A Little Too Late (ryden standalone)
Title: A Little Too Late (standalone)
Author: mitchiemarie
Rating:Pg-13 for violence and abuse
Pairing: Ryden
POV: Ryan's, first
Summary: It was 5:25 P.M when we got the call. It was the hospital; my dad was dead. It all went downhill from there...
Disclaimer: I don't own. This was written from my pure imagination. Don't like what you find? Don't google yourselves :P
Beta: Miss lovely Shawna longerthanwedo
Author Notes: This is the second of the two standalones that I wrote..Yes I was sad. :P
It was 5:25 P.M when we got the call. It was the hospital; my dad was dead. I had always been closest to him, and I couldn’t believe he was gone. Cardiac arrest they said, but no one knew the actual story. It was just lie after lie after lie, meant to get us not to ask questions. The funeral was two days later. I couldn’t cry. I just stood there while everyone else sobbed. People gave me disgusted glances when they saw that no tears where coming from my eyes. The shock hadn’t come. It would soon. Everything went downhill from there. I couldn’t sleep, or eat. I couldn’t talk; nothing felt right. I couldn’t function; the shock had had set in and my stomach couldn’t handle anything.
My grades dropped; I could kiss my scholarship goodbye. I would never leave this hell hole. This continued for days and days after the funeral. My mom got drunk every night. Every morning she passed out somewhere around the empty house: my father’s once dream house. I became independent very soon; I would wash the dishes, clean up the empty vodka bottles, and buy groceries. I was basically alone.
My mom became a sobbing mess when she was sober; she needed everything done for her. She forgot how to do everything and anything. I was worried for her, but there wasn’t anything I could do. She went out just to buy liquor; other than that she was useless. Worse, whenever I tried to help her, she’d call me stupid and say that I was a mistake. That I couldn’t do anything, that I was worthless. My favorite insult was when she called me a “son of a bitch,” she was a bitch alright. A huge one and I couldn’t stand her. Thankfully she never did get physical, until the one night she did.
I noticed that something was wrong when I came downstairs to find my cell phone. She was there. I have no clue what I must’ve done to provoke her, but one thing led to another and she was furious. She kicked me, hit me and threw a vase at me. I was twelve. I was little and scared and I had no idea what had just happened. So I cried. Call me pathetic, but I cried. And that bitch, she laughed at me.
I wanted to die, or maybe I wanted to kill her. But I knew that someone needed to die. I was barely 12 years old; everything to live for and wanting no life. Thankfully, I never went through with the killing of myself or her. I didn’t so much despise my mom as I despised myself for letting her get to me that way. I didn’t think I was worth much, and that I was just a burden on her. She apparently agreed and let me know it every chance she got. It was a definite constant thing, and it got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. So I did what any desperate person would do: run away. But I really wasn’t that desperate, I was so much more desperate.
I was a cornered dog that could run but never far enough, could fight but didn’t have the heart to. So I tried to reach for the end. I went to the park with the intention of killing myself. I didn’t want to die at home. That would feel like victory for my mom from hell. No, I wanted to die at the park, where they wouldn’t find me until I was dead.
That was the day I met Brendon Urie. It was January; freezing cold and ironically sunny. I was alone at the park, at least that’s what I had thought when I did a quick scan of the scenery. I picked a spot under a tall oak tree, towards the back of the park. That’s where I made the first cut, with a cheap plastic razor that I had managed to swipe from home. I didn’t feel the sting, not until after, when the cold air mixed with the open wound. It felt like someone was salting my arm. But, I didn’t cry from that. That had been nothing compared to what I’d had to endure for years. I was staring openly at the bright, ruby-red trail of blood. It was oddly comforting to see my blood spill from the wound. I was about to make an identical cut on the other arm when I heard a gasp from behind me.
Standing there was a small boy with jet-black hair. He looked appalled. I thought he was going to faint. “What are you doing?” He screamed, gesturing toward me arm. I pulled my shirt-sleeve over the cut. The feeling of the cloth over it stung even more. I wanted to hiss in pain, but I tried not to show any hint of weakness. “Nothing,” I said, shrugging. I couldn’t tell him, I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anyone. The boy surprised me by coming closer towards me and hugging me. I hadn’t been hugged since I was six. He had a sympathetic look on his face. “I know how you feel,” he whispered, as I relaxed against him. “By the way, I’m Brendon Urie and I really want to be your friend, because I know what it’s like not to have any.”
That was two years ago. I had told Brendon the truth and trusted him, trusted someone, for the first time ever. Turns out his parents had both died in a car accident, and he lived with his grandma down the street from the park. I never found out why he was at the park that day, but I was grateful he had been there. Brendon kept me sane on days when all I wanted was to give up. I loved him. Too much. My mom had noticed, during one of her rare sober nights, and she was furious. “You worthless, stupid fag!” and, “You fucking queer!” were very common insults now-a-days. Also common were glasses, dishes, keys, books, and pretty much anything at arms distance being thrown at me. It got so bad that one night I called Brendon and asked him if I could sleep over at his house. He agreed and said he would arrive shortly to pick me up.
I was packing my bags when the door to my room burst open. My mom was furious, I had never in my life seen her as angry as she was now. Her eyes and everything else had turned red. She put the fear of god in me with just one look. I knew that she was going to kill me if she got her hands on me. She was an angry, snarling bull and she came charging toward me. I ran out of the room, trying to get away. Unfortunately, when I got to the stairs, she yanked my head back and kicked me, sticking her foot up my ass, literally. That wasn’t what hurt. When I went flying forward and tumbled down the stairs after the kick, now that was what really hurt. I had never experienced such pain in my life, not even in my worst nightmares. When I landed at the bottom, with a sharp crack, I thought that it was over. I was stupid to think that I, lying half-dead on the floor in my own blood, would stop my mom from continuing her death sentence. I was sure that more than half of my bones were broken, and I was going to have a huge headache in the morning, if I was able to make it till then. I could hear my mom rummaging through a closet upstairs, and my insides were filled with dread. I couldn’t move, and I wasn’t at all sure that she was weaponless.
My worst fears came true when she stalked down the stairs with a baseball bat in hand. It had been in my closet for years, in case we ever had burglars, and now she was going to kill me. I was so sure of this, that I knew there was nothing else left but to accept it. The sooner I accepted it, the less it would hurt. That’s why, when she delivered a violent stream of steady hits to various body parts, I felt no pain anymore.
It didn’t even hurt when she threw a picture frame at my face and the tiny glass fragments were imbedded into my skin, drawing blood wherever possible. I just closed my eyes and took it, knowing that I would soon die from all the blood loss. I could feel it spreading, the slow flow of blood, seeping through my clothes and sticking to my skin and staining the pristine white carpet. I had always hated waiting, and even waiting for death was annoying. I just wanted it to end. Thankfully, I could feel a bright light inching its way forward into view. I heard my mom crying, she too knew that I was going to die. But she was too late; in fact she had caused it. I just drifted and waited for death.
Sadly, Brendon chose this time to open the door. Another gasp, this one terrified, appalled, sickened and shocked, all mixed into one gasp. It felt like déjà vu. Like the day we met, at the park. Sadly, that had been nothing compared to this. I faintly heard him screaming at my mom and her at him. I was scared for Brendon; I didn’t want anything to happen to him. “Please stop fighting, I love you, Brendon. I’m sorry.” Those were the last words, barely a whisper, but I was sure that they had heard them. The room was deathly silent, no one was breathing. That was how I died, with the last of those words on my lips.