You Can't Erase The Poet's Fate
You Can't Erase The Poet's Fate
Chapter: Chapter Two
Author: Me. 'Rah.
Rating: R (17+?)
Paring: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: Fragments of a rollercoaster of a relationship. Our narrator is somewhat unstable.
Discliamer: As real as Mahlo's hair colour. (bright blue)
Author's Note: A miserable account of miserable events leading to a miserable end. Some violence, some sex, allusions to rape, murder etc.
Previous Chapters:
TheNotion\\ Prologue-One
((I made a God out of blood, not superiority. I killed the king of deceit, now I sleep in Anarchy.))
London - June 4th 1997
I led him down isle after isle. Product after product, each adorned with harsh, bright labels, screaming across the grey tiles at us, pulsing their gaudy colours, burning into the back of our eyeballs like a prickly, fluid polaroids.
I hated supermarkets.
We were there for a reason, a very good reason.
Ryan and I had spent the majority of our bleak early-summer morning haunting the primitive youth shelter a block from his house, where a small group of overtly Christian missionaries where setting to work a “Keep the Youth Off The Streets” program. There had been something similar in the very same building when I was a small child, but in the end that crowd had given up - lack of interest and lack of funding driving them into more socially acceptable occupations. The new regime was radically different, if only superficially. The idea the new owners were touting was that of a refuge where teenagers would be able to go and have fun without the aid of alcohol or drugs. Of course, their idea of fun was slightly skewed, but not so much that the activities they offered were completely untempting. They also acted as a place for kids to go when things got too tough at home. They had been established only two months and already they were playing host to more than 25 bodies every single night.
There were four pool tables on offer, two table-tennis tables, a CD library, access to computers, cameras, cheap food and various areas that were suitable for plain, unadulterated chilling. Every second Friday night they held a small concert with a local band. Ryan and I went to those.
I was beginning to become uncomfortable spending time there, though.
I still had black images of Ryan’s expression bubbling at the forefront of my mind, his expression when he walked in on Jamie and I in the small bathroom a week beforehand, engaged in deeds that can only be referred to as nefarious. I could still feel the prickle across the back of my neck, the flim in my throat, taste the tart, coppery taste of cum in my mouth.
We had been standing before the very same craggy basin that Jamie had been pushed against, arguing on poetry, which as it was, was Ryan’s greatest passion. That baffled me at first, but listening to the fervour with which he would recite verse, I understood the obscure form of his escapism. I was applying a thick layer of emerald eyeshadow, playing half-heartedly with different styles of curvature.
“When,” I stated, becoming aggravated by his obsessive talk of one particular stanza - a stanza for which I held no particular fondness.
“No. But when.”
“When.” I knew he was right, but I was beginning to quite enjoy the gentle blush creeping into his usually colourless cheeks.
“No, no, no.” I was baffled by his mood, which seemed to be a potent mixture of frustration, accusation, and quietude. I took it as his attempt at stoicism. “But when the melancholy fit shall fall/Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud… See?”
I smiled coyly, only to be overshadowed by a quiet squeak emitted from his smooth lips. “A mouse,” he murmured, ducking from my view, only to reappear seconds later, an expression of absolute pity upon his pretty features. Cupped in his hands was a small, trembling creature, huddling down into his slender fingers. I had kept mice as a child, and being quite familiar with their disposition, noticed quite quickly that the one he held was dehydrated - slick with sweat, drained of energy, cursed with ill-distributed fat.
“It’s half dead,” I told him, returning to my reflection.
“I know,” he replied, stroking the length of its body shortly, smoothly.
That was why we were at the supermarket, looking for mouse food.
I had to admit, the rodent was adorable, but not nearly as adorable as the quiet, caring persona Ryan took on as he cradled it. For lack of a better phrase, I wanted nothing more than to smoosh him.
He inspected the packaging of mouse-muesli, concern and concentration furrowed in his brow, crouched, leaning back on his haunches, mindful of the little body curled in the front pocket of his tattered pinstripe jacket. His hand moved up unconsciously to stroke the quivering mound soothingly.
