Chasing Butterflies- Ryden

✿ 4 ✿

--Ryan--

Sunday mornings are one of the things I hate. Sunday mornings mean I have to go visit my dad, who is a complete asshole.

He spends most of his time drinking. He drinks like, a lot. And not just a little bit, he gets so drunk to the point where he nearly killed me last time I visted.

I have to stay with my dad from 10 o'clock in the morning to six o'clock in the evening. Ten hours that I have to spend with my dad every Sunday. In those ten hours, he could kill me.

And I don't want to die. I have the fear of dying, like most people. Some people say that you either die fast or you die slow. Some say you die young or you die old.

I don't know how I want to die. Do I want to grow old with the love of my life, or do I want to die young and never be remembered? Do I want to die fast to avoid all the pain, or do I want to die slow to say goodbye?

Do I want to be murdered or do I want an accidental death? Or do I want suicide?

See, the thing is, no one is truly ready to die. You could argue with me and talk about all the people who committed suicide.

But the thing is, they usually do it alone and by themselves.

You never saw the look of pure regret on their face as they took their last dying breath. Hell, you don't even know what they were thinking.

You don't know anyone's thoughts unless you steal Wonder Woman's lasso of truth, tie them up, and force them to tell you their thoughts.

But its not the same as letting them open up to you.

They aren't pouring their heart and soul out into you. If you're forcing someone to tell you the truth with a rope, they obviously don't trust you enough to tell you what's really going on inside their mind.

There is another way to find out what cargo their train of thought carries. If they have a diary and they write all their thoughts down in their, you could read it without them knowing.

The only problem is that it doesn't fully satisfy you. You have the need for them to tell you to your face. You need them to not swallow the words, but to let them spill out.

That's how I feel about Brendon. Its obvious that he likes me, but I don't need little hints here and there. I need him to tell me that he likes me. I need confirmation.

"Ry, its time to get ready to see your bastard father!" I hear my mom knock at my door and I chuckle.

My mom and dad got divorced when I was only three years old. He cheated on her and she was tired of his shit. She got divorce papers, and they battled in court for me. The judge told them that because of my dad's history with alcohol, my mom would get me 6 days of the week and my dad would get me on Sundays only. They would only see each other on holidays, like Easter and Christmas and Halloween. Those are the days we have to spend as a 'family.'

My dad isn't all that bad. I mean, he did get me my first guitar when I was twelve. And when I was little, he would dress me up in a cowboy costume, and I would run around for the rest of the day in it.

I get up lazily from my bed and wash up. Minutes later, I'm ready to go. I grab my phone from my nightstand and look at my kik notifications.

Brendon and Dallon seem to be flirting, but then Brendon says he has to go to church. God, words can't explain my jealousy. I shove my device angrily in my pocket and I go downstairs.

My mom notices my expression and she looks up, pausing her soap opera. She pats the empty spot next to her on the couch, motioning for me to sit down. I obey and she puts her hand on my knee.