Looking down at his bloody knuckles as he hugged the punching bag, his heart beating in his chest, his muscles burning, as sweat poured down on his dress shirt, he felt somewhat relieved. It wasn't because of the sweat, or the burning muscles, the energy exerted, it was the blood.
He turned his hands over, the blood was smeared, painting over his fingers, he reached out and touched his knuckles, it hurt. But it didn't matter. Ryan Atwood was used to pain. He had let himself become soft in this place, he had let himself become comfortable, safe, content. He had forgotten what he thrived on, what all Atwoods thrived on. Pain. Ryan's childhood was tainted with pain, by his early teenager years, pain was another metal of honour. You were judged how strong you were, how important you were, by the scars you had, the marks you had on your face. They didn't hurt anymore. They were apart of you, even if they faded, ceased to exist.
People here didn't think that way. Pain was frowned upon, worried about. Seth stepped on a piece of glass he moaned incessantly. Marissa revelled in her emotional pain, but physical she just tried to avoid.
Ryan didn't want to drink away his problems, or moan and beg for attention. He wanted to deal with them himself. He couldn't hurt people anymore, even people like Volchok who deserved it. Volchok in Chino wouldn't have lasted five minutes with Ryan. He would have kicked his ass, no consequences, no problems. It would have been over.
But this wasn't Chino. This was Newport, problems were settled locked away, in closed spaces.
He had never gotten that before. He got that now. He could do anything, as long as he did it by himself, in a quiet closed space where no one would ever find out. That was too easy.
Ryan went into the bathroom and put his hands under a running tap, the blood swirled down the drain. It left his knuckles raw, and red.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes bloodshot, his face glistening with sweat, his collared shirt rumpled and flecked with sweat and blood. He looked like a business type after a night at fight club.
He didn't want to be this person.
He wanted to be that person with a cool, calm face. He didn't want to be the type that flew off the handle anymore. But he didn't want to be like every other Newport guy, he had gone through too much, to assimilate now. He never could, he knew that. As much as he tried he couldn't hold it in, the same old Ryan Atwood came back, like with Trey, or with the punching bag.
He sat down on the cool tiled floor, his head on his knees, unsure of what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to inflict pain on himself, instead of on others. Instead of punching someone, instead of letting down Sandy and Kirsten yet again.
He had heard about it, read about it, he had always thought those people were weak. He had never understood what would drive someone to break their own skin. Yet sitting in the bathroom, starring at his own blood he understood. He understood perfectly.
You hurt yourself on the outside, to kill the thing on the inside.
TBC
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