It was Sunday morning and Ryan was rather idly turning the pages of the local newspaper, allowing little chance for any article to penetrate his sleep-deprived mind and every now and then, taking a lazy sip from his coffee mug. It was barely lukewarm, but having now become so absorbed in his monotonous morning routine, he did not seem to notice much more than the feel of his fingers loosely gripping the handle; did not notice, even, his name printed in smart black text in the top right corner of page nine.

      “Hold it,” came Jon’s voice, seemingly from a distance. As a matter of fact, Jon was standing not even a foot behind his friend, peering over his shoulder and halting, it appeared, mid-step. Ryan, however, barely ten minutes into his day and not fully awake, started at the command and splashed a small bit of coffee down his front. Slightly shocked by the increasingly cold liquid now soaking through his t-shirt and onto his warm skin, Ryan allowed Jon to seize the newspaper from his slack grip as he rubbed pointlessly at the stain now forming on the thin grey fabric.

     “Remind me to go over dining etiquette with you later,” he said irritably.

     “Humph,” Jon grunted amusedly, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Don’t worry. False alarm.”

     “What?”

     Jon handed the paper back and pointed to where Ryan’s name was mentioned. It was a small article and Ryan read silently to himself:

 

Panic! At the Disco to Return to Las Vegas

The boys of vaudeville’s answer to emo are set to leave the studio and return to their native Sin City for a one-off show on Saturday, December 5^th at The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino Resort. It is unknown whether fans will be lucky enough to receive a sneak preview of some new material, but if the downright shocking incidents of late are anything to go by, it is safe to assume that Pete Wentz’ protégés will have a surprise or two up their sleeve for their faithful following. I am referring, of course, to the seemingly out-of-the-blue split in which bassist Ryan Ross and guitarist and back-up vocalist John Walker left to pursue an as yet unnamed musical endeavour of their own. Meanwhile, frontman Spencer Smith and drummer Brandon Urie have teamed up with two mystery musicians to complete their line-up for the band’s upcoming Vegas show. Tickets are on sale now from all usual outlets. 

 

     “Six mistakes,” said Jon with a smirk. “I think that’s a new record. And that’s not even including the ‘emo’ reference.”

     “Yes, well our new record is coming out in little over three weeks!” Ryan replied bitterly. “‘As yet unnamed’... For crying out loud, has this guy not heard of Google? You gotta wonder sometimes whether these people just do it on purpose.”

     “Ignorance is bliss.”

     “I mean, five months!” Ryan continued, apparently not having heard the comment. “Five months ago we left and they’re still going on about it as if it were last fucking Tuesday! Damn it, why aren’t we getting all this A-list coverage they are? I’m sorry, but I don’t see how what they’re doing is any better than what we’re doing. If all they want is a pop record, then why are we wasting our time?”

     At this point, Jon snapped out of his state of indifference and glared at Ryan like he were an ill-mannered child. “Wasting our time? Is that all this is to you – a waste of time? Ryan, I can’t believe I’m saying this to you of all people, but music is not about how much money you make or how much press coverage you get... We both knew what we were getting ourselves into when we started this band. Are you telling me now, after a few months, that you don’t wanna do it anymore? For fuck’s sake, Ry, the album isn’t even out yet.”

     “It’s just not fair!” the other argued, a little startled by his friend’s sudden and uncharacteristic outburst, but nonetheless determined to carry on with his fit of childish outrage. “I started that band! I wrote the lyrics! Just because I-”

     “Just because you’re not in it anymore, yes, carry on...”

     He seemed to realise now exactly how he must be coming across and silenced. His shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply, looking dejected. “Look, I’m really happy for Brendon and Spencer-”

     “Well, you have a very interesting way of showing it!” Jon retorted. “Ryan, they are our friends. When we decided to leave, the first thing I asked you was if you were absolutely sure that this was what you wanted. You said yes. I told you that we would be pretty much starting from scratch with The Young Veins and you said you were okay with that, you were ready.

     “I know things happened virtually overnight with Panic! but we’re on our own now and I think you’re being – forgive me – a little naive. Brendon and Spencer are great musicians and very dedicated to their work – you always knew they’d get far; but you guys also had a lot of help. I’m sorry, but we don’t have Pete pulling the strings this time, or the image that Panic! had. Now I’m asking you one last time: Do you want to do this or don’t you?”

     Ryan took another deep and solemn breath, not meeting Jon’s eyes. “Of course I do.”

     Jon looked at him sympathetically and reverted back to his normal, kind tone of voice that suited him so much better than angry shouting. “I think we should go to the show. We haven’t really had a chance to speak to them since... Well. It’d be nice to catch up.”

     Ryan said nothing for a moment, then pushed back his chair and stood up, aware that his companion was watching him leave, a vague look of anxiety in his eyes. Perhaps he wondered if he had crossed the line by letting his temper get the better of him?

     No, Ryan thought. After all, his reaction was completely out of line, was it not? He was happy for his friends, and he had no right to be jealous of them. As Jon had said, leaving had been his choice, and the departure had been perfectly amicable.

     But he couldn’t help but feel just a little twinge of resentment whenever something like this happened. It was his fault the band was no longer Brendon-Ryan-Jon-and-Spencer. It was his fault that their second album had not been as successful as the first. He stopped. There’s some truth in that a voice in his head seemed to tell him, and he couldn’t deny it. It had certainly been he, Ryan, who had orchestrated the band into composing a more ‘mature’ album and leaving behind the unique, energetic sound that made them so illustrious in the first place.

     I was seventeen years old! he argued with himself. I’ve had six years of musical development since then! It’s only natural that my taste should change.

     Theirs didn’t.

     Everyone’s different.

     But Panic! was something special.

     No it wasn’t.

     Don’t lie.

     Stop it!

     And with that, the voice seemed to vanish, and Ryan imagined some kind of faceless entity holding up its palms in defeat and withdrawing before conflict could ensue. Ever so slightly, he smiled proudly to himself, as if pleased he had outsmarted his own conscience. A moment later, however, he realised that all he had done was become a victim of his own denial.



N/B: Okay, so maybe there's a teeny tiny part of me that's still bitter Jon and Ryan left. What can I say? They broke my heart!
 
     Thanks for reading/commenting - more soon x

>> Fic in Progress <<



Title: A Friend in Need

Author: Me

Rating: 15

Pairing: Ryan/Brendon. Eventually. 

POV: Third

Summary: It's been a few months since the split of one of America's hottest bands and the remaining members of the ever popular Panic! At The Disco halt work on their third album for a one-off show in their native Vegas. Meanwhile, former member Ryan Ross is struggling with his new band, The Young Veins, and in a fit of jealous rage, decides to put a violent stop to the rivalry.

Genre: Drama

Disclaimer: Not real... YET! Muahaha!

Author Notes: At the end.

 

It was Sunday morning and Ryan was rather idly turning the pages of the local newspaper, allowing little chance for any article to penetrate his sleep-deprived mind and every now and then, taking a lazy sip from his coffee mug. It was barely lukewarm, but having now become so absorbed in his monotonous morning routine, he did not seem to notice much more than the feel of his fingers loosely gripping the handle; did not notice, even, his name printed in smart black text in the top right corner of page nine.

      “Hold it,” came Jon’s voice, seemingly from a distance. As a matter of fact, Jon was standing not even a foot behind his friend, peering over his shoulder and halting, it appeared, mid-step. Ryan, however, barely ten minutes into his day and not fully awake, started at the command and splashed a small bit of coffee down his front. Slightly shocked by the increasingly cold liquid now soaking through his t-shirt and onto his warm skin, Ryan allowed Jon to seize the newspaper from his slack grip as he rubbed pointlessly at the stain now forming on the thin grey fabric.

     “Remind me to go over dining etiquette with you later,” he said irritably.

     “Humph,” Jon grunted amusedly, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. “Don’t worry. False alarm.”

     “What?”

     Jon handed the paper back and pointed to where Ryan’s name was mentioned. It was a small article and Ryan read silently to himself:

 

Panic! At the Disco to Return to Las Vegas

The boys of vaudeville’s answer to emo are set to leave the studio and return to their native Sin City for a one-off show on Saturday, December 5^th at The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino Resort. It is unknown whether fans will be lucky enough to receive a sneak preview of some new material, but if the downright shocking incidents of late are anything to go by, it is safe to assume that Pete Wentz’ protégés will have a surprise or two up their sleeve for their faithful following. I am referring, of course, to the seemingly out-of-the-blue split in which bassist Ryan Ross and guitarist and back-up vocalist John Walker left to pursue an as yet unnamed musical endeavour of their own. Meanwhile, frontman Spencer Smith and drummer Brandon Urie have teamed up with two mystery musicians to complete their line-up for the band’s upcoming Vegas show. Tickets are on sale now from all usual outlets. 

 

     “Six mistakes,” said Jon with a smirk. “I think that’s a new record. And that’s not even including the ‘emo’ reference.”

     “Yes, well our new record is coming out in little over three weeks!” Ryan replied bitterly. “‘As yet unnamed’... For crying out loud, has this guy not heard of Google? You gotta wonder sometimes whether these people just do it on purpose.”

     “Ignorance is bliss.”

     “I mean, five months!” Ryan continued, apparently not having heard the comment. “Five months ago we left and they’re still going on about it as if it were last fucking Tuesday! Damn it, why aren’t we getting all this A-list coverage they are? I’m sorry, but I don’t see how what they’re doing is any better than what we’re doing. If all they want is a pop record, then why are we wasting our time?”

     At this point, Jon snapped out of his state of indifference and glared at Ryan like he were an ill-mannered child. “Wasting our time? Is that all this is to you – a waste of time? Ryan, I can’t believe I’m saying this to you of all people, but music is not about how much money you make or how much press coverage you get... We both knew what we were getting ourselves into when we started this band. Are you telling me now, after a few months, that you don’t wanna do it anymore? For fuck’s sake, Ry, the album isn’t even out yet.”

     “It’s just not fair!” the other argued, a little startled by his friend’s sudden and uncharacteristic outburst, but nonetheless determined to carry on with his fit of childish outrage. “I started that band! I wrote the lyrics! Just because I-”

     “Just because you’re not in it anymore, yes, carry on...”

     He seemed to realise now exactly how he must be coming across and silenced. His shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply, looking dejected. “Look, I’m really happy for Brendon and Spencer-”

     “Well, you have a very interesting way of showing it!” Jon retorted. “Ryan, they are our friends. When we decided to leave, the first thing I asked you was if you were absolutely sure that this was what you wanted. You said yes. I told you that we would be pretty much starting from scratch with The Young Veins and you said you were okay with that, you were ready.

     “I know things happened virtually overnight with Panic! but we’re on our own now and I think you’re being – forgive me – a little naive. Brendon and Spencer are great musicians and very dedicated to their work – you always knew they’d get far; but you guys also had a lot of help. I’m sorry, but we don’t have Pete pulling the strings this time, or the image that Panic! had. Now I’m asking you one last time: Do you want to do this or don’t you?”

     Ryan took another deep and solemn breath, not meeting Jon’s eyes. “Of course I do.”

     Jon looked at him sympathetically and reverted back to his normal, kind tone of voice that suited him so much better than angry shouting. “I think we should go to the show. We haven’t really had a chance to speak to them since... Well. It’d be nice to catch up.”

     Ryan said nothing for a moment, then pushed back his chair and stood up, aware that his companion was watching him leave, a vague look of anxiety in his eyes. Perhaps he wondered if he had crossed the line by letting his temper get the better of him?

     No, Ryan thought. After all, his reaction was completely out of line, was it not? He was happy for his friends, and he had no right to be jealous of them. As Jon had said, leaving had been his choice, and the departure had been perfectly amicable.

     But he couldn’t help but feel just a little twinge of resentment whenever something like this happened. It was his fault the band was no longer Brendon-Ryan-Jon-and-Spencer. It was his fault that their second album had not been as successful as the first. He stopped. There’s some truth in that a voice in his head seemed to tell him, and he couldn’t deny it. It had certainly been he, Ryan, who had orchestrated the band into composing a more ‘mature’ album and leaving behind the unique, energetic sound that made them so illustrious in the first place.

     I was seventeen years old! he argued with himself. I’ve had six years of musical development since then! It’s only natural that my taste should change.

     Theirs didn’t.

     Everyone’s different.

     But Panic! was something special.

     No it wasn’t.

     Don’t lie.

     Stop it!

