DIE TONIGHT 》 Ryden

12:29 pm

RYAN'S POV

I wake up to the sound of Dottie and Elwood barking in the living room. Her little 'YIP YIP' can be heard from the comfort of my bed. Elwood's bark is more of a distinct 'BOOF BOOF.'
"Who is it, y'all?" I call out, adjusting my position in my bed. They simply continue with their barking.
Light shines through the cracks of the blinds into my bedroom, bathing it in lines of sunlight.
Curious as to what time it is, I pick up my phone from my bedside table and power it up.
The clock on my lockscreen tells me it's 12:33 pm.
'YIP YIP,' I hear again. I smile, "Yes, I'm going.." I call out. In response, their little feet tap excitedly against the hardwood floor. I swing my feet over the edge of my bed, and pick a shirt up off of the floor and quickly put it on, as I don't know who's at the door. I walk out of my room, and into the living room where Dot is running around the coffee table. Elwood has one of his toys in his mouth. I open the door, the slightest, fleeting feeling of hesitance. Who's there? I'm not sure.

Anddd...

Nobody's here. No sign of a car... Except for a letter taped to my door.  My name is neatly written upon it in calligraphy. Quickly, I take the note inside.  

I place the letter on the kitchen table, and pour myself a cup of coffee.

I ruin the intricate wax seal on the letter, and take a sip of the scalding coffee. It burns the roof of my mouth and my tongue, and I wince at the slight pain as I put it down. I open the letter, wondering who the hell could have written it. The person who wrote this must've hand-delivered it, there's no stamp or return address. A lot of effort for little old me, I must admit.

'Ryan,

I've sent you this letter in hopes that you will join my husband for the anniversary of the 10th year of Pretty. Odd. I neglected to mention that I was organizing this little get-together, so he might be a bit surprised. I apologize in advance if he tells you to leave, although, I hope you go, and have a good time! The address is on the back.
Just wait at the side door, seeing as I won't be able to let you in - visiting the Caribbean with some friends.

Yours truly,

~Sarah Urie'

Does she know anything about my past with Brendon? If she did, I don't blame her for anything that might happen tonight. If I even go, that is. Maybe we can forget about it? Be friends again. Friends, and nothing more. He and I can just start all over. And, hey - I'm not against rejoining the band. Maybe while I'm there I can give him a newsflash: it's been my band all along, asshole!

Dottie's wet nose streaks up the side of my leg, her own way of telling me that she needs to be let out. I put the letter down, and walk to the back door, opening the door, and both Dot and Elwood zoom out of my house, into the backyard. I smile, the scene is endearing. I retreat to my kitchen table to finish the coffee that I started working on. Thoughts rush through my head about tonight at a ion miles per hour, leaving me almost dizzy. 'What am I supposed to wear? Do I dress like it's 2008 again? Dress nicely? Casually? Oh God, what am I going to take to drink? And how much of it? Who else is going? Did Sarah really write that letter?'

Once I finish my coffee, I carelessly drop mug in the sink and trudge back to my room, somewhat dreading tonight. I open up my closet sorting through various black and white shirts, most of them advertising a band anywhere from the 60's though 90's, along with a moderate amount of flannels scattered in between. Most of my jeans were ripped, usually exposing some skin. On top of that comes a leather jacket to complete my look. Occasionally, I'll wear glasses, as a 'disguise'. Hoping I don't run into a fan. Don't get me wrong, they're usually nice, but it gets to me when they start to talk about, or mention, 'Ryden', and question me about it. I cant really say anything, can I? Brendon and I may have had something going on during the duration  of the five years I was in the band, but it was more than just being 'stage gay'. It actually meant something to me. And I thought it meant something to him, too, because he had written songs for me. I'd written songs for him. Hence the birth of the album Pretty. Odd.

And 'He-doesn't-write-songs-about-me-anymore?' Sure. Yeah. Fuck that. Any simpleton could see right through his songs, from the oldest to the most recent, (Vices to the Death of a Bachelor, if we're going in order) and tell that they're written explicitly for me.

In he end, I've decided to take some un-ripped black skinny jeans, a white David Bowie T-shirt, my leather jacket, a studded belt, and some old chucks. A casual look. Casual as it gets for me, that is.

Afterward, I go to the back door to let my 'children' back in. I put water and food in their respsctive bowls, and let them roam free. Who knows what time I'll be back? Maybe I'll go for an hour or two at the most, as I don't plan on staying too long or drinking too much. Maybe I'll be gone the whole night. Maybe Brendon wint even let me in. I'll start the day by running some errands, and then heading to the liquor store around eleven before arriving at my destination for the night. I grab my keys, and head out.

. . .