I glanced around us, a little nervously. I had a thing about supermarkets. Some of the worst events of my life had taken place in supermarkets. Too many times had I been lulled into a false sense of security by the sterility of these places, the uniformity of them. They had a way about them, with their soft radio-music and chequered flooring, with the smell of commerce they were riddled with. Really, you went there to be used. You went to exchange currency for necessities. There was nothing fair about them. I only ever stepped through those revolving barriers if I was in dire need, and most of those times I managed to avoid paying at all. I had developed quite a skill for evading their security, but I was not so skilful as never to be caught. Bad experiences dissuaded me from attempting to take from the shelves. Ryan had not yet learnt that lesson, but he would soon enough. I could only hope the circumstance by which he gained such valuable insight was not so traumatic as mine.
Distracted, I allowed myself to sing along under my breath with the dimly recognisable song that was gliding over the tall steel shelves, feminine voice with a popish grungy backing. I struggled a little to recall the name of the group, but in the end forsook it, deciding instead to pay attention to the approaching figure of a young woman. I recognised her immediately.
“Brendon.” Her voice was as cold as ice, mirroring her expression of cool distain. “Ryan.” Lila Adams. Small, blonde, skinny, scalding intellect. Her hair was teased, and she was adorned in a trailing dress of satin and wispy lace. She could have walked straight out of a frenzied Bauhaus concert, or perhaps a flim-noir marathon. The Deather culture was new to her, but she had taken to it surprisingly well. It suited her. Her older brother was a stationary member in the core of the scene and, for his years, was startlingly well respected.
Lila had dated Ryan for a short month only half a year before - she was still bitter about the entire affair, having adored him quite ardently, but she was more aggravated by the relationship that her sibling and I had engaged in. Thought definitely enjoyable, it had also been definitely illegal. Apparently he was still hung up on it, which amused me greatly, and boosted my ego just a little.
“Lila,” I nodded in recognition, slightly irate at her obvious decision to start a conversation. Ryan did not respond at all.
“So, how are you?”
“Peachy, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a sneer, not quite mocking - such things were unbecoming, but it was close enough to express the subtle animosity I felt towards her. “Your ever-so-attractive self?”
She did sneer in response to that. “Oh, just fine. Say, Bren, you haven’t heard from Rick recently, have you?”
“No, unfortunately. How is he?” I smiled a little, revelling in her obvious discomfort. I tried to ignore the slight flinch in Ryan’s expression at the mention of my former-partner. He still had not moved.
“That’s the problem, I don’t know. He disappeared a few weeks ago, didn’t come home from a party. A friend said he was on Amphs that night, was talking about you. Though believe me, it is pure coincidence that I met you here today.” I nodded solemnly, but I doubted I could keep the glee from my eyes.
“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue as to his whereabouts.”
“You’re such a fuckwit, Brendon Urie,” she spat, features suddenly contorted with rage. “He could be dead, and you’re giggling like a fucking schoolgirl.”
“I’m not laughing,” I responded calmly.
“You are, I can see it. You think this is fucking hilarious. And you Ryan? Have you got a fucking clue? Oh how I doubt it. You’re just his fucking lapdog, you know? Grow a backbone! He’s not worth a drop of your love.” She stormed away. I found it hard to pity her. Ryan seemed a little shaken by the unexpected attack, but recovered quickly, flashing me a sly smile.
I left him at the front steps of his apartment building, suppressing the urge to follow him up for once, not feeling particularly inclined to listen to a single second more of Michael’s dead beat bitching. I told him I was going home to finish a Biology assignment, but both of us knew I would just end up locked in the bathroom again with a flask of Dry Rum. He smiled sympathetically at me as I went to go, allowing me to embrace him softly. I knew then that I would never forget his scent, of soap and incense, with only the slightest undertone of perspiration. Ohm. He smelled of Ohm.
I was thankful of the short distance between the shower and the bathtub the next morning, groaning with distaste as I scrubbed away the viscoid strands of bile and the ever-illusive aroma of vomit that I often hung around me like a miasma in the aftermath of such nights. The softness of my hair was a relief, and I thanked whatever cosmic force had borne such wonders as conditioner. I felt soft and fragile, malleable, and staring into the steam-clouded mirror I allowed myself to succumb to the trite expression of content that I viewed upon the faces of so many I despised. Although I was very well aware that my life was not ideal, I was also quite conscious of the fact that it could be so much worse. I was glad, in a very timid way, that I had such friends as I did. They were sympathetic at least, and in their peaks of glory, could contribute so much to my jaded existence.