     And with that, the voice seemed to vanish, and Ryan imagined some kind of faceless entity holding up its palms in defeat and withdrawing before conflict could ensue. Ever so slightly, he smiled proudly to himself, as if pleased he had outsmarted his own conscience. A moment later, however, he realised that all he had done was become a victim of his own denial.

N/B: Okay, so maybe there's a teeny tiny part of me that's still bitter Jon and Ryan left. What can I say? They broke my heart!

     Sigh. Oh well. At least it made for good inspiration. I haven't written anything in ages.
    
     Thanks for reading/commenting - more soon x

 

Pulling up into my designated parking space, I glance into the rear-view mirror and quickly straighten my tie,  check that my teeth are clean, adjust my collar and run a comb through my hair. Satisfied, I undo my seatbelt and grab my briefcase from the passenger’s seat. I step out the car, though all too quickly. My back twinges and I let out a pained grunt as someone rests their hand lightly on my bicep.

     ‘Are you okay, sir?’ the man asks me. He’s one of my employees, about the same age as me.

     ‘Just the back again,’ I reply, smiling through clenched teeth. He asks if I need any help. ‘No, no, I’m fine. You carry on. Thank you.’

     Hesitantly, he backs away and continues up the steps. I compose myself, shut the driver’s door and lock the car, very quickly checking my reflection in the window. It’s not a vanity thing; it’s just when you have a job like mine, you have to be on top form, day in, day out. I make my way through the main doors and into the building.

     ‘Good morning, sir,’ the receptionist says.

     ‘Morning, Sophie.’

     The foyer is expansive, dimly lit with pale marble walls and matching floor tiles. The desk is a solid crescent moon shape with the letters “NASDT” embossed in gold letters across the front and the slogan “Help is always at hand” written beneath it. I and one of my roommates from university – Pete – founded the National Association for Support with Domestic Trauma when we were just 26. We were two years out of education, me with a diploma in Computing and him with one in Social Science that neither of us had any idea what to do with. So we both took a gap year, doing various small jobs around the world to earn some money – England, Australia, South Africa, Europe… But it was right here in America that I found my calling.

     Having grown up without a mother, being a human punch bag for my father and my peers, and then losing my only friend to an incurable illness, Pete often jokingly, but affectionately, regarded me as a walking charity campaign. For some time, I merely laughed with him; but it was just another Friday evening, when I was making my way back to my apartment, that I realised that devoting my life to helping others is what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

     A little boy, about seven years old, was sitting on the pavement. He had scruffy, dark brown hair, thick glasses – just like me when I was his age – and he was crying. His knee was cut and bleeding and beside him, a bike lay on its side with the back wheel still spinning. Another boy, a year or two older, approached him and asked if he was alright

     ‘They pushed me off my bike,’ he said.

     The elder frowned and asked where he lived, and he pointed to a house about thirty yards down the road.

     Then the other boy said, ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back. Give me your hand; I’ll help you up.’

     I remember smiling and thinking of Ryan, and then I thought of Spencer and his brother and sister. Call it clichéd, but at that moment, I realised that all I wanted to do was be there for someone like they were there for me. I phoned Pete the minute I got home.

___

 

It’s taken a lot of hard work but it’s worth it just to wake up in the morning with a feeling inside so overwhelmingly amazing that you can’t help but smile.

     I share the place with Pete, although he and his girlfriend have been talking about marriage so I don’t know how long he’s going to be staying. And of course, I still keep up with Spencer and his family. Greta married a few years ago and she has a kid now – a little girl called Emily. As far as I know, Jon is still unattached but I don’t think he’s in any particular rush to take himself off the market.

     And believe it or not, I even catch up with Jason every now and then. He’s currently in his thirteenth year of incarceration, but he’s got another seven to go on account of child abuse, drug possession and drug dealing. I go and visit him once a month for about an hour and he tells me how much he’s changed and how sorry he is for everything. He tells me he’s a different person and that I can trust him; but I say to him it’s going to be a long time before that happens again.

     Shutting the door behind me, I switch on the light and gaze tiredly around the spacious apartment. I set down my briefcase, hang up my keys and take off my jacket, draping it around the first chair I find. I carry on to the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge and find that Pete has left me a note. His sister-in-law’s gone into labour and he’s had to go and babysit his nephew.

     As I grab one of the brown bottles, I notice the calendar on the wall beside me. Today is August 30^th. He would be 32 now. It’s not that I forgot; it just honestly didn’t occur to me what the date was. I put my beer back in the fridge and pick up my keys and jacket once more.

___

 

Standing before his grave, I don’t cry, I smile, but it’s a sad smile. A smile that says I love you, I miss you and I thank you for all you’ve done for me.

     A small bouquet of peonies lay beside the headstone beneath the words “Beloved Son”. Clearly his parents were here earlier. I should give them a call.

     I crouch down in front of him, cringing as the nerves in my lower back suddenly spasm. I decide to sit rather than squat so as to avoid any unnecessary injury and carefully settle myself down on the grass. I place a bunch of white lilies next to the flowers his mother and father left, and for a while, I just stare at the stone. His entire life summed up in a few words carved out of a rock. Delicately, my fingers brush over his name and I sigh. I bite my lip and force myself to remain composed.

     The grass beneath me is damp with evening dew and the cemetery is otherwise empty. A single rebellious tear manages to escape from my eye and lands on the hand I’m leaning on. I tell him I’m sorry he’s missed his birthday again. Maybe one day, we’ll get to spend it together.

     But then I smile once more and I say, ‘We’ll always have Vegas.’





PLEASE READ!

HOORAY for happy endings! Ahem... Sooo, thank you to EVERYONE who has read this, even if you've never commented; thank you for being so patient when it took me a million years to update and thank you for all the wonderful feedback!

     This may well be the last full fic I post on here, at least for a while. University tends to consume a great deal of one's time :-P

     I would love to thank you all individually for every single amazing comment I've had on everything I've submitted to SATD, but I'd be here all week! But as a student of Creative Writing, I can promise you that it has all meant so, so much to me; and even if I never post here again, I will always think very fondly of this tiny little LJ community as my starting ground to what I hope will be a future in the thing I love doing most - writing.

     Thank you all so much and take care :-)
 

 

I’m pretty surprised at how well I slept for the first time back in my own house since abandoning it several weeks ago, but then I realise just how much my head hurts. I groan, yawn and rub my eyes. Spencer has already thought to bring me some aspirin.

     Ryan’s parents are waiting for me in the other room, but I don’t want to know what they must think of me now. I was the last person to see their son alive. A mother and father should not have to bury their child.

     ‘Come on, Brendon,’ Spencer whispers. ‘I think it’s important you see them.’

     Reluctantly, I nod and he helps me into my chair. I slept on the couch in the living room because I couldn’t get up the stairs. Spencer looks at me pityingly and asks if I’m ready.

     I shrug. ‘I can’t keep running away,’ I tell him. He doesn’t reply.

     Jon and Greta left while I was asleep – apparently they’re staying in a hotel nearby. Spencer pushes me through to the kitchen and I am met with two very different expressions. Ryan’s dad scowls coldly at me while his mom just stares at me with nothing but sorrow. His father’s face softens when he sees the state I’m in and for a moment, he looks as if he’s going to stand but is stopped with a very brief glance from his wife.

     The most agonising silence fills the room for several seconds before Mrs Ross finally clears her throat, causing everyone else in the room to turn and look at her. Spencer remains in the background, leaning against the wall behind me. He’s clearly unsure whether or not he should stay and to be honest, I don’t know either. Still, I guess I have to take all the support I can get.

     ‘Hello, Brendon,’ Mrs Ross says in a small voice. I always liked Sandra. When my own mother died, she welcomed me into her home like a second son.

     ‘Hello.’

     All of us look to his father, George, who awkwardly clears his throat, just like his wife, and drops his gaze to the surface of the table, mumbling a very insincere ‘Hi.’

     Silence again; but then Sandra takes a deep breath. ‘Brendon,’ she says softly, ‘I want you to know that we don’t in any way blame you for what has happened.’

     At this point, I lift my head a little. She seems taken aback at my surprise. She carries on.

     ‘We’d known for a while that Ryan wasn’t well and that it was only a matter of time until he…’ Her breath begins to falter. ‘Until he…’

     ‘Sandra?’ George cuts in.

     ‘…until he couldn’t go on any longer… We’re just grateful that our little boy wasn’t alone when… when it happened. He cared about you so much. And it makes me so proud that I raised a child who was so loving and so compassionate.’

     She starts to cry and I wheel myself to her side. She throws her arms around my shoulders and squeezes me. George rubs her back and even pats me on the arm.

     ‘You weren’t to know he was ill,’ he says. ‘We’re just glad he won’t have to suffer anymore.’

___

 

George and Sandra left a couple hours ago. Spencer fixed me something to eat and now we’re just watching TV. Although, neither of us are particularly paying attention; we’re staring at the screen but nothing’s going in. Spencer’s half-asleep and I’m just bored. This just isn’t the same place anymore. Jason was an asshole but he was the only father I ever had, and we had ten pretty good years together. I think a little piece of him died with my mother.

     Ryan’s funeral is on Wednesday morning, but I’ve lost track of time altogether. I literally don’t know what day it is. I switch the television off.

     ‘Spencer?’

     He jerks himself awake, ‘Hmm?’

     ‘Sorry – didn’t mean to make you jump.’

     ‘What’s up?’ he asks groggily.

     I sigh deeply, thoughtfully. ‘What do you think dreams are? Like, what do they do?’

     He looks at me confusedly and stutters a little. ‘Uh… Well, you’re kind of asking about a million questions in one there. Um… I think… dreaming is just your mind’s way of organising your thoughts. Why?’

     ‘It’s just… Three times now, I’ve had this same dream.’

     He sits forward and tells me to carry on. 

     ‘Well… Everything is really dark. I can’t see where I’m going but my hands keep catching on things and bleeding, but it doesn’t hurt because, well, it’s a dream. But then I start hearing this knocking. It starts off really quiet but then it gets louder and louder and I feel like my head’s going to explode, and then I find this door, which is obviously where the noise is coming from. Now, the first time, I opened it, but I woke up just at that moment. The second time I open it, I see this insanely bright light. But before you woke me up earlier, I got through. I was in this really open space, it was really bright and…’

     I stall.

     ‘And what?’

     ‘…Ryan was there.’

     He stares at me blankly, waiting for me to continue. The expression on his face is one of absolute fascination and he offers no response.

     ‘He- He told me to-’

     ‘Told you to what?’

     ‘To move on. And then he kept telling me to wake up.’

     He reclines in his chair as if in deep thought. For a short while, all I can hear is the clock ticking and then he leans forward.

     ‘Well, I’m no expert on dreams,’ he tells me. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t think dreams really stand for anything in particular; but I suppose if I had to make a guess, it seems like the darkness could stand for you feeling lost. You’ve lived your teens without any decent parent figure, your best friend passed away… The protection isn’t there anymore. You’re insecure.

     ‘As for the bleeding… I don’t know. Maybe it’s something to do with the way your father treated you. And the knocking, the bright lights, the open space; Ryan telling you those things… I could tell that, with him, you always felt safe; but now that he’s gone, you feel weaker. But it sounds to me like he’s still looking out for you.’

     ‘What do you mean?’

     ‘Well, when he told you to wake up, I don’t think he meant it literally.’

     ‘I don’t… understand.’

     ‘Come on, Bren, think about it. You’re almost 18, your jackass of a father isn’t around anymore… I think what Ryan is telling you is that it’s time to wake up and move on with your life.’





N/B: Sorry, guys, I would've posted this a couple days ago, but I got side-tracked :-P

Also, since my parents split, my dad has been really needy and it's getting pretty irritating. How do I tell him to grow a pair without hurting his feelings?

 

Today, I’m going home. Spencer has volunteered to stay with me for a while as my “carer” and he’s even got a temporary job in a supermarket stacking shelves so we have at least some income.

     Jon is with us and Greta has taken a short holiday off work so she can help us get settled in. It feels bizarre to going home again. It seems like such a long time since I left, but I guess that’s because I haven’t had Ryan to spend it with.

     Greta helps me with my discharge form while her brothers talk with Dr Preven about organising my ride home. A vehicle will be available in about twenty minutes, Jon tells me and he helps me get dressed. I decide to make a last minute check that I have everything and I begin rummaging through my bag. It’s all there, right down to my mother’s photograph, which is now even more crumpled, but still tucked safely in the pocket of my jeans. I smile at her and kiss her before putting the picture back.

