I was walking home along Fourth Street, trying not to look like a serial killer while also fighting to force some sort of emotion onto my numb face. Feeling anything seemed impossible. How in the world did I get that smile on my face for my school ID? I remembered that just before that picture had been taken, my friend Patrick had told me a joke concerning Michael Jackson, Bill Gates, the Dalai Lama, and a delivery man. Why would that make me happy? Since when did I have the ability to fill the hollow space inside of me?
The road sign in front of me marked the corner of Fourth and Fremont Street, and as I passed the dingy motel I swore I could see the silhouettes of two people in one of the windows. Vaguely, I processed what they must be doing in there. I wondered for a brief moment why they would choose that motel, of all the places, to perform such an activity. Then I realized that places like those are appealing only because they're just that unappealing. My family had to go inside once, to meet a distant cousin, and my aunt, a practiced Catholic, crossed herself upon entering.
Hmm. Later I should write a song about that. Spencer says I should be a songwriter, the way I think, and recently I've been trying it out. It's actually quite fun, once you get the hang of it. I don't really have that great of a voice, but Brendon
Brendon...
Whereas minutes before I'd been trying to look like I had emotions, now I was trying to keep away the emotions. I guess it all just fell on me at that moment. Just thinking of Brendon, and the way he'd just kind of had the position of lead singer thrown on him, was more than enough to set my tear ducts into overdrive. Because Brendon may never sing again.
I broke into a run, eager to get home before anyone saw me crying. It wasn't far, but it felt like miles. I was either really upset or really out of shape.
Finally, I reached the house I suppose I could technically call my own. Fumbling in my pockets for my key, I unlocked the front door and hoped I was home alone. The door swung open, and...there was no one inside. Good.
I slammed the door behind me, a sob escaping my lips. I made no attempt to stop it, or the subsequent sobs that followed. Brendon would know what to say to make it all right. But Brendon was unconscious in a hospital, and it was my fault. I should have been there to stop him. I should have known what to say to make him stop. But no. I can write a whole song about being critical of modern media consumption, but I can't talk my best friend out of suicide.
There. I said it. Suicide.
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Relax, Relapse (Ryden)
FanfictionTrigger warning: suicide Ryan blames himself. It's irrational and he knows it, but he does. In reality, there were a whole host of reasons, none of which were named Ryan Ross, but in his mind it's all his fault. If only he could have been there...