I was far too exhausted to attempt cleaning the bathroom, as I usually did, but with a frown of discomfiture I wiped away the sordid smudges of green from the pale wall-tiles. It was not often that I allowed myself so much emotional leeway.
I had dreamed darkly.
My brother was standing in the kitchen when I finally ventured from my corner of the house. He was staring vacantly at the pot of coffee in his hands, as though it might spontaneously combust or spout scriptures. I ruffled his hair fondly, suddenly feeling sad. “How are you, little bro?” I inquired, pouring myself a warm cup of tea and settling at the table to skim the newspaper for any vaguely relevant stories they chose to report.
He didn’t reply, instead inspecting the pantry for toasting-muffins and butter.
I glanced at the clock, unsettled by the silence. There were two hours at least before I had to depart for school, and if it weren’t for Ryan’s insistence that I attend that day, I would probably have crawled into bed for a proper rest.
Article after article on nothing. War in foreign lands. The US government fucking up once more. Some sort of economical Armageddon in Africa. Three school children stabbed to death in Birmingham. Police suspect an increase in the cocaine supply in London, and were tracing links back to the middle east. Deather fashion blamed for a slew of suicides across the country.
“She hates you.” I was startled back into reality, eyes connecting with those of my sibling.
“I know,” I responded, allowing my eyebrow to quirk, and peered back down through my glasses to the fine print of the paper.
“The things she says about you, says you do… Should I believe them?”
“Probably.”
We sat in silence for a while longer, until finally the toaster chimed a short melody and he rushed to rescue his breakfast. “What exactly does she say?” I asked quietly, curious.
“That you’re an alcoholic, you’re a junkie, you fuck other guys, you’re a slut, you waste yourself on everything but school, that you’re a failure. She says she wishes you were never born.”
“Nice to know I’m appreciated,” I chuckled, grinning with some glee as he placed a bowl of cereal before me. “Thank you,” I beamed.
“I don’t wish you were never born,” he smiled timidly, but it faded all too quickly. “Maybe you should talk to her.”
I chewed the over the idea, digging into the food with fervour.
“She always turns it into an argument. I hate arguing.”
“She just wants you to see it from her perspective.”
“I do. I just don’t care.” I cleared my mess away, looking around the spotless kitchen with some surprise, annoyed at myself for not noticing sooner. “Who cleaned this place up?”
“Tina.”
“She’s back?”
“She’s been back a while, you just haven’t been around. She asks after you, but no one ever knows the answers to her questions. She misses you, you know. We all do. Except Mum. I think she’d rather you stayed away.”
“Well, I need a place to sleep,” I shrugged, padding down the hall to the study, where my eldest sibling was sure to be stationed. I knocked quietly, waiting for a tired response before entering. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the midmorning sun, but even so the entire room seemed to be bathed in a silvery twilight cast.
“Hey there Bren,” she murmured into her pillow, a mound of tousled dark hair shrouding her pretty features.
“Hey Tina. Jacob only just told me you were here.” I felt so weak, there at home. The change in my personality was noticeable, and more than once Ryan had commented on the softness I took upon myself. It seemed so wrong to wreck the usual quietude of the place, but even my greatest efforts did little to dissuade my mother from her tyrannical antagonism towards me. She seemed to see me as a blemish upon her name, some sort of cancer born of the aftermath of my father’s bereavement. I had become a burden to her, and for that I was truly sorry, but it was some cold comfort to hear her talk of denouncing me. It would have been easier to right the wrongs of my past had she allowed me time to speak. I was too far-gone now, and we both knew it. I’m not sure which frustrated her more, my state, or the fact that she had allowed me to progress so far.
“Where you been?”
“Around.”
“Not home, that’s for sure,” she sighed, sitting up.
“Can you really blame me?”
“Nah, I don’t suppose I can,” she smiled sympathetically. “It’s weird how things’ve turned out. It’s hard to get my bearings without you around.”
