Ryder

Chapter 8

"Ryan, why are people always mean to you?"

The question was asked on a cool Saturday morning over coffee and cocoa.  I looked up from my ceramic mug of the steaming liquid.  I never really did explain why the kids at my school were so terrible to us. I was kind of attached to my faked "normal" lifestyle.  But I had pretty much illegally adopted Ryder, so I figured I had nothing to lose.

"Okay.  So," I began lamely.  Where to start?  I honestly didn't really like talking about it.  I actually tried ignoring it, most of the time.  No, I told myself.  Ryder is basically family.  She should know. 

"I started going to school really really late in elementary school.  I never went to preschool, kindergarten, or anything up until fifth grade."

Ryder raised her eyebrows, and her now wide-set eyes reminded me of when I had first met her.  It was like it was yesterday....but really, I had found her two days ago, not one.  I felt like I knew her already, although in my heart I knew I was nowhere close.  She set down her mug.

"Why?"  The question was asked delicately, but in such a way that the answer was almost demanded. 

I swallowed hard.  "I had a lot of problems when I was a kid.  Like....mental things.  I was never a people person, and being out in public made me sick.  If my mum took me out of the house, I'd burst out crying and would literally get sick.  I threw up a lot."  I blinked hard.  I never cried over talking about this before, and I really didn't want to start now.  "I threw up so much, I had to be hospitalized multiple times.  I was really tiny from the weight loss.  I had so many medications....I had to take something like 10 pills a day."

"And?"  The edge of Ryder's eyebrows curled up, almost meeting in the middle.  She was sad for me.  As was I.  And the storm of tears was on the brink of pouring out.

  I blinked down harder, and forced my lips into a neutral position, instead of the horrid one they acquired when I cried.  I swallowed.  "When I started fifth grade, I got more and more sick.  I threw up every day at home.  It was still a medical thing back then.  I was still on my meds, and they still didn't work.  So sometimes I stayed at school, but mostly, I learned at home."

"Oh," Ryder sighed, her voice sounding soft and whispy, like it came from the wind.  

"Yeah," I choked, gulping a little.  "And....in sixth grade, my parents thought it stopped.  I was 11.  But starting at another new school, with more kids, and more chances to be mean....I couldn't help it.  I got back into my old habits, and no one knew.  I acted really normal in school, but as soon as I got home, I'd throw up over and over, as hard and as much as I could.  I couldn't help it.  I needed to let it out."  That's when I broke.  Hot tears streamed down my cheeks.  I closed my eyes, shaking.  My breaths were harsh and shallow.  

"How did the kids find out?"  The question was so gentle, and it wrapped me around in a blanket of comfort.  Someone, finally, was listening to my never-published story.

I took a deep, shaking gasp of air.  "They found me in the bathroom during lunch in the beginning of 7th grade.  I was passed out in the boys' bathroom, and there was blood and vomit around me.  I forced myself to throw up so much, that the rawness of it cut open my throat, I guess.  But some kids found me, and not the good kind, either.  They ran around screaming about it, from what I heard.  You know how stories fly fast in middle school.  I went to the hospital for a few weeks, and when I came back, my few old friends weren't my friends.  No one talked nicely to me.  I was a freak, and I had a reputation.  I hated it.  People were so mean to me, and they still are.  No one really forgot, especially me.  But....I....couldn't....help....it.....I didn't....mean....for it....to happen...."  I broke down.  No one liked me.  No one does.  I was never popular to begin with, and then all that shit happened and I just couldn't take it.  No one talked to me the rest of the year.  No one talked to me for two whole years, or, at least, never talked to be nice.  It was always jeers and comments about how I would die alone with my stomach problem.  But that was just it--it wasn't a stomach problem.  It was a forced problem, a people-turned-tummy problem.  I hated society, for everything they did. 

As my sobs became gradually louder, so did the footsteps that came towards me.  Ryder crouched down next to me.  I looked up and saw the blurry outline of her face.  I attempted to stare back at her, but the water in my eyes wouldn't let me. 

Gently, she wrapped her thin arms around my shoulders and neck.  Her fingers stayed together, and linked themselves with the other hand's just below my neck.  She pulled me close to her.  I had stopped breathing while she did this.  Then, as if I had been invited to, I placed my head between her neck and shoulder.  And I stayed on there, wetting her clothes with tears and shocking realization.  I couldn't hold back anymore.  I had waited so long to let go.  Years.  I remember that I didn't even cry when it happened.  I just pushed the thought away, as if it weren't happening.  But letting everything out, crying out loud to someone, another human being....it won by a landslide.  Years of hurt and pain and sorrow and unheard screams came out.  I hugged Ryder harder than she had me,  and we sat there, almost under the dining room table, for what seemed like hours.  She lifted one of her hands and began running her slim fingers through my hair in a soothing way.

"Hey," she whispered to me, "it's going to be okay.  Everything will be alright."  The lies calmed me down a bit.  But that's all they were.  Lies.

"No.  No it isn't."  The truth hurt.  Hearing it come from me hurt even more.

"I know.  I was just trying to help."