" I hear Ronnie ask from the couch. I wince.

"Yeah." My voice is quiet and small.

"Lay off some, will ya? Your fat ass is getting fatter." He laughs for a minute before going back to what I think is a wrestling match. I hold back tears and leave the kitchen without putting anything into my aching stomach. I haven't eaten since the last time he reminded me of my weight. It was probably three days ago. I slip back into the bathroom and get the scale from under the sink. I take a deep breath before standing on it. I almost puke when I see the number flashing on the top. 120. I am 120 pounds, no wonder Ronnie thinks I'm so disgustingly ugly. I kneel in front of the toilet and count to three before closing my eyes and jamming my first two fingers down my own throat. Nothing much comes up, only bile, if I keep this up I won't gain any more weight. Ever. I stand up and bathroom around me swirls and tilts to the side. I just puked up everything left in my overweight stomach and lost more blood from my pudgy sides. I'm a little light headed. I carefully walk into Ronnie and I's room and pick up my phone. One new message from Jake.

From Jake: Rehearsals at 2. Show at 5. Get your ass over here Andy.
To Jake: on my way pushy
From Jake: love you Andy!

I put my phone on the bedside table, go to my closet, and pull out my concert clothes. This time, it's my tight black pants with the arrow pointing to my crotch, a tight black tank top, and a leather jacket. I style my hair up and cover all of my face with foundation to hide the bruises. I'll do my war paint after rehearsals.
Again, I creep downstairs and grab my keys off the kitchen table. I check the clock, 1:45.

"Umm... Ronnie? We have a show tonight. I need to get going." I edge my way towards the door.

"Break a leg, Andy. Make sure you're home right after the show." He says giving me a heated glare.

"I will Ronnie." I whisper before walking through the door and out to my car.