“…Have you heard from the clinic?”
“Yeah. I went just last week. I wanted you to come too, but I couldn’t find you. When you were home… well, she basically forbade me from talking to you when she was in the house. Said it was better we gave you reason not to come back.” She sighed. “At the clinic, well, they said that she was basically fucked. They can put her on meds to calm her down, but the amount they have to use makes her too docile to really function in society. They can put her on anti-depressants, but they only really work for a little while, and they make her more aggressive, cause her pain.”
I frowned deeply. “I want to go visit her.”
“You should.”
Further silence. The air seemed to hang heavy with the weight of unspoken words - pregnant with viable tenacity. I was overcome with the desire to be elsewhere. This conversation was too close, too revealing.
“I’m going to go to school now. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Bren?”
“Yeah?”
“When you go, take Ryan with you.”
“Why?”
“He’s good for you. Oh, and, I love you.” Her lips curved into a smile.
He was in the bathrooms already when I arrived. I hadn’t really expected to find him at school at all so early, but his bag was shoved in a corner in the library annex, and he was not to be found buried in books of any description. I was worried, even more so when I spoke to the Janitor who was sweeping the pavement of foliage and debris before the day began. He said that he had seen a dark haired boy sitting under the clump of trees in the courtyard behind the gym, but he had disappeared into the Seniors’ Science/English/Social Sciences block soon after he had arrived. I knew immediately that it was Ryan, and thanking the man, hurried to find my friend.
He had locked the door, and I had to bang loudly to get his attention, which also drew the notice of a young teacher, who poked her head around the door of the staffroom and told me gruffly to be quiet. He admitted me eventually, shaking terribly and gulping down slack rattly breaths.
“He died,” were the first words to escape his lips. Although it was difficult at first to discern exactly who he meant, I realised he spoke of the animal he had rescued.
“What happened?”
“He wouldn’t eat, or drink. He was getting better. I though he was going to last till morning. He did. He spent the entire night curled up at my collarbone, over my heart. He just wanted company so badly, wanted to be taken care of, wanted to survive. I stayed awake all night, and I just lay there, stroking his little body, listening to his stilted breathing. I thought he was getting stronger, was doing better for the sleep. Eventually, at exactly 5:11am, he stopped breathing.”
I felt for him. Felt the desperation in his tone, wanted to hold him.
“I’m so fucking useless! I can’t fucking do anything! I couldn’t save him! Just like I couldn’t save her! I couldn’t save my dad either. I was supposed to be enough, I was supposed to help him survive.” He was slumped against the wall, quivering fingers shielding his eyes from my view. “In the end I couldn’t even keep that beast happy,” he spat, trembling.
I knelt down before him, eyes level, my cool façade masking the heavy weight of grief that pooled in my stomach. “Ryan. You are not useless. You could never be useless.”
“I am, I am,” he sobbed. I wondered then that he was alive at all, such a wretched creature.
“More than once you have saved me, there is little point in denying it.”
“I lied,” he gasped eventually, rocking now, pulled into as compact a shape as he could manage in his awkward position. I let him continue; knowing that prodding would do little more than distress him. “I lied. I said they were getting divorced. I said that I had brothers and sisters. I don’t. I don’t have anything.” His voice was quiet then, deadly soft. “My mom, she died when I was 8. A wasting disease, I don’t even remember the name. If it weren’t for the photographs I would forget her face, as I have her voice. I’ve lost her completely. I was left with my dad. He was destroyed by it. For the first months he spoke to no one. Just lay in bed, crying. Boys don’t cry - bullshit. I cry. I’m fucking crying now. Maybe that’s really it, Bren. Maybe we’re designed to be weak.”
“Weak? The fact that you’re alive at all says shitloads about your strength. My dad died when I was twelve. I spent the next three years trying to find a reason to breathe at all, and then you came along. You were the answer to my question, Ryan.” I withheld the conclusion of that statement, aware that he would probably have picked up on it with his own astute skills of observation, and that to sound needy would, even in this situation, be more than a little damaging to my image and reputation. Even if it was just for Ryan’s sake, I needed to at least come across as strong.
“What did I do to deserve you?”