     I carry on, making sure nothing is missing, but then I find something that I wasn’t really expecting to. The scarf Ryan was wearing the night we ran away. I don’t know why it would be in with my things; I must have picked it up by accident. Delicately, I take it in my hands and just stare at it. The others all look at me questioningly, still standing around me, but I take no notice.

     I lift the scarf to my face and breathe in, taking in the lingering scent of his skin that used to make me feel so safe every time he wrapped his arms around me. Greta, who is still sitting on the bed in front of me, gives me a pitying look, mournful and sombre, but it’s a look of understanding and empathy and she doesn’t try and take the scarf away from me.

     It’s grey and woollen, spotted with bits of black and white and his name is written on the label, R. Ross. I take off my own scarf and let it drop into my lap, replacing it with his.

___

 

By early evening, the ambulance car is just pulling into the top of my street. My hands start to shake. Spencer, who is sitting next to me in the back, rests his palm on my forearm when he notices the look of anxiety on my face. He offers me a sorry smile and I force one in return. I guess I didn’t really think about how difficult this would be. I honestly can’t decide how I feel. It’s not like Jason is there waiting for me, fists at the ready. Nothing is there waiting for me now – not even Canon. He’s probably been put into a kennel.

     My heart starts to beat a little faster and, despite the cold weather, I begin to sweat. The blood rushes to my cheeks and I feel flushed and lightheaded. Spencer cracks a window.

     ‘Almost there,’ I laugh nervously.

     He offers no response besides a subtle look of sympathy in his eyes. I look down, deciding it’s too difficult to keep looking out the window. My left leg and right elbow are both set in plaster cast and my head is itching beneath a gauze patch covering eight stitches. Apparently when the paramedics came, they were worried I’d injured my spine, but it was only very minimal damage to my spinal nerves. They’ve told me I’ll always have problems with it but it’ll get better. Right now though, my only concern is picking up the pieces of the whole world I’ve just shattered, and not just my own. Ryan’s parents are now missing their only child.

     The car pulls into the driveway and the two paramedics, Tim and Nicola, go about carefully lifting me out onto the ground. Spencer opens the front door of my house and Tim pushes me in my wheelchair up the path.

     We reach the door and suddenly I tell him, ‘Stop.’

     I can’t do this. I just stare into the dark hallway, leaving the other three to wonder what’s going on. Spencer kneels down in front of me and his anxious eyes lock with mine.  

     ‘Brendon,’ he says simply and that’s all he says. The look between us is one that can only be identified solely by the people involved – so plain, so passive and so furtive, it’s unreadable to anyone else. I know what he wants to say to me, and he is fully aware of that. And, God bless him, he doesn’t say a word.

     Things won’t be the way they were. Ever.

___

 

My eyes are open but I can’t see a thing. All that is in front of me is darkness. Darkness and nothingness, and I’m just stumbling along. But the floor beneath my feet is almost… non-existent, like I’m floating.

     And there it is again – the knocking, pounding all around me so loud that my eardrums are at the point of bursting. Blood slides down my arms as my hands catch on things I can’t see.

     Now there’s the door again, nearly breaking off its hinges because the knocking is so strong. I lock my fingers around the handle, making it sticky with blood, and I turn it. I pull the door back. I squint at the brilliant light which fills the entire space around me; I can’t even see the surface I’m walking on.

     A short while later though, my eyes adjust and I blink a few times until I no longer have to strain to see anything. The air is cleaner and thinner, and I find that I can physically breathe better. Everything feels so clear. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

     ‘Brendon?’ a voice behind me says, a voice all too familiar. I turn around. ‘Brendon?’ he says. He’s smiling, sadly but hopefully.

     ‘Ryan?’

     ‘Brendon, move on.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘Move on, Brendon.’

     ‘What do you mean?’

     ‘Wake up.’

     ‘Wake up?’

     ‘Wake up!’

     My eyes tear open.

     ‘Bren, wake up.’ For a few seconds, I am wholly disorientated and it takes me a minute to realise that it’s Spencer kneeling down next to me with his hand on my shoulder. ‘You sleep like a log,’ he tells me with a grin, but then his smile turns to a slight frown. ‘Ryan’s parents are here.’




N/B: Ooh, what's he gonna say to Ryan's parents?!

Find out on Wednesday B)

Hehe. Cheers x
 

 

Momentarily forgetting the excruciating agony my whole body is in, I sit up suddenly. I shriek and Spencer helps me lay back down again.
 

     ‘Take it easy, kid, you’ve got two broken limbs and a head full of stitches.’
 

     Right now, I couldn’t care less if my head was blown off. I must still be in a coma and this is all just some beautiful, beautiful dream. Maybe I’m still in Carson City, maybe we never even ran away. Maybe they’re not dead. But then, dreams aren’t supposed to hurt this much.
 

     I ask him simply, ‘What?’ and he grins a little a smugly.
 

     ‘You’d be surprised how persuasive a vicar can be.’ I stare at him blankly. ‘You’re gonna have to stay in the hospital for another couple days but as soon as you’re ready to leave, they’re going to make sure Jason never lays a finger on you again. Because you’re under eighteen, they can’t arrest you, but all they’re asking is that you give back the money, which Jason has agreed to do.’
 

     ‘How the hell did you get my dad to agree to that?’
 

     He shrugs and offers a slightly sarcastic smile. ‘He seemed pretty happy to help once the authorities got wind of what he’s been doing all these years.’
 

     ‘What do you mean?’
 

     ‘Well, child abuse and the fact that he’s been smuggling illegal drugs into the State.’
 

     And then everything stops. Did he just say what I think he said? I knew Jason was a little off the hook, but… drugs? How, in seventeen years, did I never found this out? Was this after Mom died? Was it before? Did she know?
 

     ‘How-’ I stutter, completely lost for words. ‘How- How long has this been going on?’
 

     ‘About six years.’
 

     ‘Six years?!’
 

     ‘Cocaine, cannabis, marijuana… Didn’t you ever wonder where he disappeared to all those nights? Didn’t you ever wonder why he was so out of control? And where do you think he got all that money from anyway?’
 

     And then I take a moment to think. He was usually out in the evenings… but the notion is still… unbelievable. ‘Well, I thought it was what my mom had left,’ I tell him. ‘But… Drugs? Seriously?’
 

     His only response is an indifferent shrug and both of us remain silent for a short while. It’s just a little difficult to process right now. My head is aching unimaginably, I’m exhausted, I’m in pain and now someone has just dropped this bombshell on me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s incredible – the first good thing that has happened to me in a long, long time… Probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me – but it’s… a lot to take in. And there are still so many things that will never ever stop haunting me.
 

     I ask quietly, ‘W- What now though? I have no family.’
 

     Spencer takes a deep and solemn breath and doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘Things… will be difficult for a while, but that’s inevitable and we can get past that.’
 

     ‘”We”?’
 

     ‘Well,’ he chuckles, ‘you didn’t think I’d just ship off to a hospital and abandon you, did you?’
 

     I grin.

___

 

It’s pitch black and I can’t see a thing. I’m dizzy and disorientated; so much so, it just feels like I’m floating, my feet seem so light. I’m fairly sure my eyes are open but all I can see is darkness. I am neither hot nor cold, in pain nor perfectly comfortable; I just… am.
 

     My legs seem to be moving of their own accord, dragging my whole body forward as my arms hang loosely at my sides, gently swinging.
 

     I am pushed further and further into nothingness, gradually becoming more aware of myself as I go, and then I hear knocking, just like before. At the moment, it’s quiet; just a dull thumping sound, but the volume is starting to pick up little by little. It becomes crisper. Louder. Louder still. My hands catch on things, things that prick and pierce my skin but don’t hurt. Blood seeps from tiny cuts but I don’t feel it as it drips slowly down my arm.
 

     The knocking is even louder now, deafening almost, as it echoes all around me. I press my palms over my ears but blood soon starts to seep through the small gaps between my fingers. I still don’t feel a thing.
 

     It’s so loud now that my head actually begins to ache but I need to find where the knocking is coming from. Clumsily, I keep going, stumbling and staggering around in the darkness until I eventually come to a stop. There’s the door again. By now, the knocking is so loud, it’s unbearable, and the door is nearly off its hinges. I reach for the handle and twist it. The door opens and I am met by blinding white light.
 

     ‘Brendon?’ someone says, and I am forced back into consciousness. ‘Brendon?’ they say again.
 

     I look a little to my left and see Greta. She smiles worriedly and asks me how I am.
 

     ‘Thirsty,’ I reply groggily.
 

     ‘Someone will be along with some food for you in a minute. Did you sleep okay?’
 

     ‘When can I leave the hospital?’
 

     She sighs and frowns slightly, ‘Soon.’

___

 

The next morning, it’s Jon who comes to see me and he tells me my doctor is going to try me in a wheelchair today. A part of me is really looking forward to leaving this place but at the same time, this is the safest I’ve felt in… well. In years. I mean, apart from when I was staying with the rest of Jon’s family, but there, there was always the risk that we would be found. But now there’s no “we” anyway.
 

     I think about telling Jon about the dream but I decide against it. I’m not big on “interpreting dreams” – I honestly think it’s bullshit – but it’d be nice to have some clarity.
 

     We talk for a little while, where Jon and his siblings have been staying, about Jason’s arrest… There’s going to be a court hearing at some point which I will have to go to so I can testify against him, but he’s got so much shit already against him, I don’t know why they’re even bothering. Jon laughs at that, though it’s half-hearted and more sarcastic. The conversation ends when my doctor – Dr Preven – approaches us pushing an empty wheelchair.




N/B: Sorry, I would've updated last night but I went out drinking instead. Heh =]

Happy Easter to y'all (and happy birthday to Mr Urie of course!)!!

Thanking you muchly x
 

 

Several minutes later, I’m feeling a little more awake but everything hurts. My head is like a rock and my eyelids like weights. The light is harsh and blinding, but I am aware that something close by is continuously beeping in sync with my heartbeat.

     The volume of my breathing seems louder, echoing from ear to ear. I inhale a little deeper but it’s like my ribs are being crushed against my lungs so I stop mid-breath and exhale again. All I can see is the ceiling above me; off-white polystyrene tiles, some stained where pipes have leaked. Some still have Christmas paper chains attached to them – just strands of sugar paper looped together, the kind young children make in school.

     But apart from that, everything is just white. And then someone says my name. I mumble something in return, something incoherent. They try again. ‘Brendon?’ and it seems clearer this time. I still don’t give any kind of audible response though. I’m still not sure whose voice it is but they try one last time.

     I murmur, ‘Jon…’

     And he says, ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.’

     ‘Hurt.’

     ‘I know, but there isn’t much I can do about that. You can’t have any more pain meds for another couple hours.’

     And I don’t know why, but my eyes suddenly start to sting and well. Something spills down my cheek and then Jon is hushing me.

     ‘Shh,’ he says, ‘come on, I know you’re in a lot of pain, but try not to think about it, okay? Just look at me, focus on me.’

     And I do. I start with his mouth, two average-sized lips protected within a thin, light brown beard. He bites nervously on the bottom one, exposing a set of straight but ever so slightly yellow teeth, and as he breathes, I smell the strong, soothing musk of tobacco.

     His nose is ordinary, if just a little oversized in comparison to his mouth. The skin looks paler than normal. Whether it’s the light or sickness or emotion, I don’t know, but he doesn’t look as healthy.

     It’s his eyes, though, that are most appealing. Like Ryan’s, they are giant hazel-coloured globes, bearing a sense of security and warmness that I haven’t seen since he died. Spencer’s eyes were a calm blue but there was something oddly discomforting about them, something slightly fierce. But that’s when I remember him.

     ‘Spencer?’ I say. ‘Where is he?’

     Jon sighs, ‘He’s fine. He’s just a little shaken up. But I told him to go and get some sleep, so he won’t be round till later. We’ve made sure that there is at least someone here with you at all times though. We didn’t want you to wake up alone in this place.’

     I laugh softly, ignoring the pain it causes, ‘I’ve done it a thousand times before.’ 

___

 

I don’t know when but I fell asleep some time ago and when I woke up, Jon wasn’t there anymore, and I’ve been on my own since. So much for someone being there at all times. That was about a quarter of an hour ago. A doctor came along a couple minutes ago to see how I was, she checked the monitors around me and straightened my pillow and sheets a little, but that was it.

