1. Sowing Season
A/N: This fic is composed of twelve vignettes that chronicle Ryan, post-Marissa, in relation to an album that was recently released, that I feel greatly parallels emotions, situations, and points of view pertaining to a combination of events I would like to see, and ones that we have seen already. I beg for your forgiveness, in that it has been quite a few months since I have written any type of fiction and am most probably a little rusty. Give it a chance, I guarantee you that you will find something in here you can appreciate, if not like.
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Time to get the seeds and put them in the cold ground
It takes a while to grow anything,
Before its coming to the end yeah.
Before you put my body in the cold ground,
Take some time to warm it with your hands
Before it's coming to an end, yeah.
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The soft whir of the fans blowing cooled air into Sandy's Mercedes serves as the only conversation on the half hour ride back from the hospital. Ryan shivers involuntarily, pressing himself further against the car door, away from the direction of the vents. Two days. It has been two days already and he was going home. He leans his forehead against the contrastingly warm window, soaked with summer heat, and lets out a shaky breath, dragging his hands across the tops of his thighs.
Slick asphalt rubs up against his damp jeans, digging into his knees, his shins. The scent of burning rubber and metal overwhelm him, dragging him into an abyss of sweltering flames and deep red blood. But he will take it. He will take the broken glass he can still feel lodged in his forehead, even though he knows that the pieces have been removed long ago. He will take the dank smell of motor oil seeping into the tar of the abandoned street he once lay crumpled on. Because he knows that if he starts sensing things around him for real, the vanilla air freshener that Sandy always keeps in his car, the one that bares a striking similarity to the way Marissa had always smelt, would have him throwing himself out the door and onto the expressway.
It takes a full five minutes of Sandy gently calling Ryan's name, hand on his shoulder, concerned eyebrows furrowing together, to coax the blonde out of the car and onto the driveway. Sandy wraps an arm around the tops of Ryan's shoulders, slowly and cautiously leading him towards the backyard. Ryan clutches the bag the hospital has placed his personal belongings in with both hands, tightly pressing it against his chest, and stumbles towards the looming structure that's white stucco exterior clashes with the deep black night sky.
Relinquishing his grip, Sandy watches as Ryan shuffles over towards the bed, gently sitting down on its edge. The plastic bag Ryan has been holding sinks to the floor, finding a comfortable spot between his legs. He fingers a framed picture, illuminated by the soft glow of the pool house lamps, that sits innocently on his night stand. Ryan feels Sandy sink down next to him on the bed, and lets out an inaudible sigh.
"Do you know what happened Ryan?" Sandy questions him softly, knowing he is pressing his luck with the already fragile boy.
Ryan swallows thickly and nods, his eyes never once leaving the picture in which he sees a glint of happiness in himself. One that he fears may have been extinguished forever. His finger unsteadily covers Marissa's face, a small whisper escaping his lips, "She didn't…she didn't make it."
Sandy nods dumbly, even though he knows that Ryan can't see him, and meekly utters a soft "no" in response. Running his fingers through his shaggy black hair, he bites his cheek, and against his better judgment, exits the pool house, leaving Ryan all alone, still sitting with his finger pressed into Marissa's face.
After hearing the pool house door successfully click shut, Ryan drops his eyes and focuses on the bag that sits between his feet. Dejectedly undoing the seal, the smell of smoke floods his nostrils and turns his stomach. Carefully removing a torn and bloodied navy blue sweater that he recognizes all too well, Ryan lays the fabric in his lap, running his fingers across the coarse material, lingering just a slight bit too long over what would've been his left shoulder, had he been wearing it.
He could still feel her now, clenching her fingers tightly around the material of his shirt, balling it into her fist, twisting it with each convulsion of pain. His heart desperately catches in his throat, hardly able to bear the memories that seem to be overloading his brain. Carefully folding the sweater, he places it, along with the oil stained jeans, in the back corner of the bottom dresser drawer, the one that Kirsten had insisted he keep his dress shoes in.
Unsure of what to do with himself, Ryan haplessly wanders into the bathroom, turning the shower head on and making the water as hot as it can go. Standing under the scalding water, Ryan nearly lunges at the soap, greedily lathering his body with it. Trying to scrub away the smoldering ashes that blanket his body. Trying to scrub away the blood that will forever be underneath his fingernails, staining his hands. Trying to scrub away every little scar, every little blemish, every little part of him that is making him uncomfortable in his own skin.
Cocooning himself beneath the covers, Ryan stares blankly at the ceiling, the sickening crunch of metal replaying in his mind over and over again. Marissa's shriek echoing in his ears as they rolled off of the cliff, twisting his insides more than he would ever care to admit.
Ryan rolls over onto his side, tears welling in his eyes as he tries to focus on the empty half of his bed. Inhaling sharply, he can't bring himself to blink away the image of Marissa lying peacefully on the pillow beside him. The tiny pools of sticky red blood are mysteriously gone, the drawn look on her face when he had held her in his arms replaced with a small smile. She looks happy. She is doing things he is having trouble concentrating on; sleeping, breathing.
Living.
And he desperately tries to feel her silky hair beneath his fingers, her warm skin against his body, but the more urgently he reaches out to her, the further away she seems to get. Because the truth of the matter is that he had felt Marissa die. Felt her stop breathing. Felt her heart slow to a sickening stop. Felt her body slacken, and stiffen, and grow cold in his arms as he pressed her against his shaking frame.
His eyes burn and he berates himself for being delusional. Assures himself that the blood he sees on his hands must be metaphorical. But he's so restless, so distraught, so very sure that if he had just done one tiny thing differently, she would still be here. If he had left a minute later, or a minute earlier. If he had stopped. If he had told her that he loved her.
"I'm sorry." He whispers softly to no one in particular, trying to rapidly blink back even more tears. "I'm so sorry." He manages to choke out, the lump in his throat doubling in size.
He tries to clear his head, to make some sense, but it's so muddled with guilt and regret and defeat that he doesn't even know where to begin. The only thing he can hear echoing in his head making his heart clench so terribly that he's not sure that the feeling will ever go away.
You killed her. You killed her. It's you're fault she's dead, and Sandy had to go identify her body in the fucking morgue while you sat in the hospital like the useless piece of shit that you are.
Ryan clenches his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and prays. He hopes and he prays that someday, somehow Marissa can forgive him, because he doesn't think he will ever be able to forgive himself.
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