A/N: Sorry for the delay of this chapter and a big THANK YOU to my new Beta 6footer, who's doing a really good job and also THANK YOU to my former Beta ParisAmy who has been a big help for me for a long time =)

21.Moods- they're irrational, hard to deal with and have deeper reasons than we can understand

K.

I enter his room silently, because I'm afraid of waking him up. I'm surprised seeing him sitting in bed and reading. He had been quite exhausted and depressed depressed after his break down. Now it seems as if nothing has happened. He still owns the gift of pretending. How long must he have been practicing this attitude that he really makes you believe that everything was 'fine'?

"Hey, how're you feeling?" I ask him. I only earn a glare. No not a glare. It's The Glare, as my son would describe it.

"Okay wrong question." I say and sit down on the chair at the desk. There's a sketch of construction plans lying on the table. The lines are neatly drawn, over-precisely. Next to the plan I see the different pencils aligned next to each other. Looking at this nobody would consider a human being having arranged this. He had never been different. I have never found cloths on the floor of the pool house. Shoes and backpack were the only occupants of the floor, but they used to be hid somewhere where they didn't disturb the scene of a furnished model home. It never had the atmosphere of being a teenager's room. Seth was and still is a complete different issue in that case. I used to think that this might be a sign that he still feels like a guest, but sometimes I think this was just another feature of risk-aversion. His whole behaviour is drawn in this pattern, well not always, but mostly: don't offer anybody anything to complain about.

"Looks interesting. For a coursework?" I ask him, not realising the irony of this question.

"Had been, yeah." He answers. Brick.

"You can still use it for your applications later." I try to sooth his feeling of having spent efforts and time for something now useless.

R.

"Therefore I only needed to have something to apply for." I tell her. I'm really in no mood for talking about my future. I'm in no mood for talking at all, but nobody seems to care anyway. Hello, I'm confronted with something that can be described as unpredictability and uncontrollable. I've never been a fan of things I can't control or predict. It scares me to death. How ironic. I don't even know what the end of this story will be. This situation is worse than unnerving.

"I assume you'll pick up your studies as soon as you're recovered."

I look at her. Her determining attitude is annoying. As if it could change anything.

K.

"Ryan?" I ask him, after I don't receive an answer. I'm worried he starts to shut down on me again. I can't stand it when he's doing that.

"What?" He snaps at me. I'm taken aback. Now it's me who's only looking. I shake my head. I don't think I deserve this kind of reaction. I haven't done anything wrong this time.

R.

I sigh. I still haven't wrapped my head around the new phase of my life, if you can still consider it as life, but right: it doesn't give me the right to ward off my anger on those around me, because if I start doing that I'm only proving I'm no different.

"Kirsten, I collapsed during my lecture. I had no control. I have no control over this. I don't know how this will end, and I'm not going to make plans when I'm not sure whether I'll be able to realise them one day."

"Ryan, you can't be really thinking like that, do you? Isn't there anything else, you're looking forward to? Don't you have anything to live for?"

"What? What or who is left for me? I can't proceed with my studies. The last one I had was my brother, who pissed off when you appeared on the doorstep. My Mom didn't let me stay at hers even for a second. So what?"

K.

I look into these tired and cold blue eyes. I don't know what to tell them. I want to walk out of this room and slam the door shut, but if I do so he had won and had his proof that we really didn't care. Why is he making it all so difficult? He's behaving like a spoilt rich kid. The emotions, all over rage, are boiling in the pit of my stomach. I can't do this anymore. I can't handle his mood swings. One time he seems to have overcome his fears, and the other one he's slapping my face with them. He had changed and I can't handle this Ryan anymore. I get up.

"I don't understand you. We're doing all in our power to help to get you through this and you're behaving like this. My father pulled all possible strings so you could have a normal life as long as possible. Sandy is driving through the country in vain to find your father, and I'm there for you all the time, but still this isn't enough for you."

R.

"I didn't ask you to." I get out of bed. I don't need this. It's the same old shit. 'Ryan is not behaving as expected', Ryan gets his ass kicked and although it's only verbally, it's enough for me. I don't need this. I told her I can't play happy family and when she can't accept this simple fact I'm out of here.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Away." I tell her. I pull on my trousers. I ignore the fact that my body is sore and that I can barely move. I ignore the headache that never seems to stop. I ignore the cramps in my stomach.

"You can't always run away from your family when things aren't comfortable enough for you."

"Therefore you need to have a family." I bite back and open the door.

"Ryan!" She screams after me.

"Ryan, come back here!"

Does she really think that he hysteric screaming was going to get me back to her? She's even more naive as I thought she was. Newpsie. Nothing more to expect.

K.

I watch him walking out of the house. How can he? He just collapsed in his lecture. Where does he take this strength from?

"Ryan!" I scream behind him one last time. I can't keep up with his speed. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't recognise me. He just walks on. He doesn't stop. I watch him go. I wait and when I can't see him anymore I stare down at the horizon, inwardly hoping that he might come back. He won't. He's stubborn and determined. When I've been standing long enough and watched, I go back inside and slam the door shut.

"Kirsten, what's wrong?" My father comes in from the garden and throws a puzzled look at me.

"Nothing." I tell him and walk past him.

"Kirsten!" He demands.

"Dad! It's nothing. Okay?"

"Is it the boy? Is he skittish again?" He asks me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, but don't worry it's over."