     But I had a strange dream that I’d never had before. I mean, I’ve dreamt of being with my mom, of being a kid again, of killing Jason or vice versa; but this was new and it was unsettling. It wasn’t particularly violent or scary; just… disturbing. My eyes were open but all I could see was darkness. I was feeling my way around but my hands kept touching sharp objects, and when I looked at them, I could see the blood dripping down my arms but nothing else, so I kept going and I kept bleeding. And then after a little while, I heard knocking. It was rapid, not slow, and echoing and resounding all around me, but no matter which direction I went in, I couldn’t find it. It got louder and louder and louder, so much so that it hurt but I still couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.

     So I was still blindly feeling my way around with my bleeding hands and then I touched a door handle. This was where the knocking was coming from. I rattled it but it won’t move because my palms were so slippery with blood. I called out ‘Hello?’ but no answer came. Just knocking; so hard that the hinges were being strained.

     I called again, ‘Hello?’ and then, ‘What do you want?’

     But there was no reply.

     Then I said, ‘Ryan?’ but that didn’t work, so I tried, ‘Mom?’ but that didn’t work either.

     Becoming increasingly frustrated, I started knocking back and then kicking, and still, the noise carried on. I wiped my bloody hands on my clothes and then cleaned the door handle with my shirt. I turned it and it opened.

     That was when it ended.

___

 

It’s about half past four, approximately two hours after waking up from my dream, and Spencer is just making his way over to me. He’s smiling but it’s anxious. He’s in his priest outfit and he takes a seat to my right.

     ‘Hey,’ he says timidly.

     I reply, ‘Hey.’

     He clears his throat as if he is about to speak but nothing comes out. I sigh and then he does the same. This painful silence carries on for another nine or ten seconds until I finally get bored and break the ice.

     ‘Where am I?’ I ask him and don’t realise how stupid I sound until a moment later. I haven’t thought about it till now. Am I in Mineral? Las Vegas? Back in Carson City? I really have no idea. When Jon was here earlier, just coming to terms with the fact that I wasn’t dead was confusing enough.

     But Spencer tells me I’m back in Vegas. Wonderful.

     ‘You’ve been in a coma for six days,’ he says. Now, that I didn’t know. ‘They kept you in Mineral for two days, then airlifted you back here.’

     ‘I’m going to prison as soon as I get out, aren’t I?’

     And then he smiles. ‘No.’




N/B: Sorry, I would have updated yesterday but the internet connection at my mum's house is rubbish and I was exhausted by the time I got home.

I've got some new glasses now though, so I can read all your lovely comments in style B)

Awesome new ones <-- They're my favourite (Y)
Awesome new ones
Ugly old ones

 

Today is my birthday. I’m seven. My mom has invited all the kids from my class over for a party but there isn’t a single person here who has said even one nice thing to me in the two years I’ve known them. They came because their mothers made them and one kid won’t stop crying, begging to be taken home. The rest seem to be enjoying the party food though. Jelly and ice cream, sandwiches, little sausages, all on cardboard crockery with plastic knives and forks… There are banners and streamers everywhere, and I can tell my mom really went all out on this. I owe it to her not to mention that none of these ungrateful little brats are my friends and I’m having a miserable time. She looks so happy.

     But the thing is, I’m not seeing all of this through the eyes of my seven year old self. I’m as I am now, and it’s like I’m just in the background, another guest at the party.

     Mom goes back into the kitchen and my dad is circling the table with a video camera. He keeps zooming in on me. He soon notices, though, how all the other boys and girls are talking amongst themselves and I’m just sat there staring at the bright yellow tablecloth with not even a smile on my face.

     ‘Come on, Brendon,’ he says. ‘It’s your birthday! Where’s that smile?’

     I look to him but my expression doesn’t change and he moves the camera away from his face to frown at me. But then my mom comes back in the room and she’s carrying my birthday cake. Jason lifts the camera again and my mom starts:

     ‘Happy birthday to you…’

     On the second line, everyone else joins in, though I doubt they even know who they’re singing to. She sets the cake down in front of me and it’s shaped like a baseball glove with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRENDON written in huge red icing letters across the middle along with seven candles.

     My mom grins, ‘Make a wish, sweetheart.’

     I wish you never left me.

 

*   *   *

 

People talking. What they’re saying, impossible to understand. Never mind.

 

*   *   *

 

September, three years later. I’m watching myself scribbling on my desk in English while Miss Broadhurst dumbs down Shakespeare for us. Instead of The king doth keep his revels here tonight, he’s having a party. Just make sure the Missus ain’t around because Oberon is pissed.

     Then the amplifier on the wall crackles. ‘Would Brendon Urie please report to the principal’s office,’ says the distorted voice of Mr Peterson’s assistant. ‘I repeat: Brendon Urie to the principal’s office.’

     Miss Broadhurst and I look at each other briefly. My blank, bored expression, her polite smile. She nods and I get up, scraping the legs of my chair across the floor as I go. I feel all the other kids’ eyes burning into the back of my head as I make my way to the door, but soon I am safely in the corridor, away from them.

     It’s about half past one on a Wednesday and there’s no one else around but me. Ryan will be in the cloakroom skipping Gym right now. Mr Peterson’s office is up two flights of stairs. He was the head teacher here before he had a stroke and couldn’t come back. He was the one member of staff at this school I never hated. I always thought he was funny.

     Anyway, so I get to his office and his assistant rests a comforting hand on my shoulder as she passes me in the doorway. Looking up at her, I see sorrow in her eyes. She carries on, wordlessly. Mr Peterson is sat behind his desk with a similar expression and, to my surprise, my father is with him. Face downcast, he opens his arms out to me.

     ‘Come here, Brendon,’ he says quietly.  

 

*   *   *

 

There are voices again, this time a little louder and closer. I can’t be sure, but I think someone says my name, and for a split second, bright lights distort my limited vision as my eyes open just a fraction. And then it’s gone.

 

*   *   *

 

When I’m fifteen, I’m arguing with Jason. He pushes me down the stairs and I cringe at the sound of my leg snapping. When I dare to look again, I’m lying unconscious on the floor at the bottom.

 

*   *   *

 

A blurry human-type shape stands over me dressed in pale blue. I don’t know what they’re doing.

 

*   *   *

 

Sixteen, I’m bunking off History to share a joint with Ryan. I have a black eye.

 

*   *   *

 

White noise and white lights.

 

*   *   *

 

Seventeen, I’m leaving flowers by her grave on what would have been Mother’s Day for her.

 

*   *   *

 

Seventeen again, Jason is screaming at me for being late home.

     Still seventeen, I’m ice skating for the first time with Ryan.

     Then he’s cleaning blood off my face.

     Then I’m collapsing in some stranger’s doorway with him on my back.

     Then he’s dying in my arms.

     Then I’m pushing Spencer out of the road.

     Then it ends.

 

*   *   *

 

‘Brendon?’ someone says. ‘You’re awake?’

     I’m breathing but I don’t think I’m the one doing it, and someone calls Nurse!

     Seconds later, someone else is sitting me up with their hand pressed against my back and then I’m settled back down again, my upper body raised a little. They remove what appears to be a tube from my throat and my mouth has the acrid taste of dry saliva. Think: hangover; only multiply that feeling of aching stiffness all through your body several hundred times.

     I try to speak but nothing comes out. I try to move but nothing happens. Everything is still so blurry and I can barely see a thing. The first someone tells me not to move, don’t strain yourself, and that seems like a wise idea to me.




N/B: I've finally finished this thing now; but I'm not going to tell you how many chapters there are...

Ta x
 

 

I get out of the car. Tears stream down my face as I slam the door and start walking back in the direction we came. The air dries them on my cheeks but more fall. I don’t look behind me but I can hear Spencer stepping out the vehicle as well to chase after me.

     ‘Brendon, what’re you doing?’ he says.

     ‘I’m gonna throw myself off this fucking cliff.’

     ‘Brendon! Don’t even joke! Get back here right now and get in the car!’

     Who does he think he is, talking to me like that? My mother? Oh right, she’s dead. And Ryan’s dead. And I’m going to be dead just as soon Jason gets his hands on me. Unless I get there first, of course. So I keep going, closer and closer towards the edge and nothing is stopping me. Soon, I will be with her and I will be with him again. I will have left everything behind. Although, ironically, everything I have is nothing. Fuck Jason, fuck Vegas and fuck spending the rest of my life alone. To hell with all of it. I can’t do it, not without Ryan. I thought I could trust him to stay with me forever and ever, but he went and ruined that by dying.

     Meanwhile, Spencer is approaching me, cautiously holding his arms out and begging me to come back before I get hurt. Ha, listen to him. Before I get hurt? I hate to it break to you, buddy, but it’s a little late for that. Seven years too late.

     ‘Please, Brendon,’ he carries on, ‘let me help you.’

     Oh, you want to help me? Why don’t you try turning back the clock to when I was eight years old and everything was perfect? When my father loved me, when my mother was still alive, when we were a family. When I had Ryan. I could have had baby brothers and little sisters, I could have had friends, I could have had a normal childhood.

     But no.

     Apparently that’s too much to ask for. Closer now.

     Spencer steps off the road, keeping his distance at about three metres from me. His eyes are wide and this is the first time I’ve noticed what colour they are. They’re blue. Calm and soft. And I find myself unable to look away from him. The desperation in his face is painful, and it saddens me to think that I actually have the power to make one look at another with such distress.

     ‘Please don’t do this,’ he continues, but I am still reluctant to back away from the cliff’s edge and I remain simply staring back at him.

     After a moment, I turn and I look down. I see trees, I see rock, and I see my death. It’s disturbingly appealing but at the same time, terrifying and repulsive. My stomach jumps a little when the wind falters my balance. The tip of my shoe causes some bits of rock to crumble away over the edge and land somewhere between the bottom and where I’m standing. But I don’t move.

     I look back to Spencer who appears to have stopped. I think he can tell what’s going through my head and he knows I’m bluffing. Or at least he thinks he does. I’m not even sure.

     I exhale, impatiently, though I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Perhaps for me to make up my mind, go back to Vegas or go and join Ryan? The latter is obviously the only thing I want to do more than anything else in the world, no matter how inexplicably infuriated I am with him for keeping his little secret from me; but like Spencer said, it would be pointless. Not like Ryan’s death. He died for a reason. Granted, it was a stupid reason that I will never understand – he wasted his life to help me – but it was important to him. Who could possibly benefit from my death? Jason would be out one punch bag and my teachers would be missing a scapegoat. Not to mention I will have let my best friend down. Again.

     Calmly, Spencer pleads, ‘Come back to the car, Brendon.’

     Okay. Okay, I’ll get back in the car. I’ll go back to Vegas; but acknowledge that this is not for my sake. This is for Ryan and his last wish for me to be safe. This is for my mother and the life she gave me that I haven’t had a chance to live yet.

     Okay. I’ll go home.

     I take a small step toward Spencer and his posture straightens. He smiles a little. Opening his arms once more to me, he says, ‘That’s it. It’s alright.’

     I think of Ryan and the ice rink at the cathedral.

     And I don’t know what it is, but something catches my attention, like a heightened sense of foreboding. My ears twitch ever so slightly and I feel the hairs on the back of neck prickle. My hands sweat. Goose bumps rise over my skin and I shiver.

     The wind is heavier now and it whistles loudly around me, but something is about to happen and I can hear it, feel it, smell it; all but see it. I just know it’s there and it’s getting nearer.

     Nearer.

     Nearer.

     I look to Spencer who seems to be oblivious to it. His focus is on me and me only, but there’s something wrong and I can’t just stand here and let it happen. Maybe it’s Ryan talking to me, maybe he’s warning me – still trying to protect me. I knew he’d never leave. Or maybe it’s my mom. But whatever it is, consciously, I’m not doing anything and no matter what this impending threat might be, I need to do something because there sure as hell isn’t anyone else around to do it. I glance to my right and then bring my gaze back to the man standing opposite me.

     ‘Get out of the way,’ I tell him.

     ‘What?’

     ‘Move.’ And then it happens. ‘NOW!’

     No past, no present, no future.

     Everything and nothing.



N/B: *sarcastically* Hmm... I wonder what could have happened. I don't do suspense well.

Yikes, it's been a while. Sorry guys, I've been so busy. I'm on Easter break now though, and I'm not back at uni till the 27th.

