Hey guys! I'm Alex, and this is my first story. I'd really appreciate reviews, because I'm not very sure of myself as a writer, and I might get too anxious and take it down after a little bit, if nobody says anything. Anyway, this story is going to be written using my personal life experience, just using Ross as the character. I hope you enjoy it, and I'll start writing the next chapter as soon as I've got a review or two. I really appreciate you taking the time out of your day to read this.
Disclaimer: I don't own Ross, or R5, and this is entirely a work of fiction.
This was not Ross Shor Lynch.
This was a broken, mangled, destroyed shell of a boy with the same name. Fame, he thought he could handle it. He couldn't. He wanted to have his simple life back. He wanted to live in peace. He wasn't sleeping more than three hours a night, and with a show to play every day, this pattern left him exhausted, emotional, and helpless. He was barely eating, dumping most all of his dinners into the garbage can when nobody was looking. He cried on a daily basis, usually about nothing. He'd run out of the room during rehearsals, lock himself in the bathroom, and sob into his older brother's bath towel to muffle the sound.
Ross didn't want his family to see him this way, so he just kept it all inside. He was so sad, so mopey, that he was shocked that nobody noticed. It led him to the far fetched idea that no one really cared about him. If they did, wouldn't they notice his suffering? The rational part of his mind knew that it was his responsibility to reach out for help, but it didn't change the feeling. He felt alone, like nobody cared for him, like he could stop existing at any second and people wouldn't even notice.
Ross wanted to write darker songs, but he knew the label would reject them, since it's not the band's style. He wanted a heavier sound to their music, but that couldn't happen either. He wanted to be treated like a serious musician, but with Disney, you just don't get any respect.
He decided, that day, to pick up a 99 cent journal from the store. He needed to vent his emotions. He had been holding off on doing this for fear of his family finding the notebook. Making sure to set his alarm early, to allow the run to the store to obtain the item, Ross tried to sleep that night.
It was actually a decent sleep for him, about two and a half hours of uninterrupted rest before his alarm woke him on the first beep. He slid out of the bunk, and tossed on a jacket, beanie, and a pair of dark vans. The rest of the bus was still fast asleep, at barely five in the morning, and the sky outside was the kind of mellow gray you only saw on fall mornings.
They were in Denver, probably. He didn't really keep track anymore. Being back in Colorado, where he was raised, should make him happy, but he couldn't break free of his depression to enjoy it.
One thing he did know how to do was navigate the city pretty well. After stepping out of the bus, he was able to walk his way to the nearest Walmart in about ten minutes. Not much after that, he left the blue building, clutching a simple, black composition notebook and a sharpie. With the marker, still walking, he sprawled Thoughts on the front cover messily. He was about to put his name on it out of habit, but stopped himself. He wanted to take no blame for this if it was discovered. Pocketing the marker, he set his sights on the donut shop across the street. He didn't eat much, but when he did, it was always junk food.
At the shop, he ordered a large coffee, black, and two simple, glazed donuts. He grabbed his meal, and sat down in one of the booths, pushing his body as far back in the corner as possible, hoping to not be recognized at all. Placing the composition book in front of him, he stared at the front cover, feeling a slight amount of excitement in his bones. There was so many possibilities of what could be written on those pages. Opening the book, he pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket, and began to write.
September 28, 2014
I have breakfast this morning. I don't really want to eat. I'm lazy. Freak.
Whoa, stop there. Is this really how I think all the time? That's messed up.
Why do I exist? Why do any of us, really? There's no higher purpose, at least, I don't believe in one.
God's a dick. Sexist, racist, homophobe. I hate him.
Well I'm going to hell. Good. I deserve it.
Why do I deserve it? Maybe because I always mess up, always create problems, and am never going to be good enough. I just want to sleep forever, but I really can't sleep at all.
I should buy some pills for that.
No. I might do something dumb with them.
Or worse, a fan could see me buying them and post it all over Tumblr.
Seriously, do people not know what privacy is?
No they don't. They all think they're in love with me, that they're gonna marry me, or worse, that I'm going to marry Ratliff. Shipping confuses me. Like, I'm not gay. I would address that publicly if i was. I've got too many LGBTQ fans out there suffering. I wouldn't hide that.
I'm not hungry. I'm going to give these donuts to the homeless guy on the street corner. Then I'll go home and try to sleep some more.
Until we have to get up for another interview, answering the same twenty questions over and over and over.
It all makes me sick.
Perfect life?
Maybe better than most, but it's not perfect.
It's tedious. Tiring. Depressing.
I got a letter last week about a fan that killed herself.
That killed me.
I'm so sorry, girl I never knew. I couldn't help you.
Yeah, I'm leaving now.
Ross shut the book, his hands shaking. He was angry, and he didn't even know why. He wanted to break things, he wanted to scream. Most of all, he wanted to ruin his reputation as this Disney kid. He wanted tattoos, he wanted rock and roll music. He didn't want what he currently had, which was truthfully better than most people could dream of. That's why he's selfish.
Pushing himself out of the booth, he dropped the coffee in the trash, after taking one long drink. He hated coffee, in truth. He just needed the energy it would give him, maybe help him get through the day without crying as much. Picking up the donuts, his journal, and gathering his sanity, Ross left the shop.
On his walk home, he passed off the pastries to the homeless man on the corner. "God bless you." The man said. "Have a good day." Ross responded.
And then he went home.