“If either of us is undeserving, it’s me.”
Chapter: Chapter Two
Author: Me. 'Rah.
Rating: R (17+?)
Paring: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: Fragments of a rollercoaster of a relationship. Our narrator is somewhat unstable.
Discliamer: As real as Mahlo's hair colour. (bright blue)
Author's Note: A miserable account of miserable events leading to a miserable end. Some violence, some sex, allusions to rape, murder etc.
Previous Chapters:
TheNotion\\ Prologue-One
((I made a God out of blood, not superiority. I killed the king of deceit, now I sleep in Anarchy.))
London - June 4th 1997
I led him down isle after isle. Product after product, each adorned with harsh, bright labels, screaming across the grey tiles at us, pulsing their gaudy colours, burning into the back of our eyeballs like a prickly, fluid polaroids.
I hated supermarkets.
We were there for a reason, a very good reason.
Ryan and I had spent the majority of our bleak early-summer morning haunting the primitive youth shelter a block from his house, where a small group of overtly Christian missionaries where setting to work a “Keep the Youth Off The Streets” program. There had been something similar in the very same building when I was a small child, but in the end that crowd had given up - lack of interest and lack of funding driving them into more socially acceptable occupations. The new regime was radically different, if only superficially. The idea the new owners were touting was that of a refuge where teenagers would be able to go and have fun without the aid of alcohol or drugs. Of course, their idea of fun was slightly skewed, but not so much that the activities they offered were completely untempting. They also acted as a place for kids to go when things got too tough at home. They had been established only two months and already they were playing host to more than 25 bodies every single night.
There were four pool tables on offer, two table-tennis tables, a CD library, access to computers, cameras, cheap food and various areas that were suitable for plain, unadulterated chilling. Every second Friday night they held a small concert with a local band. Ryan and I went to those.
I was beginning to become uncomfortable spending time there, though.
I still had black images of Ryan’s expression bubbling at the forefront of my mind, his expression when he walked in on Jamie and I in the small bathroom a week beforehand, engaged in deeds that can only be referred to as nefarious. I could still feel the prickle across the back of my neck, the flim in my throat, taste the tart, coppery taste of cum in my mouth.
We had been standing before the very same craggy basin that Jamie had been pushed against, arguing on poetry, which as it was, was Ryan’s greatest passion. That baffled me at first, but listening to the fervour with which he would recite verse, I understood the obscure form of his escapism. I was applying a thick layer of emerald eyeshadow, playing half-heartedly with different styles of curvature.
“When,” I stated, becoming aggravated by his obsessive talk of one particular stanza - a stanza for which I held no particular fondness.
“No. But when.”
“When.” I knew he was right, but I was beginning to quite enjoy the gentle blush creeping into his usually colourless cheeks.
“No, no, no.” I was baffled by his mood, which seemed to be a potent mixture of frustration, accusation, and quietude. I took it as his attempt at stoicism. “But when the melancholy fit shall fall/Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud… See?”
I smiled coyly, only to be overshadowed by a quiet squeak emitted from his smooth lips. “A mouse,” he murmured, ducking from my view, only to reappear seconds later, an expression of absolute pity upon his pretty features. Cupped in his hands was a small, trembling creature, huddling down into his slender fingers. I had kept mice as a child, and being quite familiar with their disposition, noticed quite quickly that the one he held was dehydrated - slick with sweat, drained of energy, cursed with ill-distributed fat.
“It’s half dead,” I told him, returning to my reflection.
“I know,” he replied, stroking the length of its body shortly, smoothly.
That was why we were at the supermarket, looking for mouse food.
I had to admit, the rodent was adorable, but not nearly as adorable as the quiet, caring persona Ryan took on as he cradled it. For lack of a better phrase, I wanted nothing more than to smoosh him.
He inspected the packaging of mouse-muesli, concern and concentration furrowed in his brow, crouched, leaning back on his haunches, mindful of the little body curled in the front pocket of his tattered pinstripe jacket. His hand moved up unconsciously to stroke the quivering mound soothingly.