"What?"

"He's gone. He left."

"What? Why? Kirsten, what happened upstairs?"

"We had a fight and…Dad, he can't do this with us and we have to accept it."

"Don't tell me that he had become moody again. Kirsten, I told you not to…"

"Dad, stop it. Honestly, he behaved … like an ungrateful little brat and I don't want to enforce my presence when he doesn't want it." I tell my father and storm out of the house again. A storm of emotions is raging inside of me. I feel embarrassed, because I made myself a fool with my attempt to help. I'm frustrated, because I don't know what I shall do now. I'm angry, because I lost this battle. But the most I am sad, because I lost my son and this time it feels as if I really did. It happened in front if my eyes. Even if I'd been there at that time, I couldn't have prevented any of it. I couldn't have prevented him from running or hiding, or from rejecting us. I never possessed that power.

I go home, but when I enter the house I don't know what to do. The house is empty. There's nobody and nothing to do, because our servants do everything. I'm alone and don't know what to do with the thunderstorm burning inside of me. I go to the kitchen and pour a mug of coffee, hoping it'll calm me down. I lean against the kitchen counter. He just left. He quasi insulted me, telling me I wasn't family after all I did and then he just went away. I can't believe it. I don't know what had gotten into him. I can't remember him behaving this disrespectful to anyone of us while he was still living with us. This can't be him. And why me? I didn't beat him. I mean, yes I've been saying things I shouldn't have said, but hell by now he should know that I feel sorry and that I didn't mean it. Why me? Why did he do that? I feel the rage boiling steaming. Why? Is this fucking conflict worth it risking his life? Is it worth it hurting all around him with his loss? This is nothing but a fucked up crap! I smash the mug against the fridge. I watch the shards flying through the kitchen and the brown liquid slowly rinsing down the door and dripping down, creating a brownish puddle on the floor. The slowness is annoying me only more and I take the plate that's lying on the counter and smash it against the fridge as well, then the glass.

"You're fucking bastard!" I scream when I have a bowl in my hand ready to throw it, but a firm hand embraces my wrist.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" My husband asks me. I haven't even noticed that he had come home.

"Sandy what…" In a sudden moment all my emotions wash over me and I bury my face in his chest and let the tears free to relieve the pressure inside of me.

"Kirsten, what…"

S.

"I did everything wrong. I did everything wrong one could…possibly do wrong. I…he left…again and I don't think that I can get him back again…and…it's just awful." She sobs into my already soggy shirt. I hold her tight, pecking the top of her head.

"He…do you mean Ryan left?" I ask her carefully. I don't want to upset her any further. It's already shock enough to see my wife losing composure that bad. She nods.

"Did you have a fight?"

"I…said awful things to him…and…and he said awful things back. I was so taken aback, because he doesn't use to react like that. I don't know, but this…wasn't Ryan." She tells me. I doubt that we've had enough time to find out, whom and how Ryan really was. The time had been too short and the circumstances had been just wrong.

"And where is he now?" I ask her.

"I don't know. I tried to follow him, but I gave up…I…gave up just like that." I don't know what to answer to this.

"It was just too much, all his rejection and insults, his moodiness. I was fed up. I wanted him to give us – me - a chance, and…I don't know what had gotten into me." She says.

"And…now?" I ask her. I have a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach and I don't like it. It tells me that I've lost something, again.

"Eww, guys go and get you a room." We hear from behind. We both turn around and face our son.

"Everything okay?" He asks us when he sees his Mom's devastated expression.

"Ryan's gone." I tell him. I don't want to burden my depressed wife with answering this question.

"Yeah, good joke dad. As if…" He says and goes to the cupboard to get a mug and pours himself some coffee.

"He can and he did." I tell him. He looks at me and then, as soon as the words left my mouth, he puts the mug with a violent thud on the counter.

"Great. Has anyone of you thought about that this situation might have been worse on him that on you? At least you treated him for months pretty much like his mother and her boyfriends used to do it." He says and storms out. I look at my wife and see the tears welling up in her eyes again. It hurts, but he's right – in some way. Oh my God, now even my son compares us with these incompetent parents. The worst is that we all know what this situation might mean and we all fear the outcome. On the other hand, who are we to determine how and where and even whether he lives? He's old enough and smart enough to make his own decisions and he has reasons for not wanting to go on. No matter how wrong it is, we're not in any position to force him to live. We've had our chance when he had been living with us. It feels utterly wrong, but that's the truth.

"Maybe we should just let him go. Don't put him under further agony than he's already in. He doesn't need another battle. Maybe this is exactly what he wants and the only way for him to cope with the situation."

"So you tell me basically that we should give up on him?"

"If this is what he wants then we should respect it. Yes." I tell her. She looks at me, hate and anger radiating at me. This hadn't been what she wanted to hear.

"After all you've put him through you now decide it's okay…when he's alone, sick and…probably dying? After all you did to him, you decided finally that it's okay to let him die?" She screams at me. This is enough. I know that I'm playing a major role in this farce, but I'm not going to take all the blame.

"I? Did you forget who had found comfort in a bottle instead on her family? If you hadn't even started all of this wouldn't have happened." I ask her back. I scream back. I didn't see the hand coming.

"Great now you're blaming me. Just as notice: we're all to blame for what had happened: Mom, you and me too. We all hurt him and forced him to leave and we all have to make it up to him, soon."