Unrest
Disclaimer: They are protected by a copyright which isn't mine.
Summary: "Are we doing everything we can for him, Sandy?"
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Ryan doesn't have trouble falling to sleep. Bad dreams don't wake him up in the middle of the night. He just opens his eyes in the morning, and feels sick of where his mind's been. Lays watching sunlight reflections off the pool squirm on the ceiling like energy worms.
The only thing that moves is his heart. It hurts, shuddering through his chest in waves. He tries to breathe slowly but it hitches. He's just glad he woke up in his bed. Sometimes he doesn't. It started when he was eleven, just after dad went away. He'd fall asleep in his room and wake up in dad's recliner.
It scared him, so he kept it from his mom for a while. Then her first boyfriend moved in, the one that used to look at him weird. He went to sleep that night with a pocket knife under his pillow, and woke with the blade out in his hand, thrashing in his mom's arms.
He'd been dreaming that the guy had snuck into his bed, that he was touching him. But he hadn't been there when Ryan woke, so he told his mom it was a monster off the TV. She just took the knife away, smacked him around, and had his lock replaced the next day.
He never wants the Cohens to see him like that. After he started sleeping in the pool house, he worried for a while that he'd freak out and walk through the glass doors. But when he woke up in their house, standing at the stove in his boxer shorts, it was worse.
He had opened two sets of doors, took out a frying pan out, and lit the stove. And he didn't know why. He hadn't been dreaming. He wasn't defending himself from an imaginary attack, or crawling into his dad's old chair. What if the pilot hadn't lit and there'd been a gas leak? What if he'd started a fire?
His hands shook as turned the flame down. He put on some clothes, finished making breakfast, and later tried to convince the Cohens it wasn't safe to leave their doors unlocked at night. Seth just said, "Don't worry," and gestured at the neighborhood with an egg-roll, smiling, "Gated Community, man."
The door to the pool house unlocked when you turned it from the inside. They would notice a chair under the handle, and Sandy had looked confused, and disappointed, the night Ryan locked their door on his way out. So he tried not to think about it, but at times like this, when he woke with the ugly shit in his head, he couldn't help thinking what he might do to them when he didn't know it.
The dreams got worse the more he thought about it. He dreamed once that he'd backed Kristen against a wall like AJ used to do his mother. He'd hit her and she was crying blood. He couldn't look at her for a week without feeling sick.
It would be O.K. if he knew where the line was, why he only did some stuff. If he could just be sure there were things he'd never do. He hoped it wasn't just luck that most of the time he was only pacing, standing with his back to the wall, or beating one of Kristen's down pillows.
Ryan could breathe now. So he got out of bed, got clothes, got breakfast, went through his day; exhausted himself working and fell asleep early thinking about Marissa's smile at lunch. He woke up sitting on the Cohen's couch in his boxers and a tank-top, talking to Kristen.
She was smiling at him fondly, surrounded by her paperwork.
"Does this happen a lot, Ryan?"
"Uh..," he stared at the carpet, trying to keep it together.
"You are awake now, right?"
"What did I say?"
She laughed, "Nothing embarrassing. You were telling me about building democracies in third-world countries."
He looked up, frowning. Where had that come from?
"Isn't that something you're learning about in school?"
"Uh, no. I don't know," he stood up quickly, "Sorry."
"Oh," she said dismissively, "no. It was cute." She grinned, "You were very teacherly."
Ryan nodded, said goodnight, and left, feeling like a shadow hovering over their lives that they just couldn't see; like a dangerous animal at a family picnic. Sometimes he almost wishes he'd hurt himself, walk through the glass doors next time, so they could understand. So it would be over, and he wouldn't have to say anything.
Ryan doesn't know why he ended up lecturing Kristen on democracy, but he's glad. He'll stuff his head full of facts if he can be sure that's all he'll ever tell her. On his way back to bed, he borrows a book from Sandy's library, and stays up the rest of the night memorizing it.