I glanced around us, a little nervously. I had a thing about supermarkets. Some of the worst events of my life had taken place in supermarkets. Too many times had I been lulled into a false sense of security by the sterility of these places, the uniformity of them. They had a way about them, with their soft radio-music and chequered flooring, with the smell of commerce they were riddled with. Really, you went there to be used. You went to exchange currency for necessities. There was nothing fair about them. I only ever stepped through those revolving barriers if I was in dire need, and most of those times I managed to avoid paying at all. I had developed quite a skill for evading their security, but I was not so skilful as never to be caught. Bad experiences dissuaded me from attempting to take from the shelves. Ryan had not yet learnt that lesson, but he would soon enough. I could only hope the circumstance by which he gained such valuable insight was not so traumatic as mine.
Distracted, I allowed myself to sing along under my breath with the dimly recognisable song that was gliding over the tall steel shelves, feminine voice with a popish grungy backing. I struggled a little to recall the name of the group, but in the end forsook it, deciding instead to pay attention to the approaching figure of a young woman. I recognised her immediately.
“Brendon.” Her voice was as cold as ice, mirroring her expression of cool distain. “Ryan.” Lila Adams. Small, blonde, skinny, scalding intellect. Her hair was teased, and she was adorned in a trailing dress of satin and wispy lace. She could have walked straight out of a frenzied Bauhaus concert, or perhaps a flim-noir marathon. The Deather culture was new to her, but she had taken to it surprisingly well. It suited her. Her older brother was a stationary member in the core of the scene and, for his years, was startlingly well respected.
Lila had dated Ryan for a short month only half a year before - she was still bitter about the entire affair, having adored him quite ardently, but she was more aggravated by the relationship that her sibling and I had engaged in. Thought definitely enjoyable, it had also been definitely illegal. Apparently he was still hung up on it, which amused me greatly, and boosted my ego just a little.
“Lila,” I nodded in recognition, slightly irate at her obvious decision to start a conversation. Ryan did not respond at all.
“So, how are you?”
“Peachy, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a sneer, not quite mocking - such things were unbecoming, but it was close enough to express the subtle animosity I felt towards her. “Your ever-so-attractive self?”
She did sneer in response to that. “Oh, just fine. Say, Bren, you haven’t heard from Rick recently, have you?”
“No, unfortunately. How is he?” I smiled a little, revelling in her obvious discomfort. I tried to ignore the slight flinch in Ryan’s expression at the mention of my former-partner. He still had not moved.
“That’s the problem, I don’t know. He disappeared a few weeks ago, didn’t come home from a party. A friend said he was on Amphs that night, was talking about you. Though believe me, it is pure coincidence that I met you here today.” I nodded solemnly, but I doubted I could keep the glee from my eyes.
“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue as to his whereabouts.”
“You’re such a fuckwit, Brendon Urie,” she spat, features suddenly contorted with rage. “He could be dead, and you’re giggling like a fucking schoolgirl.”
“I’m not laughing,” I responded calmly.
“You are, I can see it. You think this is fucking hilarious. And you Ryan? Have you got a fucking clue? Oh how I doubt it. You’re just his fucking lapdog, you know? Grow a backbone! He’s not worth a drop of your love.” She stormed away. I found it hard to pity her. Ryan seemed a little shaken by the unexpected attack, but recovered quickly, flashing me a sly smile.
I left him at the front steps of his apartment building, suppressing the urge to follow him up for once, not feeling particularly inclined to listen to a single second more of Michael’s dead beat bitching. I told him I was going home to finish a Biology assignment, but both of us knew I would just end up locked in the bathroom again with a flask of Dry Rum. He smiled sympathetically at me as I went to go, allowing me to embrace him softly. I knew then that I would never forget his scent, of soap and incense, with only the slightest undertone of perspiration. Ohm. He smelled of Ohm.
I was thankful of the short distance between the shower and the bathtub the next morning, groaning with distaste as I scrubbed away the viscoid strands of bile and the ever-illusive aroma of vomit that I often hung around me like a miasma in the aftermath of such nights. The softness of my hair was a relief, and I thanked whatever cosmic force had borne such wonders as conditioner. I felt soft and fragile, malleable, and staring into the steam-clouded mirror I allowed myself to succumb to the trite expression of content that I viewed upon the faces of so many I despised. Although I was very well aware that my life was not ideal, I was also quite conscious of the fact that it could be so much worse. I was glad, in a very timid way, that I had such friends as I did. They were sympathetic at least, and in their peaks of glory, could contribute so much to my jaded existence.
