Ryan sat frozen as his brother stood, breaking eye contact, and swivelled round to face the restaurant, pointing the gun from a guy in overalls with a doughnut in his hand, halfway to his mouth, now dripping jam all over the table, to the cashier, a teenage looking boy, to a mother and her kid.
Ryan couldn't believe this was really happening. Even as that thought occurred, he laughed at himself mentally for using the clichéd phrase, but this was surely not his brother, standing their pointing a gun at kids. It was a joke. A sick joke.
Something in Ryan's mind snapped and he clicked back into reality. This was his brother standing there.
"Trey, what the fucking hell? You want to go back to prison? You only just got out!" he yelled as he rose. Easy, easy, he chastised himself. This was not the time to lose control over his temper. The child began to whimper as Ryan stood. The mother covered his ears with her hands, kissing his forehead, her eyes shifting, as if physically drawn, from Trey to Ryan. Ryan silently apologised. "Sit down Trey. This isn't the way," he reasoned.
Trey didn't seem to be in the mood for reasoning.
"You had you're chance to change this Ryan. Just shut up and make sure no one gets them self shot. Get where I can see you," he ordered Ryan, gesturing with his head. Ryan had gone from brother to hostage in twenty seconds flat. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe they'd stopped being brothers the moment Ryan had walked out of the prison at Thanksgiving.
"Move it," Trey insisted. For a moment Ryan considered tackling his brother from behind and wrangling the gun from his grip, but suddenly Ryan was acutely aware of the hitched breath of the child, the terrified gaze of the mother, and the man's doughnut, still slowly oozing jam onto the table. He edged into his brother's view, holding his hands to his side with his palms raised. Please, god, just give him the money and let him get out, Ryan silently begged of the cashier.
Ryan wasn't afraid for himself. Years dealing with his mother's boyfriends and the streets of Chino had hardened him to violence. He almost expected it. Newport, had, at best, offered temporary relief. His instincts were shaped to deal with violence. He was simply resigned to the situation. All he felt was a burning shame, that this was his brother, who he had grown up with, played soccer with, fought with, gone to school with. And Ryan hadn't stopped him from growing into the man standing before him now.
Trey flicked the gun towards the cashier. "You. I want everything from the register and the safe. Everything you've got".
The teen behind the desk gulped silently and Ryan heard his rapid, shallow breaths. Ryan wondered if the kid was about to hyperventilate. The boy's hands fumbled into action as he tried to force them, sweaty and shaking, to open the register. Trey edged closer, staring hungrily at the paper bills as the boy emptied the register.
"Good. Now put them on the counter over there in a doughnut box or something. Keep your hands where I can see them." Trey instructed. The boy did as he was told, having now turned a faint shade of green. "Okay, now move away and tell me where the safe is." Trey instructed as he made to grab the box, which now contained hundreds of dollars in bills. The boy backed away, growing more and more agitated. It looked like he was working up the courage to speak. Ryan felt his muscles tense. He couldn't really believe that Trey would shoot someone, especially not a scared-as- hell teenage shop worker, but as far as guns were concerned, it was best to stay the hell away. Ryan had seen first hand evidence of that before.
"There… there's no money in the safe," the teen half whispered. "My mom took it to the bank last night. Honest, that's all there is…" The words tumbled out of his mouth. Ryan watched as Trey's breathing quickened and his eyes again began to flicker from side to side. Shit, he silently cursed. Trey was getting panicked and angry, his most dangerous combination.
"Don't fucking lie kid, this isn't worth your life. And it isn't worth theirs." He growled, waving the gun at the child. Ryan tore his eyes off Trey and glanced at the other occupants of the restaurant. The boy had stopped crying and was now sitting deadly still, wrapped in the arms of his mother. Ryan glanced over to the overalled man. He had finally dropped the doughnut into the pool of sticky jam on the table and was eying the gun warily. He seemed edgy, as if trying to come to a decision. Ryan silently implored for him not to try anything. This could all be over quickly and cleanly, with just a few hundred dollars, the innocence of a child and a brother lost.
