Summary: After Marissa's death Ryan spirals as he struggles to deal with his grief. Shows the interlude between season 3 finale and season 4 premiere.
A/N: Another post-death one shot, it's a bit like 'All My Days' in format and even content. By the look of it, I enjoy writing with that structure the best and I think I write better too. It's not very long but if it was much longer it would be too heavy...possibly. I think I've included all the ways a person could possible spiral downwards, lol. Marissa would be proud of Ryan's efforts ;) I hope people like it, reviews are much appreciated.
When they discharge him from the hospital, he doesn't say a single word to the Cohens. He asks Seth for the keys to the car, walks right past them, drives home with steely resolution and then locks himself in the pool house. He doesn't shower, he doesn't change, he just finds the punching bag still hanging in the same spot as though nothing had changed and then he bludgeons his fists into it, again and again and again.
The blood cakes his knuckles as the skin begins to peel off leaving them raw and exposed. He doesn't care; his whole body, his mind and soul, everything is so raw. The pain in his knuckles cannot compare. Finally when he stops, it's not because it hurts too much, it's because he has no energy left to keep going. He drags himself to the bathroom and slumps against the sink. The water washes the blood of his hands but it can't wash away the image of her face - pale and ghostly, blood gushing from the side of her head. He splashes some water on his face, willing for the memory to fade but when he looks up in the mirror, mingled with the cool water and sweat, there are tears falling down his face.
He hears about cage fighting from someone and immediately tracks down the place where it's happening. He moves out of the pool house, cuts himself off from the Cohens and moves into a dirty room next to a bar.
Before his first fight, he's smiling. A smile filled with content and almost mistakable for happiness. His penance is due and the thought makes him sure, he will soon restore the balance that was dismantled by Marissa's death.
In the cage, he relishes every punch, every kick, every drop of blood being drained from him. This is good. This is right. Within those 10 minutes, he forgets the pain of losing her and he can only feel the pain of brutal violence. As he lies flat on his back, the pain cutting into him, a sadistic smile plays on his lips but hours later when he lies on his bed trying to sleep, the smile is no longer there.
She's back in his mind, teasing him with her laughter, paining him as she does so because it's a glaring reminder of the noise he'll never hear again. Eventually as sleep comes, the strain on his face eases and a smile returns again as he gets lost in dreams of her.
The cage fighting becomes a permanent thing, perhaps because his guilt forces himself to be punished or maybe those few minutes, free from the hurt of her death, are too indispensable to him. He's still searching for solutions to end his agony, a means by which to kill those feelings which expose him to suffering.
He used to hate it when his mom got drunk, he hated it even more when Marissa did it and it wasn't much less painful to go through the same thing with Kirsten. Yet as the longing for past times grows greater, he gives in and snags a bottle of tequila from the bar.
It burns his throat, he thinks for a second it may burn the memories but five shots later and all he can think about is carrying Marissa, passed out on her driveway, to the pool house. By the time he has worked his way through the bottle, his mind has drifted through all the memories of Marissa and alcohol. There's her passed out in TJ, Christmas three years ago, the summer in Chino with all those late night calls where he could have sworn she was drunk and then the party she crashed where he didn't even have to wonder – it was obvious. There are the memories from a time not long ago when she was with Volcholk and it haunts him.
At the end of the night, the memories collect and all he's left thinking is that he should have done more.
He doesn't bother getting drunk again. It didn't help and if anything, it made everything worse. Alcohol failed but he thinks about trying a different drug. He knows there's a dealer who comes to the bar he works at, so one night he relents and buys some marijuana. He considers cocaine for a moment but it has too many dark associations to Trey. All he wants is just something to take the edge off the pain.
Back in his dingy room, he rolls a joint and deeply inhales the smoke. It calms him right down but without the usual restraints on his thoughts, his mind remembers with no refrain the kisses and touches he has suppressed and that's all he can think about. Marissa, Marissa, Marissa.
Drugs are no use he concludes. He wants to forget and they only make him remember.
She's there every night he works at the bar; the trashy brunette with the irritating voice. He ignored her for a long while and then finally decided that maybe it will help. Meaningless sex with a meaningless stranger. Maybe, some way or other, the things, the people who mean so much, will become meaningless too. And at least, he tells himself, for a few minutes I can just forget about her.
He hardly has to try to get her in bed. She's being her usual nauseating self, crudely flirting with him and all he has to do is invite her back to his place at the end of the night. Then, she's pushing him on to his rickety single bed and climbing on top of him, shedding his clothes off. He considers being more active, trying to help undress her but she seems unhindered by his passiveness so he just reels further back into it. He's too exhausted to make a real effort.
Instead he closes eyes and takes in the feel of the kisses on his chest, coarse and careless but each kiss pushes him into murkier depths and the unfeeling kisses become similar to the feathery yet tender kisses of another girl. The touch on his skin is increasingly familiar and the skin his own lips are grazing is that same silky texture comparable to the other girl. The girl who meant so much. The girl who isn't actually there but reality has become stained with dreams.
He hears the girl, the one who is real, cry out his name. He realises he doesn't know her name but it wouldn't have made a difference. There is only one word on his lips: Marissa.
He has waited for this moment, fantasised about it even. Five months later it's here; the man who has been the real cause of his grief is standing right in front of him. His anger is seething and by instinct, he hurls himself at Volcholk, his fist pummelling into it his face. He's smashed a bear bottle, pinned him to the floor, his hand choking into his neck and all it would take would be to stab the sharp glass edge into him. Then he would be dead.
But he waits; he hesitates and then at last, drops the bottle. In the oddest of moments, he realises the hopelessness of the situation; killing him, won't bring her back.
That night Julie comes to talk to him and it surprises him how easily he can talk about her. It's the first time he's consciously reminiscing about her and its lightening his heart. The memories are as steady as the beat of his heart and he knows they won't ever leave him. He realises know that that's not a burden.
When he goes to bed that night, he lies on his side, his arm outstretched. He thinks about how if she was here, she would lie by his side in the same position he is. His arm would wrap around her and their bodies would curl up together, not an inch of air between them. The thought, built on memories, is tangible in the space next to him. He can almost feel her next to him and he's clutching to the feeling. It's hurting him but the hurt will pass and happiness will come soon.