I was far too exhausted to attempt cleaning the bathroom, as I usually did, but with a frown of discomfiture I wiped away the sordid smudges of green from the pale wall-tiles. It was not often that I allowed myself so much emotional leeway.
I had dreamed darkly.
My brother was standing in the kitchen when I finally ventured from my corner of the house. He was staring vacantly at the pot of coffee in his hands, as though it might spontaneously combust or spout scriptures. I ruffled his hair fondly, suddenly feeling sad. “How are you, little bro?” I inquired, pouring myself a warm cup of tea and settling at the table to skim the newspaper for any vaguely relevant stories they chose to report.
He didn’t reply, instead inspecting the pantry for toasting-muffins and butter.
I glanced at the clock, unsettled by the silence. There were two hours at least before I had to depart for school, and if it weren’t for Ryan’s insistence that I attend that day, I would probably have crawled into bed for a proper rest.
Article after article on nothing. War in foreign lands. The US government fucking up once more. Some sort of economical Armageddon in Africa. Three school children stabbed to death in Birmingham. Police suspect an increase in the cocaine supply in London, and were tracing links back to the middle east. Deather fashion blamed for a slew of suicides across the country.
“She hates you.” I was startled back into reality, eyes connecting with those of my sibling.
“I know,” I responded, allowing my eyebrow to quirk, and peered back down through my glasses to the fine print of the paper.
“The things she says about you, says you do… Should I believe them?”
“Probably.”
We sat in silence for a while longer, until finally the toaster chimed a short melody and he rushed to rescue his breakfast. “What exactly does she say?” I asked quietly, curious.
“That you’re an alcoholic, you’re a junkie, you fuck other guys, you’re a slut, you waste yourself on everything but school, that you’re a failure. She says she wishes you were never born.”
“Nice to know I’m appreciated,” I chuckled, grinning with some glee as he placed a bowl of cereal before me. “Thank you,” I beamed.
“I don’t wish you were never born,” he smiled timidly, but it faded all too quickly. “Maybe you should talk to her.”
I chewed the over the idea, digging into the food with fervour.
“She always turns it into an argument. I hate arguing.”
“She just wants you to see it from her perspective.”
“I do. I just don’t care.” I cleared my mess away, looking around the spotless kitchen with some surprise, annoyed at myself for not noticing sooner. “Who cleaned this place up?”
“Tina.”
“She’s back?”
“She’s been back a while, you just haven’t been around. She asks after you, but no one ever knows the answers to her questions. She misses you, you know. We all do. Except Mum. I think she’d rather you stayed away.”
“Well, I need a place to sleep,” I shrugged, padding down the hall to the study, where my eldest sibling was sure to be stationed. I knocked quietly, waiting for a tired response before entering. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the midmorning sun, but even so the entire room seemed to be bathed in a silvery twilight cast.
“Hey there Bren,” she murmured into her pillow, a mound of tousled dark hair shrouding her pretty features.
“Hey Tina. Jacob only just told me you were here.” I felt so weak, there at home. The change in my personality was noticeable, and more than once Ryan had commented on the softness I took upon myself. It seemed so wrong to wreck the usual quietude of the place, but even my greatest efforts did little to dissuade my mother from her tyrannical antagonism towards me. She seemed to see me as a blemish upon her name, some sort of cancer born of the aftermath of my father’s bereavement. I had become a burden to her, and for that I was truly sorry, but it was some cold comfort to hear her talk of denouncing me. It would have been easier to right the wrongs of my past had she allowed me time to speak. I was too far-gone now, and we both knew it. I’m not sure which frustrated her more, my state, or the fact that she had allowed me to progress so far.
“Where you been?”
“Around.”
“Not home, that’s for sure,” she sighed, sitting up.
“Can you really blame me?”
“Nah, I don’t suppose I can,” she smiled sympathetically. “It’s weird how things’ve turned out. It’s hard to get my bearings without you around.”