Thanks x
 

 

It’s the early hours of January 1^st and I’m just about to say my goodbyes to Jon and Greta. They didn’t want me to go in broad daylight, so it was suggested that I leave during night-time, calmly and peacefully, so now Spencer is loading mine and Ryan’s bags into the backseat of his car.

     Yesterday, the four of us had a long talk. With Ryan no longer around, I decided that I can’t keep up this joke of an escape and the best thing I could do would be to turn myself in, do whatever time I have to and stick it out with Jason until I can leave; after all, I’ll be 18 in April. I’ve handled the kicks, the punches and the ongoing verbal abuse for the past seven and a half years; what’s another few months? Still, that was before I ran away with all his money and told him to go fuck himself. This time he might actually kill me. But at least then I’d be with Ryan and my mother.

     But who’s to say that I’ll even be able to leave when I’m 18? There’s no knowing what verdict the courts will settle on. They might order that I stay at home until they decide I’m ready to leave. I could be there till I’m 21. Or older. But maybe if I can prove to them Jason’s “unique” parenting style, I can be legally emancipated or something. If I want to do that, though, I’d need Ryan. He was the only one who really knew what went on. Sometimes, he was even a witness of it.

     It’s all well and good for Spencer and his family to say they’ll help out however they can, but the fact is they assisted two criminals in hiding after stealing over $2000 and then lied to the cops about it. They’re probably in about as much trouble as I am.

     Wordlessly, Spencer rests a hand on my shoulder and looks down at me with mournful eyes. Time to go. They’d tried to convince me to stay or, at the very least, try and think of some other way to get out of this but they weren’t going to persuade me. I said to them, if I ever want to leave my father, I’m going to have to prove to the court that I am mature enough to do so, and that’s not going to happen if I keep running away.

     ‘Just… please look after yourself, won’t you?’ Greta says.

     ‘I’ll do my best.’

     Jon smiles sadly, ‘You’ll be in our prayers.’

     I smile back and hug them both. ‘I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me and Ryan. He’d be so grateful.’

     ‘We know. Good luck, Brendon.’

     We hug again and I kiss Greta on the cheek.

     ‘Bye,’ I say, and I follow Spencer to the car.

 

*   *   *

 

It’s a good seven, eight hour drive from Carson City to Las Vegas; nine depending on traffic, and even longer when we have to keep taking detours to avoid being seen. And of course, we’ve had to stop for bathroom breaks and food.

     I’m so scared, I can’t even cry. I can’t look anywhere else except at the dashboard. I wonder if Ryan’s parents know yet – know that he’s dead, that is. I doubt they will, but I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. If they know already, they’re going to blame me. If they don’t, then that’s another obstacle to get through before I can even begin getting my life back on track. But thinking about it, I’m not sure if things will ever get any better. I’m a criminal now. I’m a thief. I led my only friend to his death. I’m going to be ridiculed and hated for the rest of my life. If only Ryan had any idea how lucky he is now.

     We’re driving through Mineral at the moment and the wind is strong. Spencer and I have barely said a word to each other and all we have said has been petty small talk. This is a peaceful road cut out of a mountain and there is a warm winter sun overhead melting the snow. If I look to my right, I see the rock face; to my left, oblivion. Jagged rocks and a cliff so steep, I can’t tell where it ends.

     I’ve already fallen asleep a few times; I must be pretty lousy company. Still, there’s something bothering me, and it has been since… Well. For the past few days. So far, there hasn’t been an appropriate time to ask but I have to know.

     ‘Did she know?’

     Spencer, obviously accustomed to the silence by now, is mildly startled when I speak and the car swerves just slightly.

     ‘Hmm?’

     ‘Greta. Did she know?’

     ‘Did she know what?’

     ‘You know what.’

     I see his head droop a little and already I know his answer but I wait for an explanation. The vehicle slows and he pulls over to the side of the road but not once does he look at me. He sighs.

     ‘She knew,’ he says. ‘We all did.’

     I don’t say anything.

     ‘Greta’s been in medicine for seven years. She knew something was wrong the moment she saw him. She approached in him private and he told her everything but he made us promise not to tell-’

     ‘So all of you knew before I did?’

     ‘Brendon, please. He told her how he’d been receiving treatment back in Las Vegas but the virus had spread… There was nothing we could do.’

     And suddenly, I hate him. I hate them all. How could Ryan possibly keep this from me, after all we’ve been through together?

     My breath becomes heavier, my brow tightens and my teeth clench. I’ve never known this kind of anger before. I’ve never experienced this betrayal. My father turning against me out of grief was one thing, but Ryan was all I had left.

     I’m not upset. I’m just angry. And then I just explode.

     ‘I am so sick of everybody thinking they can shield me from every little thing!’

     The expression on Spencer’s face is painful but right now, I couldn’t care less who I hurt.

     ‘Ryan wanted to protect me? Well, where the fucking hell was he when I got raped? Where was he the last time Jason put me in the hospital? And where’s he gonna be when I go to prison, huh? And now his family are going to shut me out forever! He died because of me and I have nothing left!’

N/B: UGH!! Soooo sorry, guys, it's been ages! I've just been so busy lately, with uni, with all the shit that's going on at home... I literally reached my limit the other day. Everything had just been building up and I was suppressing it, and then some jackass made some tiny little comment and that was it. That pushed me over the edge and I didn't stop crying for about an hour.

Sorry again. Thanks for reading x

 

My heart sinks down to my stomach, churning it round and round to the point of nausea and all I can do is stare at him, body frozen, face blank. Something is telling me that this is all just some kind of sick, bizarre nightmare; but the physicality of the pain that is twisting and slowly tearing my heart in two feels so real I can barely breathe. But if this isn’t a dream, then there is only one other logical explanation I can think of:

     ‘You’re lying.’

     Tears start to form in Ryan’s eyes, magnifying the beautiful hazel retinas within which I see his dilating pupils. The skin surrounding them is dark and thin, but still there remains the loving comfort I’ve always found in them, that I’ve always found in him. And as he stares back at me, I wonder what he sees in my eyes. Denial. Fear. Regret. He knows what’s going through my head right now: that if I hadn’t been so easily coaxed into running away, this wouldn’t be happening.

     He whispers, ‘Don’t be scared, Brendon. You knew we’d have to go our separate ways eventually.’

     I lock my arms around him. ‘But not like this!’ I cry out, fresh tears suddenly spilling down my cheeks. ‘You can’t leave me! Not now!’

     ‘Brendon, I stayed so I could get you away from that place, and I’ve done that. I’ve taken you this far but you’re going to have to make the rest of the way alone.’

     I heave a few times and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. ‘But you’re all I have left.’

     ‘Don’t make this harder than it is, Brendon!’ He starts to cry a little heavier now. ‘The moment I found out what was wrong, I knew I was going to die, but I didn’t care about that and I still don’t care now. All I care about is you, Brendon, you. I love you.’

     ‘I love you… Please don’t leave me. I don’t- I don’t want my last memory of you to be like this…’

     And then, ever so faintly, he smiles, and it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Modest, humble; Ryan. He takes one last deep breath: ‘We’ll always have Vegas.’

___

 

Ryan died that morning. Everything after the last few words we said to each other is a blur; just… screaming. That’s all I can remember: screaming and someone holding onto me so tight, it hurt. I think I may have passed out at that point; slipped into a state of unconscious nothingness and woke up several hours later to the same thing. No future, no present, no Ryan. Nothing.

     But I guess, when I think about, I should have seen it coming. After all, it’s always the ones who have never laid a finger on another living thing, never sought revenge, never even had the chance to actually live life; they’re always the ones who go first and pay for everyone else’s mistakes. And the ones who curse and draw blood – they’re the ones who triumph over everyone else. Always.

     So here I am again: three o’clock in the morning, coming up thirty-two hours since he passed, with both our bags packed and ready. I’m going back. Ryan should be buried in Vegas where he belongs, where his family can say goodbye to him properly before they lock him in a wooden box six feet under the earth for all eternity. I can’t carry on without him. He was all I had and now he’s gone, so what’s the point? I’ll just go home to Vegas and stay there. Jason can do whatever the hell he wants because nothing matters anymore. It doesn’t fucking matter.

     I just wish he’d told me before. I almost want to hate him a little for keeping it from me for so long. But then I think about what he said to me the night we left: I just want to protect you. That’s why he never said anything.

     The coroner came about an hour later, so by the time they have proof of identification, they’ll be after me like a pack of dogs, but I don’t want to go that way. I’ll turn myself in, serve whatever punishment I’m given for all the money we stole and go home with Jason.

     I kiss my mother’s picture once more before slipping it in my pocket and check the time: 3:17AM. I turn my head and look one last time at the home Spencer, Jon and Greta welcomed us into with open arms and with a heavy sigh, I reach for the door handle. 

     ‘Brendon?’ Spencer is standing behind me in his dressing gown and hair a mess. ‘What’re you doing?’

     ‘I’m leaving before I can cause any more trouble for you and your family. I’m sorry. Thank you for… for everything. Goodnight.’

     I manage to unlock the door and open it a fraction but that’s when I break down, drop my bags and fall to my knees. With my hand still on the door, Spencer quietly closes it and kneels down by my side. He holds me close to his chest and gently rocks me, his lips pressing into my hair while my fingers claw at his clothes.

     ‘It’s not fair!’ I cry and he hushes me. ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair!’

     ‘I know, Brendon, I know…’

     ‘He was a good person! He was a good person and he didn’t deserve to die! Why did he have to die?!’

     ‘Brendon, you have to understand that AIDs is a horrible, horrible illness. Now, there’s no use in beating yourself up for this. He knew what was going to happen and he accepted that; and I know it’s going to be hard, but you have to accept it too.’ I can hear his voice breaking as he starts to cry and he holds me even tighter. ‘So please, Brendon, please think for just a moment. You know Ryan wouldn’t have wanted you to go back to your father; otherwise, this all would have been pointless. He spent his last few days on this earth trying to get you someplace where you would be safe and happy. Going back to where you started would be completely going against all his efforts and everything he has ever wished for you.’

     I feel myself beginning to calm a little. He is absolutely right. If I go back, then that means the bad guys will have won. Jason, the police… They’re all waiting for me to give up and I’m not going to let that happen. If Ryan’s last wish is for me to be happy, then I’ll just have to keep fighting until I am. The problem is, I’m not sure I can be happy without him. He was the only one who could make me smile and mean it.

     I compose myself as much as I can and ask Spencer simply, ‘How?’

     ‘Me, Jon and Greta will be with you every step of the way,’ he promises. ‘And so will Ryan.’




 

Shameless Self-Promotion

 

Jon had hidden our bags outside while the police were here and brought them back in once they’d left. I said to Ryan we were lucky this time and we can’t let that happen again. I still can’t believe how close we were to getting caught and he agreed that we need to start moving again. No more slipping out to the shops in broad daylight, no more going out for a smoke; we need to get as far away from here as possible.

     I’m actually becoming a little concerned about Ryan though. I’m worried his “bug” might be turning into something a little more serious. All that time spent out in the cold… It might be the early signs of pneumonia or hypothermia. He insists he’s fine, but ever since we got here, I’ve noticed things; like the way he clutches at his chest whenever he coughs, he is constantly exhausted and lacking strength and energy. And he looks different as well. Sallow and pale. He isn’t healthy but he won’t tell me what’s wrong. He’s either trying to protect me from fear or he’s in complete denial. Maybe it’s both.

     I knew running away was a bad idea but we have no choice now. If we’re found, we’ll be arrested for sure, but I need to get Ryan help. Maybe I could go on and leave him here with Spencer, Jon and Greta; they’d take care of him. After all, Greta’s a nurse. I’ve never been on my own before but if it means helping him, then so be it. I’ve already lost one family member; I don’t want to lose Ryan as well.

     I’m in Spencer’s room packing my things at the moment; I’ve left Ryan asleep on Jon’s bed, he needs to rest. Neither of us has any idea where we’re going next but we have to leave tonight, tomorrow at the latest.

     I’m just doing up the zip of my backpack when Greta approaches me. She clears her throat politely and I turn to see her standing in the doorway behind me.

     ‘This was in your pocket when I washed your clothes,’ she says. ‘I forgot to give it back to you.’

