Ahhhh, here I go again.
Okay. I'm not sure how much I really like this, but I just whipped it off and I kind of wanted to share it. I don't usually write so...choppily...but it just seemed to fit for this. So please tell me what you think! I know, I know, it's pretty 'emo' (haha), and I swore I'd never write anything about Marissa's death because there's already 352311098 fics about it, buuuuut I couldn't refrain.
Rating: I have no idea how to rate things. This is SUPER angsty, and contains swearing and possibly upsetting or disturbing thoughts, so read at your own risk. (It's nothing awful though, I promise.)
Disclaimer: I don't own The O.C. or its lovely characters. I also don't own the lyrics to the song that's quoted, those belong to Brand New in a beautiful song that's called Jesus Christ. In fact, Brand New owns me (or my heart anyway).
Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face
The kind you’d find on someone that can save
If they don’t put me away,
it’ll be a miracle
Today when work was over, he opted to take a back road home. The busy downtown streets bustled with activity at this time of night, and he couldn’t bear to see the hordes of giggling teens with their Saturday night alcohol-induced smiles. The road he took was nearly pitch black, illuminated by only his headlights and an occasional streetlight. He drove too quickly for his headlights to be of any real use.
What if I skidded in the gravel and rolled the car? What if I drove off the road into a streetlight? What if I ‘accidentally’ drove off a ledge and plunged down hundreds of feet? He had been plagued by these types of thoughts for weeks now- ever since Volchuk had turned himself in. What if, what if, what if. He wasn’t suicidal as much as he was morbidly curious. What if the knife slipped while he was cutting meat at work? What if he fell into the ocean and got caught on some rocks? What if he lost control and drove underneath a semi? What if, what if. These were the only real thoughts he had now. The rest of him was numb. He was drifting away.
He arrived at the house, parked the Jeep, said hi to Sandy and Kirsten, grabbed a snack. Everything he did took effort and consideration, but he knew how to behave. His mask had been perfected years ago, and he had been stupid to think that he wouldn’t need it anymore in this perfect new life. Faking exhaustion, he said goodnight and wandered out to the poolhouse, tossing the apple in the garbage as he went inside. He hadn’t been hungry for days.
He closed the blinds. Changed out of his work clothes and into a white T-shirt and sweats. Brushed his teeth. Turned off the light. All he did these days was carry out the motions. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, he knew that, but he also knew that he had everyone else fooled. Ryan Atwood, king of the illusion. Despite the fact that the poolhouse was warm and he was wearing sweatpants, he climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up over his head. If it was up to him, if no one would ever come looking for him or wonder what had happened, he’d stay here forever. With his eyes closed under the blanket in the dark, he could almost pretend that he didn’t exist.
Jesus Christ, I’m alone again.
Of course, these moments never lasted long. He’d moved into a fucking bar, for god’s sake, and they’d found him. How could he expect them not to come looking for him when he was twenty feet away from where they slept?
“Dude, what the hell are you doing? Why are you in bed already? You don’t even work tomorrow! It’s only 12:34, the night’s still young! Whaddya say, you, me, the Playstation? Yeah? Yeah?”
And so, under the blanket, he’d have to adjust his mask yet again. Plaster on an amused glare, and finally settle in for a night of Seth blabber and ninjas. So much for solidarity.
This is how his life was, for weeks and weeks and weeks. He was fucking exhausted. Tired of not sleeping, tired of working, tired of pretending, tired of feeling nothing at all, tired of feeling like he was watching his body carry on living while he died somewhere far away, just tired. And then Taylor Townsend turned up. Taylor needed saving, from a French husband nonetheless, and Ryan was the master of heroics involving females. It required no thought at all. But Taylor wasn’t just a damsel in distress. Taylor got him, got him like no one else did. Somehow or other, crazy Taylor Townsend understood him perfectly. Maybe it was because she paid attention to him, actually looked at him, while everyone else just gave him a passing glance.
“He’s dealing well with it really, don’t you think?”
“He looks happy, he was talking and laughing with me today!”
He knew that people only saw what they wanted to see. They had their own lives; they were too busy to worry too much about his mental state. So they just didn’t take the time to look past his mask of normalcy. But Taylor did. She explained why he was feeling what he was feeling before he had even figured it out, but once she did it made perfect sense. And when she kissed him, he felt a flutter in his stomach for the first time in months. Taylor Townsend made him feel again. And as he went to sleep (on top of the comforter), he knew that he’d be alright.