“…Have you heard from the clinic?”
“Yeah. I went just last week. I wanted you to come too, but I couldn’t find you. When you were home… well, she basically forbade me from talking to you when she was in the house. Said it was better we gave you reason not to come back.” She sighed. “At the clinic, well, they said that she was basically fucked. They can put her on meds to calm her down, but the amount they have to use makes her too docile to really function in society. They can put her on anti-depressants, but they only really work for a little while, and they make her more aggressive, cause her pain.”
I frowned deeply. “I want to go visit her.”
“You should.”
Further silence. The air seemed to hang heavy with the weight of unspoken words - pregnant with viable tenacity. I was overcome with the desire to be elsewhere. This conversation was too close, too revealing.
“I’m going to go to school now. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
“Bren?”
“Yeah?”
“When you go, take Ryan with you.”
“Why?”
“He’s good for you. Oh, and, I love you.” Her lips curved into a smile.
He was in the bathrooms already when I arrived. I hadn’t really expected to find him at school at all so early, but his bag was shoved in a corner in the library annex, and he was not to be found buried in books of any description. I was worried, even more so when I spoke to the Janitor who was sweeping the pavement of foliage and debris before the day began. He said that he had seen a dark haired boy sitting under the clump of trees in the courtyard behind the gym, but he had disappeared into the Seniors’ Science/English/Social Sciences block soon after he had arrived. I knew immediately that it was Ryan, and thanking the man, hurried to find my friend.
He had locked the door, and I had to bang loudly to get his attention, which also drew the notice of a young teacher, who poked her head around the door of the staffroom and told me gruffly to be quiet. He admitted me eventually, shaking terribly and gulping down slack rattly breaths.
“He died,” were the first words to escape his lips. Although it was difficult at first to discern exactly who he meant, I realised he spoke of the animal he had rescued.
“What happened?”
“He wouldn’t eat, or drink. He was getting better. I though he was going to last till morning. He did. He spent the entire night curled up at my collarbone, over my heart. He just wanted company so badly, wanted to be taken care of, wanted to survive. I stayed awake all night, and I just lay there, stroking his little body, listening to his stilted breathing. I thought he was getting stronger, was doing better for the sleep. Eventually, at exactly 5:11am, he stopped breathing.”
I felt for him. Felt the desperation in his tone, wanted to hold him.
“I’m so fucking useless! I can’t fucking do anything! I couldn’t save him! Just like I couldn’t save her! I couldn’t save my dad either. I was supposed to be enough, I was supposed to help him survive.” He was slumped against the wall, quivering fingers shielding his eyes from my view. “In the end I couldn’t even keep that beast happy,” he spat, trembling.
I knelt down before him, eyes level, my cool façade masking the heavy weight of grief that pooled in my stomach. “Ryan. You are not useless. You could never be useless.”
“I am, I am,” he sobbed. I wondered then that he was alive at all, such a wretched creature.
“More than once you have saved me, there is little point in denying it.”
“I lied,” he gasped eventually, rocking now, pulled into as compact a shape as he could manage in his awkward position. I let him continue; knowing that prodding would do little more than distress him. “I lied. I said they were getting divorced. I said that I had brothers and sisters. I don’t. I don’t have anything.” His voice was quiet then, deadly soft. “My mom, she died when I was 8. A wasting disease, I don’t even remember the name. If it weren’t for the photographs I would forget her face, as I have her voice. I’ve lost her completely. I was left with my dad. He was destroyed by it. For the first months he spoke to no one. Just lay in bed, crying. Boys don’t cry - bullshit. I cry. I’m fucking crying now. Maybe that’s really it, Bren. Maybe we’re designed to be weak.”
“Weak? The fact that you’re alive at all says shitloads about your strength. My dad died when I was twelve. I spent the next three years trying to find a reason to breathe at all, and then you came along. You were the answer to my question, Ryan.” I withheld the conclusion of that statement, aware that he would probably have picked up on it with his own astute skills of observation, and that to sound needy would, even in this situation, be more than a little damaging to my image and reputation. Even if it was just for Ryan’s sake, I needed to at least come across as strong.
“What did I do to deserve you?”
“If either of us is undeserving, it’s me.”