A/N Okay, I've actually written this story before, it was called, Moving On. I've decided to post it again, and add some parts to it. It's basically Ryan going through the 5 stages of grief. Okay, R/R, enjoy!
Step 1:Denial
I step into an office, a therapy office, nervous. Very nervous. Yeah that's right, Ryan Atwood, in therapy. I didn't want to come. Sandy, Kirsten, and Seth think I need to talk to somebody. I really don't want to talk to some stranger though. I don't want to talk to some weirdo that I know nothing about. I want to talk to one other person. I would talk to her if she was here, but she isn't. And I'm stuck her, in therapy, wishing she was here with me.
They call my name and I go into the room. I sit on the couch that they had set up for me. It's black, and big. I don't really want to sit down on it though, it looks like it'll eat me alive. It's actually quite comfortable though. The softness of the couch actually calms my nerves. I don't know why I'm nervous, I just am. I mean, what should I be nervous about? I don't have a problem. Marissa isn't dead, this is just some bad dream. Soon I'll wake up. And I can only hope it comes soon, because this dream is getting to me.
After I reassure myself, I see the therapist sit down. It's a man, maybe fifty. His hair is silver and he has some glasses on. His forehead has wrinkles and he seems kind but could be stern if he need to be. He looked alright, like he was happy with his job and his life. Lucky man.
He reaches out his and hand and says, "Hi, I'm Dr. Henry Richards, but you can call me Henry." I just stare at his large hand in front of me for a while, wondering if I should shake it. I don't want to. He seems compassionate and caring, but that didn't make any of this easier, just harder. Harder to be mad at. Harder to deny.
I shake his hand and mumble, "Ryan Atwood." He just nods and looks down into the file he's holding. It's a manila folder, like any other one. It's my file. All my crimes and mistakes were in that file. My whole life, was on that file. Everything except for her. The only thing that's important to me.
"Why are you here today Ryan?" Henry asks. He looks at me expectantly. His brown eyes looking at me intently. I don't answer for a while. I don't know why I'm here. I can't answer the question. I can only tell you that I wish I wasn't here, that I was somewhere far away. Somewhere with her in my arms. Somewhere where this wasn't a dream. Somewhere where I'm awake.
"I don't know, my family wants me here. If it was up to me, I'd like to be at home." I say. I don't tell him what I'd be doing. I don't tell that I'd be sitting on my bed, trying to wake up. That I'd be staring at pictures of me and her, back when we were happy together. That I'd be wishing and hoping that she'd appear in my doorway, with a smile on her face. And announce that she's back, and it's graduation day again.
"Well, there has to be a reason." He looked back at his file. "Tell me about school. Do you go to college?" He looked back at me again. I didn't want to break the news to him. I didn't want to tell him that I dropped out of college, and that I didn't ever plan on going back. No, he wouldn't like that answer. No one did, that's why I haven't told.
"No, I haven't been in a school since I graduated last May. I don't want to go to college now. I have better things to do." Why go to college when she isn't there with me? Even if she went to Greece for a year, she would've come back. I know she would've. And we would have pretended to be friends, denying the spark and connection that was always there until we couldn't take it any more.
"Well then, tell me about your graduation. Did anything special happen then?"
No, but the day after my on again, off again girlfriend died. Well, supposedly died. Because this is all a dream, and people die in dreams. But she wouldn't be dead in real life, because that's just impossible. I don't say that though, I say, " My mom came." Well that is kind of special, isn't it? I hadn't seen her in a couple of years after all.
"Really, that's good. Do you see your mom a lot?" He seemed happy almost when he said this. It made me want to hit him. I don't know why, but he's really getting on my nerves.
"No. She bought me a car though." Ahh, my car. It was good while it lasted. I'd trade the car in any day if I got her back though.
"Really, is it a nice car?"
"From what I saw about it, it was." It wasn't too safe though.
"What do you mean?" he asks, confused.
"I got into an accident the day after I got it. It got messed up really bad so I don't have it anymore." I think back to the car crash and wince. I hate thinking about that time.
"Tell me about this accident. Did you get hurt? Did anyone you know get hurt?" And suddenly, I feel choked up. I can't explain it, but I do.
" I got out without a scratch. My on again off again girlfriend Marissa Cooper…well she died." I say the last three words softly. I didn't want to say them, because she's not really dead. But if I'm going to be stuck in my dreams, I better go along with it.
"I'm sorry for your loss. What were you doing at the time of the accident?"
"I was driving Marissa to the airport. She was going to go with her dad on a boat for a year." I started. I got lost in the story, remembering every detail, every sight. "I was driving when her drunken ex boyfriend Kevin Volchok started ramming the side of the car. We ended up going off road into a bunch of trees. We rolled over a couple of times too. I got out okay and went to get her out. She was unconscious. I picked her up and took her further down the road. I woke her up and told her that I would go get help. She didn't want me to and begged me to stay. She died in my arms, on the side of the road." And I wanted to be able to tell this guy that we told each other I love you. I wanted to be able to say that I was over it, that I've said my good-bye. I can't though. And I'm beginning to miss her. Gosh, why won't I wake up?
"That must have affected you a lot. How was her funeral?" And he seemed genuinely concerned. So concerned, that I didn't want to tell him the rest of my story.
"I didn't go." And I drift back to that day, the day of the funeral.
Flashback
"Ryan, buddy, it's time to get up." Seth said, his voice tired. "You don't want to miss Marissa's funeral."
I just lay there in bed though, not moving, not speaking. I think back to that day, almost a week ago. Almost a week since she was in my arms. Almost a week since she left me. Almost a week since I became numb.
"I'm not going." I announce. Seth seems shocked by my answer. "I don't want to go, and you can't make me."
"Ryan, you have to go, come on." He said, his voice shaky. "You loved her man, you have to go and show your respect to her." And I can't believe what I'm hearing.
"I have to show respect?" I asked, pain evident in my voice. "Why don't you show respect to me, and leave me alone." And I turn over in bed. I bottle up my feelings again, refusing to believe she's dead. Refusing to go to her funeral.
"You're going to have to deal with this." He says softly. I turn back around to face him, to tell him that there's nothing to deal with, but he's gone. I look out in the darkness of the pool house, and do what I've done for the past couple of days. Just stare out into space, wishing she was here with me. Wishing that I'd wake up.
End of Flashback
"Why not?" the therapist asks me, snapping me out of my flash back. And I'm glad, because I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.
"What's the point. I mean, this is all a bad dream. None of this is real." And I state what I've been holding back all of this time. What I haven't been saying to anyone. "She wouldn't leave me like that, not my Marissa." I say.
He starts to write something down on his notepad. I wonder what he's writing down. I see him scribble the words, come back. And I wonder what he means. I need to know. I need to know that he doesn't think I'm crazy, because I'm beginning to wonder myself. So I say, "What are you writing down? I'm not crazy. She's not dead. I mean she can't be dead, can she?" And the truth hurts me. She is dead.
This isn't a dream.