So, I know I've just started another story, "The Phobia," but I'm kinda on a roll, here, with the writing. So I got inspired to do this one, and I figured I'd post it.
It's a story for Brandywine's 15-minute challenge, over at LJ. I never thought I could do it! But I did. My first-ever oneshot. (And, knowing me, probably my last. grins) Not that it took me 15 minutes. It took me 28. But still.
I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to "The OC." I just like to play with the universe.
p.s. This is so for Wuemsel. Jenny, you're the reason I started writing, in the first place. hugs Thanks for everything, T'hy'la.
Battered
Frustrated, fourteen-year-old Ryan searched through the kitchen for something, anything edible. His mom had spent the last few days sobbing over her most recent breakup. Not that Ryan thought Lance was any great loss. The jerk had other girlfriends. And he brought them to the house! Which his mom seemed to be okay with.
Whatever.
But if he didn't get his mom out of this funk, she'd be likely to call Lance and apologize, beg him to come back.
And Ryan didn't want that.
'Cause Lance? Was fucked up.
Ryan didn't need any of Lance's games, and even if his mom was okay with them, he wasn't.
So he needed to get his mom feeling human, again. And the first step down that road was eating. He'd heard in some science class that a depressed or hysterical (both could, at this moment, describe Dawn) person could be helped by a simple, biological function. Such as drinking a glass of water. They thought that the act of drinking water or eating food would somehow remind the person's body that they were still alive, and that it would somehow calm them.
Which is why the cops on TV always offered a glass of water to the grieving family member. And why it always seemed to work, at least a little bit.
Ryan wasn't sure if he believed that, but--at this point--he was willing to give anything a try.
He'd tried just about everything else.
He'd even called Trey, to see if Trey could help. Not that Trey'd been at all concerned. He'd just laughed at Ryan, saying that "The Bitch needs to learn to help herself," and hung up.
Trey had moved out when Steve had moved in, two years and--Ryan had to take a moment to count--thirteen boyfriends ago. Even though Trey had only been sixteen, he'd insisted that life outside of the house was better than life inside.
Trey had actually apologized, once, to Ryan for leaving him there. "Fuck, I can't take it, anymore. And I can barely take care of myself. I can't take care of a twelve-year-old." And then he'd walked away.
Ryan knew, logically, that Trey would've helped him if he could, but it still hurt.
So, Ryan was on his own.
Which meant that he had to get his mom out of her mood. So she wouldn't beg Lance to come back. Which would suck.
Ryan, digging in the bottom cupboard, found an old, battered can of chicken soup. Mom never liked soup, but there was nothing else. Plus, wasn't chicken soup supposed to be some kind of comfort food?
So Ryan found a pot, wiped off the layer of dust, and set the soup to heat. While he did so, he fixed his mom a glass of ice water and found a package of stale crackers. He arranged the crackers on a plate and got out a bowl for the soup. He didn't want the soup to boil, because then it would be too hot. It had to be just right (like the baby bear's porridge, he grinned to himself), or his mom wouldn't bother.
So he kept an eye on the soup, sticking a finger in every now and then, until the soup was just a bit warmer than room temperature.
He poured the soup into the bowl, grabbed a spoon, picked up the plate with soup and crackers in one hand, the glass in the other, and headed down the hall to his mom's room.
Ryan didn't have to worry about trying to juggle the two dishes while he opened the battered door. There was no latch on the knob. Lance had broken it during the last fight that he and Dawn had had, the week before she kicked him out. Dawn had run from him, trying to hide in the bedroom, but Lance had just followed.
He nudged open the door with his toe, softly calling out, "Mom?"
She stirred, moaning and sniffling. "Baby?"
"Yeah, Mom, it's me. I've got some soup for you."
Sitting up a bit, staring at Ryan through half-lidded eyes, Dawn spoke confusedly. "Soup? What do I want with soup?"
Putting the plate on her nightstand, handing her the glass, he sat down next to her. "Please, Mom, drink."
She took a sip, then spit it out. "Ryan! What the hell is this?!"
Ryan had flinched, to avoid the spray. "Water, Mom. What's wrong?"
Calming, Dawn put the glass on the nightstand, lying back down, putting her arm over her eyes. "Nothing, Baby. I just thought you brought me a drink."
Vodka. She thought he'd brought her vodka.
Whatever.
He had to get her to eat the soup.
"Mom, I made you some soup. Can you eat something, please?"
Annoyed, Dawn moved her arm so that she could stare at him through one eye. "Fuck, Ry, I already said I don't want soup. What's with you and the fucking soup, anyway?"
"Mom," Ryan tried again, "It'll make you feel better. Come on, please?"
Sitting up in frustration, Dawn yelled, "Ryan, damn it! I already said I don't want any soup! Why are you bothering me with all this shit, anyway? You know I'm having a bad weekend. Why can't you just leave me alone?"
Hating that she was near tears, again, Ryan tried to comfort her.
"Mom, I know you miss Lance, but he was no good for you. You'll be okay without him. We'll be okay."
Dawn distractedly rubbed Ryan's arm, staring at the phone on the nightstand. "He wasn't all bad," she spoke softly.
"Mom, no," Ryan said, realizing what she was thinking. "You don't need him. Please, Mom, please, eat the soup."
Shifting a bit closer to the edge of the bed, Dawn spoke, more to herself than to Ryan. "It could be good again."
Frustrated, Ryan cried out, "Mom! He had other girlfriends! He brought them over here!"
Realizing that her son was still there, still talking to her, Dawn replied, "But, Honey, it's okay. So he had other girls? It's not like I didn't have other guys, too." She grinned at her son, conspiratorially. "You know how much Momma loves to feel good."
"Mom!" Ryan cried out, jumping up from the bed. "Please, you promised not to talk to me like that. You promised Trey!"
Dawn appeared contrite, swinging her legs off the bed, smiling in a more motherly manner, now. "You're right, Baby. I shouldn't talk to my son about those things. But don't you see, Ry? That's another reason I need Lance back. So we can talk about those things." She had her hand on the phone.
She picked up the receiver.
Desperate, now, Ryan tried the last thing he could think of.
"If you love me, you'll eat this," Ryan spoke quietly, pointing at the soup.
Dawn had already started dialing. "Ry, Baby, don't be silly. Of course I love you. But I need to call Lance, now. Be a good kid and go get me a drink, huh? Vodka, this time, not water. Lance! Baby, it's good to hear your voice. I've missed you. Please, can we talk about it?"
Disgusted, Ryan turned to go out the door.
He heard his mom pleading for an asshole to come back and fuck up their lives some more.
But there was one thing Ryan hadn't told his mom. Lance had said that, if he came back, he'd break Ryan's arm for encouraging Dawn to dump him.
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The next week, Ryan and Trey sat outside of the movie theater, finishing off their popcorn and watching the girls go by.
"So, wait," Trey said, chewing on a kernel as he stared at Ryan. "You actually said if she loved you, she'd eat?"
Blushing, Ryan stared down at the already-battered blue cast on his arm, picking at the fringe of fluff poking out by his elbow. The doctors had said he'd need to wear it for at least six weeks. So, five weeks to go.
"Yeah," Ryan spoke softly. "Pretty stupid, huh?"
Trey sighed, standing up, chucking the empty bag into the trashcan. "Come on, LB," he said, reaching down to pull his brother up and into a one-armed hug. "Let's go see if Teresa's mom'll let us eat dinner with them."