(no subject)
Author: Louise
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't know. Don't own.
Summary: You'll never forget the day Spencer handed you the make-up remover and told you that you were free.
Your gaze strays across the dimly lit, quiet room, bypassing the pretty girl sitting two table away from you, and the elderly man and his wife, holding hands like they were a couple of youngsters again.
You almost smile at the sight, but then you remember the situation you’re in, and the grin immediately wipes itself from your face.
Your eyes look to the door of the shop, and you quickly look away again. Perhaps, you think, if you kept your head down, maybe he wouldn’t see you?
So you lower your head and look down into your coffee cup, trying to lose your thoughts in the rich, creamy smell of the cappuccino. You were never one for strong tastes.
You know he sees you, you can feel his eyes burning a hole in your head. No matter how hard you try, you will never be invisible. You glance up, and see him making his way over to where you’re sitting, hands clasped tightly around your cup, long fingers entwined.
Your heart pounds a mile a minute, to the point that its beating so damn fast, you think you might explode. He stops in front of your table, and gingerly slides into the booth, sitting opposite from you. You force yourself to raise your eyes to meet his.
“Hi” he say quietly, and your heart stops. Well, not literally, but it feels that way. You heart only really stops when you die. But you’ve nearly died so often that you need to check, so you slip your hands under the table, and gingerly press your fingers to the inside of your wrist, to check if your pulse is still pumping, and that, yes, you are still here.
You sub consciously trace your fingers over the scars that line the insides of your wrists, reminders of what used to be. You can’t help but let that familiar feeling of relief wash over you, ever if you don’t want it too.
You raise your hands above the table, and lay them on your lap, fingers fiddling and twisting nervously.
“Hi,” you reply, not looking him in the eye. You don’t want to se if the hatred is still there. The thing you fear the most. The utter hatred that filled his dark brown eyes every time he looked at you. The hatred that to this day, you still blame yourself for.
“Ryan, look at me, please” he begs, and you can hear the desperation lacing his tone, and for once, you feel powerful. You control his guilt. For once, its you who is dominant.
You meet his eyes, face blank. Devoid of any emotion, devoid of any make-up. You gave up plastering a mask on two years ago, when you finally didn’t need anything to hide behind.
You will never forget the day when Spencer handed you the make-up remover and told you that you were free. And for a while, you didn’t believe it, because you were so used to being lied to, over and over, that this happy thought seemed too good to be true.
“Have you stopped?” you ask, your voice tinged with bitterness, but also longing. Longing for him to say the words that you’ve been wanting to hear, for years now.
There is a pause. A long pause, as if he was thinking hard about the question. This, in itself is disappointing; you thought, with him being here, he would be completely stable. Perhaps not.
“Yes” he finally says, but his eyes are flitting rapidly back and forth, and you know he’s lying. You just know. You eyes flash in bitter resentment. You thought he would have learned.
You’ve calmed, just a little, while sitting here, but now you feel the anger bubbling back up, threatening to boil over, and make you spew words that you mean, but you would never say.
The only one who should ever hear those words is your notebook, who you’ve trusted over the years not to spill your secrets, to keep them hidden, much like the rest of your heart.
You look at him in disgust. You don’t even tell him that you know that he’s lying. It takes one to know one, after all. You're an expert at lying. Your whole childhood was a lie.
He attempts a smile, and his fingers tap nervously on the grubby table, looking for your approval. You slowly rise from your seat.
“Fear is the heart of love” you say quietly, and leave, not wanting to see the unspilled tears in his eyes, and acknowledge the salty drops running down your face, either.
You pretend not to hear the whispered “I love you son,” that comes from his lips. Because you can’t be certain that he actually said it.
- -
You toss and turn in your bed, sub-consciously replaying the day’s events in your head. You hear the sound of blurred lyrics, but you’re not sure where exactly its coming from.
You realise that its your phone, the ridiculous ringtone that Brendon set, for his own amusement, because you couldn’t figure out how to get rid of it.
You moan, and crack your eyelids open, and drag yourself out of bed, body heavy with sleep. You stumble around your bedroom, glancing at your alarm clock. The time read 2:07 am. Why would anyone be calling at this time? You think to yourself, as your flip open your phone.
“Hello?” you say groggily.
“Hello? Is this George Ryan Ross? This is St Peter’s General Hospital. We’re calling regarding your father.”