Ryan ignored the feelings tearing at his insides and refocused his attention on Trey, who was gradually creeping closer to the cashier, who accordingly backed further up against the wall, turning increasingly green and pasty.
Three things happened at once. Trey barged forwards and began to swing himself over the counter to get to the kid. The overalled man lunged up and barrelled into Trey's midsection. The gun fired and the kid collapsed into a heap on the floor.
Ryan was split two ways, unable to decide whether to get to the kid or join the scrabble for the gun.
Soon the decision was out of his hands. As the overalled man grappled for the gun with Trey, the trigger went off. Ryan saw the spark from the barrel of the gun and the blur of movement that meant a bullet had been fired. A split second later, the bang registered, but before he could take action, something punched into his shoulder, knocking him backwards with the force of a grown man. Unable to stop himself he crashed backwards against the full length window of the diner. He felt a thousand tiny splinters slicing into his skin as he fell through the glass, and then his head connected with something hard and cold. Ryan felt the impact reverberate around his skull, could almost feel every bone as it vibrated. He was too confused to register what had happened or what the burning in his shoulder meant. He took an oddly constricted breath as he tried to think through the painful blank, dizzy feeling that engulfed his mind. Staring up, the sharp shards of glass hanging on now stretched threads of adhesive caught his eye as they wavered in the empty frame, glinting and flashing in the sunlight, almost like icicles. He barely had time to register the icy dagger of glass as it finally dropped and sliced into his chest. He felt only a splitting pain as the numb blanketed sensation overcame his curiosity and he slipped into the dizzying darkness.
Trey was sprawled backwards over the counter, straining his head to see past the overalled bastard who had jumped him. He allowed the gun to drop and threw overalled bastard off him with a final shove. Overalled bastard retrieved the gun and withdrew against the wall, where the clerk, who had fainted, was coming round.
Trey stared at the lifeless form of his brother lying on the floor. Had he fucking killed him? Blood trickled out of the corner of Ryan's mouth. The bubbling gasp that issued from the form was hardly a comfort. Trey felt the bile rose up in his throat as his stomach churned and he lost control over its contents; collapsing against a booth, he threw up on the floor.
"Shit!" He whispered, "shit," he repeated, his voice growing in volume and his tongue was assaulted by the acidic sweetness of the bile. He hadn't meant to hurt Ryan, emotionally or physically, but he was his brother, he was desperate, he had no one else to turn to. Ryan had always been there for him when it mattered. Trey straightened and wiped his mouth against his sleeve and was gripped by panic. His brother was fucking dying, he had no weapon, and he had gained only a few hundred dollars. Practically fucking useless. His eyes flitted from figure to figure within the room, from the lifeless form of his brother to the mother and child, leaned in against each other with their eyes tightly closed, rocking silently backing and forth together, to the shaking form of the cashier.
Someone was missing.
Trey noticed the door behind the counter was ajar. Overalled bastard must have gone to call the police. This was that idiot's fucking fault. He hadn't meant to fire the gun, not the first time or the second, but the bastard had fucking leaped on him, practically pulled the damn trigger. This wasn't his fault. He just needed the money. The gun was only there to secure his objective. Hell, he had hoped it wouldn't come to that. He had hoped this would all be a simple exchange of cash from one brother to another. But it had all spiralled out of control.
He had to get out of there. Gripping the box of cash to his chest, Trey stood still, focusing on the door and the noises from behind it. The guy was talking. He had to get out of there before the end of that phone call. Trey cast one last look at Ryan's motionless form and for a moment guilt and sorrow overwhelmed him, nearly causing him to drop the box and crawl to his brother's side, so he could at least be there, so he wouldn't be alone at the end. They say everybody dies alone. Ryan Atwood had lived alone and would die alone.
But the impulse to turn back didn't translate to his actions. Instead, with a final glance at the back door, Trey fled, slipping out of the door at the side of the diner and into an alley, avoiding the gathering crowds.
He didn't look back.