Disclaimer: They are protected by a copyright which isn't mine.
Summary: "Are we doing everything we can for him, Sandy?"
-
Ryan doesn't have trouble falling to sleep. Bad dreams don't wake him up in the middle of the night. He just opens his eyes in the morning, and feels sick of where his mind's been. Lays watching sunlight reflections off the pool squirm on the ceiling like energy worms.
The only thing that moves is his heart. It hurts, shuddering through his chest in waves. He tries to breathe slowly but it hitches. He's just glad he woke up in his bed. Sometimes he doesn't. It started when he was eleven, just after dad went away. He'd fall asleep in his room and wake up in dad's recliner.
It scared him, so he kept it from his mom for a while. Then her first boyfriend moved in, the one that used to look at him weird. He went to sleep that night with a pocket knife under his pillow, and woke with the blade out in his hand, thrashing in his mom's arms.
He'd been dreaming that the guy had snuck into his bed, that he was touching him. But he hadn't been there when Ryan woke, so he told his mom it was a monster off the TV. She just took the knife away, smacked him around, and had his lock replaced the next day.
He never wants the Cohens to see him like that. After he started sleeping in the pool house, he worried for a while that he'd freak out and walk through the glass doors. But when he woke up in their house, standing at the stove in his boxer shorts, it was worse.
He had opened two sets of doors, took out a frying pan out, and lit the stove. And he didn't know why. He hadn't been dreaming. He wasn't defending himself from an imaginary attack, or crawling into his dad's old chair. What if the pilot hadn't lit and there'd been a gas leak? What if he'd started a fire?
His hands shook as turned the flame down. He put on some clothes, finished making breakfast, and later tried to convince the Cohens it wasn't safe to leave their doors unlocked at night. Seth just said, "Don't worry," and gestured at the neighborhood with an egg-roll, smiling, "Gated Community, man."
The door to the pool house unlocked when you turned it from the inside. They would notice a chair under the handle, and Sandy had looked confused, and disappointed, the night Ryan locked their door on his way out. So he tried not to think about it, but at times like this, when he woke with the ugly shit in his head, he couldn't help thinking what he might do to them when he didn't know it.
The dreams got worse the more he thought about it. He dreamed once that he'd backed Kristen against a wall like AJ used to do his mother. He'd hit her and she was crying blood. He couldn't look at her for a week without feeling sick.
It would be O.K. if he knew where the line was, why he only did some stuff. If he could just be sure there were things he'd never do. He hoped it wasn't just luck that most of the time he was only pacing, standing with his back to the wall, or beating one of Kristen's down pillows.
Ryan could breathe now. So he got out of bed, got clothes, got breakfast, went through his day; exhausted himself working and fell asleep early thinking about Marissa's smile at lunch. He woke up sitting on the Cohen's couch in his boxers and a tank-top, talking to Kristen.
She was smiling at him fondly, surrounded by her paperwork.
"Does this happen a lot, Ryan?"
"Uh..," he stared at the carpet, trying to keep it together.
"You are awake now, right?"
"What did I say?"
She laughed, "Nothing embarrassing. You were telling me about building democracies in third-world countries."
He looked up, frowning. Where had that come from?
"Isn't that something you're learning about in school?"
"Uh, no. I don't know," he stood up quickly, "Sorry."
"Oh," she said dismissively, "no. It was cute." She grinned, "You were very teacherly."
Ryan nodded, said goodnight, and left, feeling like a shadow hovering over their lives that they just couldn't see; like a dangerous animal at a family picnic. Sometimes he almost wishes he'd hurt himself, walk through the glass doors next time, so they could understand. So it would be over, and he wouldn't have to say anything.
Ryan doesn't know why he ended up lecturing Kristen on democracy, but he's glad. He'll stuff his head full of facts if he can be sure that's all he'll ever tell her. On his way back to bed, he borrows a book from Sandy's library, and stays up the rest of the night memorizing it.