     From where I’m standing, it just looks like a worn piece of paper but when she hands it to me, I realise it’s my mother’s picture. The modest smile disappears from my face as I delicately take it from her. Slowly, I sit down on the mattress next to my bag and just stare into my mother’s eyes. As I carefully brush my fingers over her face, I feel my eyes start to sting and she blurs a little. Greta settles down beside me and rubs my back.

     ‘What was her name?’

     ‘Beth,’ I answer quietly and I feel a lump begin to form in my throat. ‘She died in an accident when I was ten.’

     I don’t think Greta can understand a thing I’m saying now. My words slur as they spill from my mouth, mixing with the tears that slide onto my lips.

     I’ve never wanted my mother more than I do right now. I just want her to hold me in her arms and tell me she loves me more than anything else in the world, the way a mother should. I just want to tell her I love her one last time. When she didn’t come home that day, it was like the world ended. Everything just stopped. There was no present, no future; only the past. All that happened after that day was obsolete: every punch my dad gave me, every detention I sat, every name I got called in school… None of it has ever mattered since she left because without her, there is nothing. And if I lose Ryan too, I will have less than nothing.

     ‘Brendon, Brendon, shh, calm down,’ Greta whispers, clinging onto me so tightly, I can barely breathe. ‘It’s alright.’

     I calm a little but I’ve never felt more pathetic in my life. I’ve held this all together for almost eight years; why now? Why in front of someone I barely know?

     ‘I never even got to say goodbye…’

     ‘Brendon, I may not have known your mother, but I know that if she were still here now, she would be so proud of you. She knows you love her.’

     It doesn’t matter whose mouth those words come from; hers, Ryan’s or anyone else’s… The fact is, she’s gone. Nothing is ever going to bring her back and I’m terrified the same is going to happen to Ryan. I can’t lose him as well. I just can’t. It’s not fair.

     Then a moment later, someone says: ‘Brendon?’ It’s Jon. I look up and he’s standing just next to the door. He frowns at me and says, ‘Ryan wants you to come and see him.’

     Reluctantly, I get up and Greta gives me one last reassuring pat on the back before I leave. Both she and Jon follow me as I head for the room Ryan has been staying in but neither of them comes inside, and Spencer waits with them. Ryan is lying on his back on the bed and when I see the state he’s in, I feel like I could be sick. His skin is practically white, glossed over with a feverish sweat and his eyes… Well, it’s like there’s hardly any life left in them at all.

     ‘Brendon?’ he groans and I kneel down beside him and take his hand. ‘Why are you crying?’

     I sniff and fresh tears begin to fall down my cheeks. ‘Just thinking about Mom,’ I reply. ‘Ryan, what’s going on? What’s wrong with you?’

     ‘Look, Bren, there’s no use in me trying to hide this anymore.’ His voice is so weak, it’s barely audible. He’s in pain. ‘I’m sick.’

     ‘You can get better.’

     ‘No, Brendon, it’s not that kind of sick…’

     ‘What do you mean?’

     He takes a deep, agonising breath and I tighten my grip around his trembling fingers. ‘You know how I’ve… Well, I’ve never been with a girl?’ he says.

     ‘Yeah…’

     ‘Well… About a year ago, I was diagnosed HIV positive…’

     And with that, it happens and something inside of me explodes. This is it, this is where it stops. No present, no future; just past. With no Ryan there is no anything; less than nothing. And as his chest rises and falls with every excruciating breath he takes, I feel my whole world begin to crash down right in front of me once again.





N/B: Sorry, guys...

But on the plus side, we got a teeny-tiny bit of snow at university yesterday. We never get snow. Took this from my bedroom window...
 

 

Meeting with my two-timing mother tonight. Wish me luck...

 

A few days later, early evening, while everybody is sitting idly in the living room, there’s a knock at the door. Ryan and I discard the magazine we’d been reading, Greta stops her sewing and Jon sets down his newspaper. Everyone looks at each other anxiously. Seconds later, Spencer appears from the kitchen and says to Jon:

     ‘Go and take them up to the attic.’

     The other man then folds the paper and leads us out the room. We follow him upstairs to his bedroom, where Ryan has been sleeping, and in the corner is a chest of drawers. The décor is similar to that of every other room in the house: soft cream-yellow with sandstone coloured carpets; but Jon is now pulling the cabinet out from the wall.

     ‘Boys, give me a hand with this,’ he says and we help him move it.

     Behind the drawers is a small door, about two feet high, that opens upwards and Jon lifts it to let us in. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Jon tells us to get in and keep quiet; the police won’t find us in here. Once we’ve crawled inside, he closes the door and we hear him push the cabinet back in front of it.

     The attic is just like anyone else’s: dark, cramped and dusty with boxes of useless shit everywhere. In the middle of the floor is a vent through which we can see and hear everyone moving around in the living room below and Spencer is just opening the door. I can’t make out clearly what’s going on but I can see uniforms.

     ‘Good evening, sir,’ says a female voice. The tone is confident and formal, almost unlike a woman’s. ‘I’m Detective Sarah Bird and this is Officer Adam Pritchard. I apologise if this is an inconvenient time but I’ll make our visit as quick as possible.

     ‘We’re from the North Las Vegas Police Department and we’re looking for two young men – friends – who are believed to have been seen around this area.’

     Tucked under her arm, I can just about see, is an A4 brown envelope which she hands to Spencer. He opens it and pulls out two colour portrait photographs, one of me and one of Ryan. She carries on talking.

     ‘George Ryan Ross III – goes by “Ryan” – and Brendon Boyd Urie: Both are between 5’8” and 5’10” with a slender build. Their parents reported them missing on Tuesday, December 21^st after Urie allegedly stole approximately one-thousand dollars from his father. Since then, another robbery has been reported from the owner of a motel in Reno. It is thought that Ross and Urie checked in under fake names, stayed until Christmas Eve, then broke into the manager’s office and took another twelve-hundred dollars before heading towards Carson City. We’ve had three phone calls from residents in this area claiming they’ve seen the two teens around this particular location.

     ‘Now, you are Reverend Spencer James Smith, yes?’

     Spencer answers nervously, ‘That is correct.’

     ‘And you share this house with your brother and sister? Jon and Greta?’

     ‘Yes.’

     There is a short pause in which Officer Pritchard writes something down in a small notebook but Detective Bird then asks if they might have a quick look around the house. Ryan and I remain perfectly still and in absolute silence, peering through the gaps in the vent and breathing as quietly as we possibly can. Spencer stands aside and lets Bird and Pritchard into the house. Bird is slim and attractive with dark brown hair tied in a tight ponytail, though there is something oddly masculine about her. Pritchard is tall, well-built and has much fairer hair. He strikes me as gentler than his partner.

      For a little while, they remain in our vision, checking, it would seem, every little detail of the living room and then I remember: the magazine. Bird spots it and I cringe. She reads the cover:

     ‘Performing Arts USA – may I ask who this belongs to?’

     Jon steps in. ‘Oh, that’s mine, I bought that.’

     He’d got the magazine for Ryan, and I just know Bird can tell he’s lying. Our fingerprints will be all over it and they’ll want to take it with them. And then I remember our bags. Mine is still in Spencer’s room and Ryan’s is probably somewhere in Jon’s. If they find them, that’s it. We’ll get sent back to Vegas, and Spencer, Jon and Greta will all get into trouble. I wonder if perhaps Spencer’s occupation will be taken into consideration; after all, Spencer’s a priest, he wouldn’t lie just to cover for us… And maybe that’s what will happen. They’ll tell them the truth.

     ‘Bird,’ says Pritchard, ‘I’m going to look upstairs.’

     Ryan and I suddenly look at each other, eyes wide and full of panic; and sure enough, within a few seconds, we hear footsteps climbing the stairs, and all I can do is pray that Jon remembered to hide our bags.

     For a few minutes, we don’t really see or hear anything. Greta remains in the living room with Jon while Spencer sits down on the sofa looking at our two photographs. I can only imagine what’s going through his head – that he, a vicar, has let criminals into his home; and even after all he and his siblings had done for us, we couldn’t even tell them the whole truth; they had to find out for themselves. I won’t blame them if they just want to hand us over to the authorities.

     Suddenly though, we hear Jon’s bedroom door open and then Pritchard clearing his throat. My entire body freezes, paralysed with fear and I daren’t even breathe. One of my fingers twitches ever so slightly and I panic that someone has heard it. We keep listening as Pritchard checks through Jon’s wardrobe and then kneel on the floor to look under the bed for anything suspicious. All I can think about is where our bags could have possibly been hidden and then we hear the chest of drawers being opened and my heart jumps into my mouth. Both of us keep stock still as he pries through every single one. After a little while though, when he doesn’t seem to have found anything, he leaves.

     ‘Nothing upstairs,’ he calls to Bird from the landing, and I find myself almost grinning.

     Bird sighs irritably, ‘Okay. Well, we have the magazine – we can get that checked for fingerprints… You’re off the hook for now, Reverend, but I think we’ll be seeing you again soon. Thank you for your time. Pritchard, let’s go.’





PLEASE READ:

I'm really sorry for putting this on hold and I feel I owe you an explanation.

About six months ago, I found out that my mum had been seeing someone else - my dad's best friend. Incredibly long story short, she's run off with him, and me and brothers have been trying to keep our dad from doing something stupid.

So, after 32 years of marriage, my parents have split up and my mum doesn't seem to realise the damage she has done or even give a shit...



Happy times. Thanks for not giving up on this x
 

 

Ryan and I have been staying with Spencer’s family (in Carson City, I now know) for three days now and they’re the nicest people I’ve ever met. I’m actually sort of embarrassed about how nervous I get when any of them talks to me. I trip over my words, my voice goes higher and my hands sweat. They must think I’m weird. And I’ve never known any religious people before. My mom tried to get me to go to church when I was a kid but video games seemed far more stimulating, and Jason never gave it a second thought. But one time when I was about six years old, I was watching something on TV and it was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen – this psycho priest screaming at these little kids that they’re all sinners and will burn in hell for all eternity. That’s what put me off

     But Spencer, Jon and Greta aren’t like that at all. I was asking Greta about why she believes in all that stuff and she said it’s comforting to know that however alone, lost or scared she feels sometimes, that there’s always someone looking out for her and watching over her and her brothers. She told me their parents were both Christian as well and this house used to be theirs, but they both died when she was about my age. She never told me what happened but I didn’t want to ask. Likewise, she didn’t ask about my mother.

     Yesterday morning, after the Christmas service, she showed us around the place; a small village called Rosalind just outside the city. Apparently, it was named after the wife of the guy who founded it back in the fifteenth century or something like that. There’s a park, a hospital, a few stores, a market every Tuesday, but it’s mostly older people who live here. In fact, I’ve only seen about three kids so far and none of them looked older than about five. Greta said a lot of retirees move here to get away from the city because it’s so peaceful. I think Ryan and I should be okay for now.

     At the moment though, we’re just walking back to the house. After Greta gave us a tour, Ryan wanted to pick up a packet of cigarettes, which we’re slowly making our way through, and all we’re doing is talking about how easy things were when we were kids.

     It’s been a while since we’ve been able to do walk out in the open air instead of hiding away in some dark, shoddy craphole that reeks of dead animals, and it makes a nice change. I tell him I still remember the day I first met him. I was eight, he was nine. His mom and mine had forced us to sign up for the school soccer team because they said it would be a good social experience (neither of us had any friends) but nobody wanted us in their team and they already had enough players. Coach told us to sit out the first game and he’d fit us in to the next one. That’s how I met Ryan.

     ‘Oh, those ridiculous glasses you used to wear,’ he laughs. ‘Fucking bright red magnifying glasses! What made you switch to contacts?’

     ‘Because they were fucking bright red magnifying glasses.’

     ‘Ha-ha! Ooh, Brendon; thank fuck for you!’ He drapes an arm around my shoulder. I wrap my arm around his waist and even with a thick coat on, I can’t believe how thin he is.

     ‘Ryan, dude, you need to eat more.’ I try to sound as casual as I can because I don’t want to spoil the most fun we’ve had in days; but he knows what I’m trying to do and he starts slowly steering away from my remark to avoid a discussion about it.

     ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

     ‘For what?’

     ‘For everything. All I wanted to do was help you and get you away from that place, but all I’ve done is made things worse.’

     I let go of him and stand away from him a little. ‘Ryan, what’re you talking about? I love it here. Spencer’s family are wonderful people.’

     ‘Brendon, you got raped!’

