The Five Times I've Seen Ryan Ross Cry

The Time I Met His Dad

Ryan and I grew close after the cheating whore incident, but I didn't know much about Ryan's personal and home life. Sometimes I wish I didn't know about it because it definitely wasn't pretty the day I found out.

"Ryan?" I called from outside his house. The band never stayed at Ryan's house, but I was lonely and desperate for attention or at least someone to hang with. A gruff, round man opened the door instead of the lanky, skinny boy I had expected.

"He's not here right now, boy. You don't want to see him anyway, the piece of shit. Leave." I was taken aback, but was too shocked to argue. As he closed the door, I saw Ryan on the flight of stairs. From the small glimpse of him, I saw his bruised face and shiny face, wet with tears.

I stared at the spotless, white wooden door that hid so many secrets behind it. Now I knew some of them, and I wasn't sure if I was happy to have found them out. My head swam with worries, the mental image of Ryan's beat up face flashing repeatedly in my mind. I ran around his house and jumped their fence, my brain not even processing the amount of laws I was breaking in this moment.

All I could think of was Ryan. I wanted my boy to be okay. I hastily climbed up the tree in their backyard that led to the second floor. (The adrenaline was doing wonders for me since I failed gym class in my Junior year.) I scooted my way across the branch til I was close enough to tap on the glass.

I knocked on the window furiously until Ryan opened it, his expression turning from surprise to fear within a matter of seconds. "Brendon," he hissed, "what are you doing here?" Without answering him, I snaked through his window onto the carpeted floor. He blinked a couple times, as if he were checking if this event was actually happening to him or if it was a dream.

"I'm checking on you, dumbass."

"I'm fine," he snapped, attempting to scowl at me, but he only winced in pain since the muscles in his face were aching.

"Ryan, what the fuck happened?"

He sighed and scratched his nose (an obvious nervous habit of his). "Look, my dad is just a bit of an asshole. He gets really drunk and...fuck, I don't know, Brendon."

"A bit of an asshole?" I exclaimed. "Child abuse doesn't make you a bit of an asshole, it makes you a fucking disgusting creature. Do the guys know? The cops?"

The tears on his face were drying, but the bruises were still dark against his pale skin. "Yeah, Spencer knows. I can't call the cops on him, Brendon, he's my dad. And I'd have nowhere to go. I'd be sent to some fucking orphanage or something, I don't know. Look, just...please don't tell anyone. It isn't your place to say anything and--"

I cut him off with a tight hug and nodded. I snuck my way out the window again and I thought that was the end of my problems. But it wasn't.

The next week, Ryan didn't show up to any of our rehearsals, so I broke into his backyard again and fell through the window again (which for some reason wasn't locked). I heard a small gasp and something clutter to the ground. I looked up and saw it. His wrists. The blade. The blood. The red on the carpet. The tears that were hitting it.

"Ryan?" I asked accusingly. This wasn't like Ryan Ross. He wasn't weak. He didn't self harm. He didn't care what people thought or said. He was strong, he was strong for the band, for me. Right?

I asked again, "Ryan, what the fuck?"

And I heard his choked sobs harmonize with the endless drip drip drip of his tears. I tried to tear my eyes away from his bloodied wrists but I couldn't. I couldn't stop looking in horror. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm a worthless piece of shit, I'm sorry."

And I had never leapt up so fast in my life. I grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Ryan, don't. Please. I know it's a hard thing to ask of you but please don't. Fuck, the band, we...we love you and care and..."

"Brendon, just shut up. I don't give a shit anymore. I'm so numb it doesn't even hurt anymore. I can't feel anything. And I want to so badly. I want to feel the pain, I want to feel the hatred, I want to feel the sorrow and love and happiness but I can't. And I'm so--" and I couldn't take it anymore. I leaned forward and kissed him. Deeply. Passionately. I wanted him to know, to feel this so he didn't have to slit his wrists to feel things. He could just remember the feeling of my lips against his, the dance of our tongues, and the desperation in my kiss because of how badly I wanted him. I wanted him to feel.

"Remember this," I whispered against his lips.

"Okay," he whispered back, drawing me in for another kiss.