Rating: I have no idea how to rate things. This is SUPER angsty, and contains swearing and possibly upsetting or disturbing thoughts, so read at your own risk. (It's nothing awful though, I promise.)
Disclaimer: I don't own The O.C. or its lovely characters. I also don't own the lyrics to the song that's quoted, those belong to Brand New in a beautiful song that's called Jesus Christ. In fact, Brand New owns me (or my heart anyway).
Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face
The kind you’d find on someone that can save
If they don’t put me away,
it’ll be a miracle
Today when work was over, he opted to take a back road home. The busy downtown streets bustled with activity at this time of night, and he couldn’t bear to see the hordes of giggling teens with their Saturday night alcohol-induced smiles. The road he took was nearly pitch black, illuminated by only his headlights and an occasional streetlight. He drove too quickly for his headlights to be of any real use.
What if I skidded in the gravel and rolled the car? What if I drove off the road into a streetlight? What if I ‘accidentally’ drove off a ledge and plunged down hundreds of feet? He had been plagued by these types of thoughts for weeks now- ever since Volchuk had turned himself in. What if, what if, what if. He wasn’t suicidal as much as he was morbidly curious. What if the knife slipped while he was cutting meat at work? What if he fell into the ocean and got caught on some rocks? What if he lost control and drove underneath a semi? What if, what if. These were the only real thoughts he had now. The rest of him was numb. He was drifting away.
He arrived at the house, parked the Jeep, said hi to Sandy and Kirsten, grabbed a snack. Everything he did took effort and consideration, but he knew how to behave. His mask had been perfected years ago, and he had been stupid to think that he wouldn’t need it anymore in this perfect new life. Faking exhaustion, he said goodnight and wandered out to the poolhouse, tossing the apple in the garbage as he went inside. He hadn’t been hungry for days.
He closed the blinds. Changed out of his work clothes and into a white T-shirt and sweats. Brushed his teeth. Turned off the light. All he did these days was carry out the motions. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, he knew that, but he also knew that he had everyone else fooled. Ryan Atwood, king of the illusion. Despite the fact that the poolhouse was warm and he was wearing sweatpants, he climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up over his head. If it was up to him, if no one would ever come looking for him or wonder what had happened, he’d stay here forever. With his eyes closed under the blanket in the dark, he could almost pretend that he didn’t exist.
Jesus Christ, I’m alone again.
Of course, these moments never lasted long. He’d moved into a fucking bar, for god’s sake, and they’d found him. How could he expect them not to come looking for him when he was twenty feet away from where they slept?
“Dude, what the hell are you doing? Why are you in bed already? You don’t even work tomorrow! It’s only 12:34, the night’s still young! Whaddya say, you, me, the Playstation? Yeah? Yeah?”
And so, under the blanket, he’d have to adjust his mask yet again. Plaster on an amused glare, and finally settle in for a night of Seth blabber and ninjas. So much for solidarity.
This is how his life was, for weeks and weeks and weeks. He was fucking exhausted. Tired of not sleeping, tired of working, tired of pretending, tired of feeling nothing at all, tired of feeling like he was watching his body carry on living while he died somewhere far away, just tired. And then Taylor Townsend turned up. Taylor needed saving, from a French husband nonetheless, and Ryan was the master of heroics involving females. It required no thought at all. But Taylor wasn’t just a damsel in distress. Taylor got him, got him like no one else did. Somehow or other, crazy Taylor Townsend understood him perfectly. Maybe it was because she paid attention to him, actually looked at him, while everyone else just gave him a passing glance.
“He’s dealing well with it really, don’t you think?”
“He looks happy, he was talking and laughing with me today!”
He knew that people only saw what they wanted to see. They had their own lives; they were too busy to worry too much about his mental state. So they just didn’t take the time to look past his mask of normalcy. But Taylor did. She explained why he was feeling what he was feeling before he had even figured it out, but once she did it made perfect sense. And when she kissed him, he felt a flutter in his stomach for the first time in months. Taylor Townsend made him feel again. And as he went to sleep (on top of the comforter), he knew that he’d be alright.