     ‘Well, that… Ryan, that doesn’t matter now, okay? Let’s just forget about it. No one knows we’re here; we’re safe, there’s nothing to worry-’

     I cut off when I hear someone call our names. It’s Jon and he’s motioning for us to come inside. We hurry back in and follow him through the house. He’s panicked and I think I can guess what’s happened. My fears are confirmed when he leads us into the kitchen and Spencer and Greta are sat round the table with a newspaper in front of them.

     ‘You never told us you’re on the run from the law,’ Greta says, looking at Ryan, and the expression on her face is pure agony – a perfect picture of someone who has been betrayed. ‘The police are looking for you.’

     No one says a thing for the most uncomfortable eight seconds of my life. I start to feel lightheaded when I realise I’m not breathing and my mouth is so dry, I can’t get a word out.

     ‘L-Look,’ Ryan stutters, ‘I- I can explain. If you knew what Brendon’s father was like, you’d understand. He- He hits him and yells at him… He locks him in cupboards and starves him. You have no idea what he’s like!’

     Spencer tries to interrupt, ‘Ryan, please…’

     ‘I know we stole some money, but he got raped, damn it! Come on, you guys are religious – an eye for eye, right?’

     I’m shaking now and I still can’t bring myself to utter even a single word while Ryan spills out every black mark on my past. I feel the acid burn sickly in my stomach and I start to sweat; everything in the room becomes blurry and I have to kneel on the floor just so I don’t black out. Ryan carries on but nothing he says makes any sense as it all just becomes a distant echo. I’m faintly aware that I must be mumbling something because Jon is now crouching beside me and trying to calm me down. And suddenly, everything stops.

     Spencer yells ‘That’s enough!’ and Ryan silences. Spencer then takes several deep breaths and for a while, everyone just looks at him, waiting for him to say something. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assures us. ‘We won’t let them find you.’





N/B: Everyone's so suspicious of Spencer (that's kind of awkward to say...)! Honestly, he's a good guy in this one!

And yes, 'Rosalind' is a completely fictitious place.

EDIT:


I'm postponing this for a while. There is some serious shit going on
at home at the moment and it's pretty fucking hard to be there for the people I love when I'm miles away from them.

I'm sorry to everyone reading this. I hope you can understand.

 

I finish the drink Greta made me and slide out of bed. This room may be warm but the sudden absence of the duvet hits me like ice cold water as soon as I set my feet on the floor.

     I have no idea what the rules are in this place but just to be safe, I make the bed.

     My joints are painfully stiff and my lips feel dry and sore from the harsh weather. I then catch my reflection in a mirror and see small cuts and redness on my cheeks where the wind has damaged the skin. I touch them and they sting but not too badly, and they feel as if someone has already tended to them.

     I can’t believe how lucky we were to have found somewhere warm to spend the night. If we’d stayed out, I honestly don’t think we would have survived much longer. Ryan certainly wouldn’t have.

     I make my way carefully down the stairs and follow the sound of voices. Clattering noises, like cups and plates being moved around, suggest to me that everyone must be in the kitchen, and sure enough, when I find the right room, there are three people sat at a table, Ryan in the middle. To his left is a man, seemingly mid-thirties, with neatly combed blonde-brown hair and a round face. He appears to be dressed all in black, save for the white collar. Clearly he’s a priest.

     To Ryan’s right is another man with darker hair and a light beard. Greta is clearing up. As soon as Ryan notices me, he jumps up from his chair and hurries over to where I’m standing, throwing his arms around my neck.

     ‘I was so worried about you,’ he tells me, laughing slightly, and I loosely hug him back. ‘I woke up and I just had no idea where I was, y’know? And you weren’t there, but you’re okay and that’s all that matters and I’m sorry I yelled at you.’

     I can’t think of anything to say; I’m perfectly happy to stay just as we are, with his arms protectively wrapped around me. But then the priest clears his throat, obviously trying to attract our attention and Ryan stands back.

     ‘Sorry. Brendon, this is Spencer.’ He gestures to the priest. ‘This is Jon and their sister Greta.’

     ‘Hi,’ I say nervously and they exchange the pleasantry.

     ‘Would you like something to eat, Brendon?’ Greta asks. ‘I’m making oatmeal if you’d like some.’

     ‘That- That sounds… wonderful,’ I reply, positively astounded by the ongoing generosity of these people. ‘Thank you so much.’

     ‘Not at all. Have a seat.’

     I nod and pull up a chair so I’m face to face with the other two. Ryan sits beside me but still all I manage to do is smile awkwardly.

     ‘So, Brendon,’ Jon says. ‘Ryan says you two are runaways?’

     I whip my head round and stare at my friend with wide eyes. He told them? How much did he say? He’s going to blow our cover and they’ll turn us in to the police. Not only have we completely and spontaneously abandoned our families on some juvenile whim, but we’ve stolen hundreds and hundreds of dollars. Whether or not I believe it was justified it is irrelevant; in the eyes of the law, we’re criminals.

     ‘It’s okay, Brendon,’ Spencer assures. ‘Ryan has explained everything and we totally understand; you’ve been through a lot and we want to help. I mean, Jon works for the Samaritans charity, Greta’s a nurse and I’m a vicar. None of us would be very good at our jobs if we just turned you away.’ He laughs softly and I find myself beginning to calm. Although, however more relaxed I might feel, I am at a complete loss of what to say. My lips move as if I want to speak but all that comes out is senseless stuttering.

     ‘I… I honestly can’t thank you enough,’ I say after a while. ‘This is just… It’s the kindest thing anyone could ever do for us. But we really don’t wanna cause any inconvenience to you so we’ll be on our way as soon as we can. But thank you, just… Thank you.’

     Jon smiles, ‘It is our absolute pleasure. And don’t think you’re causing us any inconvenience. You stay here as long as you need to, okay? We’re here to help.’

___

 

Later on, I’m back in the room I slept in, which actually belongs to Spencer but he crashed on the couch. I’ve since learnt that this house has no TV so I’m just sitting on the bed and counting how much of my dad’s money I have left: exactly $887. That means I’ve only spent just over a hundred so far – food, transport and whatever else.

     I wonder if Spencer and his family really know everything because I don’t know what Ryan has told them. And that gets me wondering where the hell Ryan was yesterday morning. He still hasn’t said a word. I distinctly remember him coming back with a brown bag but he never showed me what was in it.

     Right now though, Spencer is at the church taking some Christmas Day service. Greta went with him but Jon agreed to stay here with us. He probably thinks we’re not trustworthy, which, I suppose, is a fair assumption, but at least we’re safe for now. I gather up the money, put it back in my bag and then someone knocks on the door.

     ‘Yeah?’

     Shyly, Ryan steps into the room and sits down on the mattress in front of me. For a moment, he just stares at me in complete silence with sorry eyes and a sad smile. Then suddenly, he pulls me into another hug but he’s trembling.

     ‘Are you cold?’ I ask him.

     ‘No. Just that bug. It’s throwing me way off… Anyway, I got you a present.’

     ‘What? Where? And why?’

     ‘Because that’s what people do at Christmas – they do nice things for each other. Here…’

     He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the brown paper bag he had with him yesterday. With a confused look, I take it from him and he inclines his head, gesturing that I open it. I unfold the top and inside are three mince pies.

     I laugh, ‘Mince pies? Where did you even get these?’

     He shrugs. ‘St Paul’s church was having a Christmas stall and they were handing out free food. There were four but I ate one.’

     ‘Ryan, I can’t accept this; I haven’t got you anything.’

     ‘Are you kidding? Brendon, you saved my life last night. I don’t think a couple of pastries can compare with that!’

     ‘You would’ve done the same for me,’ I smile back. But then I pause. ‘You are doing the same for me.’




N/B: Mush...

Sorry, I would've posted this earlier but I had some work to do before my lecture this morning.

And I'm feeling kinda crappy today, so please make me smile with your lovely comments. Thanks x
 

 

We decided we can’t risk taking public transport and being seen so we’ve proceeded on foot to what looks like the middle of fucking nowhere – just road and snow. I’m pretty sure we’re still in Nevada, but bearing in mind Ryan’s passion for spontaneity and feeding me pot till I can’t stand on my own two legs anymore, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were on the fucking moon right now. It’s pitch black and we’ve stopped several times for power naps. Whilst Ryan was gone this morning, he managed to pick up (in other words, shoplift) a bit of food which we have been eating sparingly, but I don’t understand how that could take three hours and he seems reluctant to give me any kind of explanation as to what the hell he was doing while I was being raped by Santa Claus himself.

     ‘Ryan, I think I’m getting frostbite,’ I tell him.

     ‘Well, what do you want me to do, Brendon, huh? Fuck’s sake, how do you think I feel?’

     In all the years I’ve known him, he has never raised his voice in anger at me. I can’t say I blame him, this weather could freeze hell; but that said, this was his idea – to run away, and I am genuinely fearing for our lives out here.

     Suddenly though, he stops. In the moonlight, I see him dizzily sway around on the spot for a moment and then he collapses onto his front.

     ‘Shit, Ryan!’

     I kneel down next to him and roll him onto his back, shaking his shoulders and shouting at him again and again, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, wake up!. Nothing happens. I try mouth-to-mouth, I try pressing on his chest, I try anything I can think of but he doesn’t move.

     Off in the distance though, I hear a church bell start to ring and then I look down at my friend on the snowy, icy ground. Right now, I honestly couldn’t care less if we’re found or not; Ryan has jeopardised everything he has for me and it’s time I did the same for him. It’s not like my dad would give a crap whether I lived or died, but Ryan’s family would, and after all they’ve done for me, I owe them that much. Still, I need to figure out how I’m going to do this. Ryan’s taller than me and both of us have heavy backpacks. I can’t carry all three, though it looks like I might have to.

     My bag, I leave on my back, and I pick up Ryan’s and sling it over my front, which isn’t easy in a thick coat. I then consider how the fuck I’m going to get Ryan somewhere safe. The bell stops once it has sounded exactly ten times and I think, to hell with it. I hook my arms beneath his, like I’m hugging him, and sit him up; that’s easy. The hard part is going to be getting him off the ground. I take a deep breath and, on the count of three, I heave him to his feet, almost stumbling over at the unbalanced weight I’m now carrying. I stoop so he falls over the curve of my spine and, lifting him by his legs, I haul him onto my back.

     My legs nearly give way under the weight of it all but something in my mind just gives me the strength to stay standing. Whether it’s Ryan’s sacrifices, my mother’s love or the thought of returning to my father, I don’t know, but something is telling me that I cannot give up on this now.

     Steadying myself, I set off in the direction of the church bells which, conveniently, means crossing a field layered with about five inches of snow. Even after a few minutes, my clothes are so damp I can’t feel anything from the knee down, but I just keep telling myself this is for Ryan, this is for Ryan, this is for Ryan.

 

*   *   *

What feels like about three miles later, I reach the church but there’s no sign of anyone. I’m weary and on the verge of passing out but I refuse to stop until I can be assured Ryan is okay. I’m just worried that he hasn’t stirred once in the past hour and a half and if he’s already ill, I dread to think of what this weather could be doing to his drug-enhanced body.

     To my left though, about thirty yards away from the church, I see a house. All the lights are off except for one upstairs and I know this is my only option. But then the light goes out and with my legs threatening to give out beneath me at any second, I make a mad dash for the front door and ring the bell again and again until I hear movement from inside. Then I hear voices – three, by the sound of it but they’re muffled – and another light appears through the window of the door. I take a step back when someone starts playing with the lock. The door then opens and I am met by a man. It’s dark and I’m seconds away from unconsciousness so everything is just one big blur, and all I manage before I fall to my knees is a pathetic, ‘Help…’

___

 

When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I notice is the warmth of this room. My clothes have been replaced by pyjamas that, granted, are a little big for me, but I’m just thankful I’m not dead. But that gets me wondering if I really am dead and that this is some kind of weird afterlife situation I’ve never been told of. Some kind of limbo.

     The room is a soft yellow colour and it looks how a home should look: warm. And then I realise just how comfortable the bed is. The duvet is gold satin, matching the décor of the rest of the room and in the corner, I see my bag. I sit up and my limbs ache and feel stiff but I look to my right when I hear a door being quietly pushed open.

     ‘Oh, you’re awake. Thought you might want something warm to drink. You’re Brendon, right? I’m Greta.’

     I find myself staring at quite possibly the most beautiful woman I think I’ve ever seen in my life. Long honey coloured hair that spirals down past her shoulders, the most stunning pair of hazel eyes and the sweetest smile.

     ‘Uh, um… Brendon,’ I stammer, making a complete ass of myself. ‘Yes. I’m Brendon. Sorry. How- How do you know who I am?’

     ‘Well, we needed to know who we were letting into our house so I confess I had to check your wallet. But don’t worry; that’s all I looked at. I assure you, we don’t bite. Oh, and your friend is perfectly fine.’

     Ryan! The thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘He’s okay?’

     ‘Yeah, he woke up about an hour ago actually. That was a pretty awesome thing you did last night. He was asking after you so I thought I’d come up and see how you are.’

     ‘Oh… I’m fine.’

     ‘Cool! Now, why don’t you have your drink and then come downstairs and meet everybody properly; that sound alright?’

     ‘Sure. Thank you.’

     She smiles and sets the steaming mug down on the small cabinet beside me, on top of which, I notice, is a Bible; and the reason they didn’t order us off their property right away is now abundantly clear. She stops when she gets to the door.

     ‘Oh, and Brendon?’

     ‘Yeah?’

     ‘Happy Christmas.’

     I laugh a little. ‘Happy Christmas.’




N/B: Squee! I'm sorry, I just can't get through a fic without including Greta. She's so bubbly and sweet, I love her!

Anyway, is it just me, or is Keltie seriously beginning to get on anyone else's nerves? I never had a problem with her before but I'm inclined to say I almost don't blame Ryan for what he did. She's kind of annoying... I apologise to any Keltie-fans, but I think she's being very manipulative and immature.

 

It’s about quarter to eleven by the time Ryan gets back and I’m still on the floor, nude with my hands bound behind my back and a cum and blood-soaked sock in my mouth. The sound of the door being unlocked startles me from my half-sleep. Obviously it’s been snowing again because Ryan is followed in by a small hurricane of tiny white pieces as he quietly shuts the door behind him, leaving the room once again in darkness. He’s holding a brown paper bag in his hand and he hasn’t spotted me yet. He takes off his coat and hangs it up on a hook on the door.

     ‘Brendon,’ he calls, still not having seen me, ‘I’m back. Sorry, I would’ve left a note, but I-’ Now he sees me. He drops the bag. In the dim glow of the ceiling light above me, I can just about see his face. Lips parted, he stares at me as if in absolute disbelief, frozen to the spot. ‘Brendon?’ His voice is barely a whisper. A second later though, he’s dropping to his knees beside me and removing the sock from my mouth, apparently ignoring the state of it. I cough blood onto the floor as he unties my hands and sits me up.

     ‘Ryan…’ I choke.

     He shushes me, opening with the obvious question, ‘What the hell happened?’

     ‘Gus.’

     ‘Gus? Gus the manager? He did this to you?’

     I resist the urge to ask how many other Guses he knows and simply confirm my answer.

     ‘Oh, fucking hell, Brendon, are you alright? What did he do to you?’

     ‘He raped me,’ I tell him plainly, gradually getting some of the air back into my lungs. Ryan is gushing over me now though and pulling me up to lay me on the bed. I’m still numb. He drapes the blanket around me and holds me, gently rocking me back and forth like a mother cradling her crying child.

     ‘I’m so sorry, Brendon,’ he says over and over again. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry… I should’ve been here, I should’ve stopped him. I’m so sorry… Come on. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up; we have to leave.’

     ‘Right now?’

     He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a sheet of A4 sized paper. It’s a missing poster with our pictures on it.

     ‘I found this on the way back. It was stuck to the wall of a convenient store. They must have seen us on CCTV somewhere; but whatever they did, they know we’re here so we have to get going.’

     But then I think: I don’t really want to “get going”. I don’t want to spend my future running away from my past, pretending like it never existed. No, it’s not ideal, but forgetting where I came from means abandoning my mother and I don’t ever want to let that happen. And then I realise that all of this is because of me. I have completely obliterated any chance Ryan ever had of getting into theatre school. I’ve ruined his life, I’ve ruined my life and I’ve ruined everything else while I was at it, and so I tell him:

     ‘You don’t want that.’

     ‘What? Brendon, of course I don’t want this but I want you to be happy and safe, and that’s not gonna happen if you stay here or go back. They’ll find you and they’ll send you back to him. Do you want that, Brendon, huh? To go back to that asshole who has made your life a living hell for the past seven years?’

     I can’t answer him. If I say no, that’s admitting defeat, even if I don’t mean it; if I say yes, I’ll just make things even worse. But he takes my silence as agreement and pulls me towards the bathroom where runs me a shallow bath of lukewarm water and helps me in. I’m still shaking so Ryan cleans my face and wherever else I’m bleeding (You don’t have anything I don’t, he says), and then he hands me some mouthwash so I can get rid of the taste of iron and semen.

     The water quickly turns a horrid shade of pink but Ryan is now massaging soap into my hair, and for the first time, I really look at him. The streaks of bright colour have faded from his hair and turned back to bleach yellow, and there is no kohl around his eyes anymore; but that’s not what I notice. What I notice is how his skin is so tightly pulled into his harshly defined cheekbones. He is paler and in the light, I can see where he hasn’t quite smudged the foundation enough beyond his almost perfectly square jaw. His eyes are sunken and circling them are dark shades of grey.

     ‘Ryan?’

     ‘Yeah?’

     ‘Are you feeling alright?’

     He stops and looks at me. ‘Huh? Oh, Brendon, I’m fine; it’s you I’m worried about… Ah, I’m just so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for this. I should never have left you on your own.’

     ‘Ryan, you look ill. Are you ill?’

     He stalls, stuttering on his own breath, and says, ‘It’s just a bug. It’s nothing to be concerned about, okay?’

     I don’t press the subject any further.

 

*   *   *

‘Ready to go?’ he asks me.

     Where have I heard that before?

     ‘Sure.’

     It’s still broad daylight but it’ll start getting dark in about an hour or so and I don’t think even Ryan knows where we’re headed this time. All we know is that our parents and the Vegas police force know we’re in Reno and they’re looking for us. Fuck knows how close they are. For all I know, we could be just one city ahead of them and Ryan was right: Now that I think about it, I would rather stick a knife in my eye than go back. Mom will understand.

     Once again, we gather our things and set out but Ryan suddenly stops the moment we close the door.

     ‘What now?’ I ask him.

     ‘Gus’ car is gone.’

     ‘So?’

     ‘Follow me.’

     I don’t even want to ask what he’s doing now; I just follow him. He leads me up to the foyer and tries to open the door but it’s locked. Checking in through the window, he sees that Gus is indeed not here. He looks around him but judging by the expression on his face, he obviously doesn’t see what he’s looking for. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s planning to do, but I keep my mouth shut.

     ‘Brendon,’ he says, ‘give me your shoe.’

     ‘Oh, Ryan, you’re not…’

     ‘Just give me your shoe, come on.’

     I sigh a little irritably, slide off my right shoe and hand it to him. Just as I predicted, he breaks the glass with it but drops it over the other side of the wall. Reaching his arm around, he unlocks the door and lets himself in.

     ‘You stay here and keep a lookout.’

     He disappears inside and I turn around and keep an eye out for Gus or police or whoever. I hear him rummaging around the desk and moments later, he returns with a handful of cash.

     ‘Ryan, what the hell? We’re not thieves.’

     ‘And you’re not somebody’s play thing, now let’s go.’

     He shoves the money into his bag. There must be at least $1200 in that pile and even though I tell Ryan I still have a good nine-hundred left of what I took from Jason, he just says we need all we can get.

     He hands me back my shoe and we set off.




On a completely unrelated note: MAN! Talk about drama at the disco! Hmm... Oh well. S'long as they keep makin' toons =]

Cheers, me dears x

 

It’s now Christmas Eve morning and so far, no sign of anyone looking for us. But I have no idea where Ryan is and the door is off the latch. It’s about nine o’clock and the last time I saw him was around midnight when we went to bed. I’ve been awake for about an hour. Neither of us took phones because we didn’t want to risk being caught (hence the fake names) and with no note, all I can do is either wait for him to come back or wait for someone else to tell me he’s been found and that they’re on the way to finding me as well.

     Just then though, there’s a knock at the door. We keep the curtains closed and I don’t peek through to check that it is Ryan; there’s no peephole and it can’t be anyone else, so, without a moment’s thought, I open the door but set it on the latch.

     ‘Oh,’ I say, not even trying to conceal my disappointment. ‘Hey, Gus.’ Gus is the greasy fat-ass landlord who owns this entire shithole of a motel. ‘Is anything wrong?’

     He smiles, clearly not at all self-conscious about the strong stench of tobacco and booze of his breath or the hideous yellow-grey colour of his teeth, and says, ‘Just wanted to wish you boys a happy Christmas for tomorrow.’

     I clear my throat and look away from him while I breathe in. ‘Well, that’s um, very nice of you. Thank you – happy Christmas… Although, actually, it’s just me at the moment. I don’t know where Ry- George is. You seen him at all?’

     ‘Can’t say I have.’

     ‘Oh. Okay, well, never mind. Is there any particular reason you came over here?’

     His smile becomes wider, more threatening, and I find myself hurriedly thinking of some way to get rid of him.

     ‘Can I come in for a minute please?’ he asks.

     ‘Uh… Why? Why would you do that?’

     ‘Room inspection.’

     ‘Oh… Sure, um, okay.’ I don’t let him in. I switch on the light and allow him to look through the small gap between the door and the frame.

     He persists, ‘Why can’t I come in?’

     ‘N-No reason. It’s just I was very sick last night and it kind of stinks. But it’s all cool, we’ve been keeping the place tidy.’

     He huffs through his nose and his grin disappears. He knows something’s up. ‘Mr Grant, please open the door. I own this whole site – one way or another, I’m going to get in.’

     But I don’t move and for a while I just look at him, contemplating how best to handle the situation. Ryan would know and I try and think what he would do. He wouldn’t want to rouse suspicion and there’s nothing in here that’s particularly incriminating except a small bag of pot beneath the mattress, so I suppose just letting him have a quick look round would do no harm. I shut the door, take it off the latch and open it again. A faint smile reappears on his face as he steps in and closes the door behind him.

     ‘Well,’ I say, now with my back to him, ‘there you go. All nice and neat. No cannabis plants or severed heads in the closet… Will that be-’

     He cups his hand over my mouth suddenly, crushing my nose and effectively blocking any oxygen from entering my lungs. I try to pry his arm away but I’m a 5’8” twig and he’s 300 pounds and six foot tall. I struggle and fight with him as much as I can but there’s just no point. Next thing I know, he’s removing my belt and trousers and throwing me on the floor before undressing himself. I call for help but he locks his fingers around my throat and fuck, Ryan, please come back.

     ‘I can make this very easy,’ Gus says, trying to avoid getting kicked in the head, ‘or I can make this very hard. It’s your choice.’

     ‘Get off of me, you fucking rapist psycho!’

     He flips me onto my back and I spit in his eye but that just earns me a punch. Clutching at my nose, I feel the blood begin to trickle onto my lip and he takes this as an opportunity to rid me of the rest of my clothes. Before I can even register what’s happening, he’s inside me and here I am: naked on the floor with some fat guy’s fucking elephant dick in me.

     He picks up a balled-up sock from under the bed and shoves it in my mouth; then he takes my t-shirt and uses it to tie my hands together. I wonder what Mom would be saying now. That fucking moron is my son.

     Gus starts to work harder and it’s becoming more and more painful with each thrust. He grunts and moans and I try to scream but the blood from my nose is soaking through the sock between my teeth and I’m beginning to choke. I try and push the gag away with my tongue but that just allows more blood to drip down my throat and I have to force myself not to be sick. I then try exhaling through my nose to try and clear the blood from my nostrils but that doesn’t work; it just wastes the little air I have left in me.

     Gus climaxes and pulls out. For a little while, I just lay there trying not to cry so I can stay conscious and breathing for as long as possible. But then he takes me in his mouth and my legs are so numb that I can’t even try pushing him away every time he bites down.

     His sweaty hands snake up my bare torso and I shudder under his touch. His nails dig into me, almost piercing the skin, and he rakes them down like claws. I still don’t scream though; that would just be a waste of valuable breath.

     When he’s finished mouth-fucking my balls, he tells me to do the same to him and suck him off.

     He wipes his semen from around my mouth with the sock and then puts it back.

     Where the fuck is Ryan?

N/B: Yeesh... Sorry, guys :-/

Thanks x