Boarding School~Ryden

Two

(A small quote of this was taken from The Heart Rate Of A Mouse by Anna Green. I'm not claiming to be her, and I'm not stealing her writing. All credit of said line goes to her.)

My muscles ache. Burn, actually, and no, I don't think that's normal. Track is a bitch, no matter what Brendon says.

This entire school is a bitch, really. I've been here for two months now, and I've known it the whole time. I don't mind the work: it's mind numbingly easy. More so the fact that people, for some inane reason, want to interact with me. This is mystifying, to me, at least, because I'm not particularly interesting.

Even Brendon, who I'm on somewhat good terms with, treats me like I'm... normal. I've never had that. But I guess when you don't have any deadbeat foster (or biological, once upon a time) parents to leave marks on your flesh or show up drunk to school events, you're dubbed normal.

It's refreshing.

Still, it's hard to get used to. But I'm getting there. At least, I hope so.

I flatten myself against the bed, pointing my toes and closing my eyes, welcoming the darkness that swims before me.

Ah. This is nice.

But of course, nothing nice can fucking last. This point is proven when Brendon bursts into the room, his (dyed) black hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead. He also reeks of vomit and sex.

I don't want to know what he's been doing.

"Hey, Ry." He slurs, stumbling into the room, his big eyes heavily lidded. 

I say nothing as he collapses onto his bed, whole body shaking. 

I say nothing as he vomits into his garbage can, whimpering slightly.

I say nothing as he clutches at his bloody nose.

I know what he took. I'm not stupid. I'm also apparently a heartless human, because Brendon is just lying there, his tiny body shake-shake-shaking, moaning slightly as sweat soaks into his Misfits shirt.

I'm calmly typing my English Essay on my (school issued) laptop, when Brendon speaks.

"Are you mad?" 

I look up. He's laying on his stomach, the picture of idiocy. His whole damn body is dripping with sweat, and he's twitching. Oh yes, he is high. As a kite.

"Was it cocaine?" Is all I ask, looking directly at him. Slowly, he nods. "Yes." He says, wiping at a bit of blood still gushing from his nose. "Why'd you do it?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. Brendon doesn't seem like a hardcore druggie. Some pot? Sure. Party drugs? Uh, no. Not his style.

He sighs, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. "It's not enough, anymore. The alcohol isn't enough, anymore. And Shane, one of the quaterbacks offered when we were at that party, and--"

I tune him out. I don't want to hear about drug fueled dazes. I don't want to hear about vodka soaked whimsies. I don't want to know about sincerity and vomit and honesty. I want security and love and lies. I want to be smothered in stability. 

But apparently fate doesn't care what I want, because I've gotten too much of the opposite. I wonder, for a brief moment, if I was raised happily, properly, like Brendon, if I'd want the drugs. The partying. The lifestyle.

I guess everyone wants what they can't have.

"--But anyway, I'm sick now, and I'm regretting it. A lot." Brendon finishes, and I redirect my attention on him.

How can someone so messed up on drugs look so nice?

I digress.

I shake my head at him. "You're so fucking stupid. Do you know what that does to you? Don't you care, Brendon?" I hiss, although there is little venom in my voice. He simply blinks at me. "Because it decimates you, Brendon!" I snap, and I realize my eyes are pooling with unshed tears. I subtly wipe them so he doesn't see. "It tears and pulls and leaves you as a deadbeat nothing. Okay?! Do you want to be nothing?"

His full lips part. "Ryan, I.." He whispers, but I stand, walking into the bathroom and grabbing a washcloth. I soak it in icy water, grabbing some Nyquil from the medicine cabinet. Is it a bad idea to mix a drug with a drug? Probably. But he's going to be awake all night, because he snorted a stimulant. And we have school tomorrow, because it's only Thursday. Apparently Brendon couldn't wait one day.

Who woulda guessed?

I slowly walk out of the bathroom, settling on the bed next to him. His eyes are closed, and he's twitching like you wouldn't believe.

I lay the cloth on his forehead, slowly tugging his shirt off and opening a window so somewhat cool air pours in. "That should make you feel a little better." I say, and his eyes open, flickering around the room. He eyes the shot of NyQuil, and after I nod in confirmation that, yes, he should take it, he knocks it back, swallowing the liquid in one gulp. I sit back down on the bed, and for a few minutes, we're silent. 

Up close, his eyes are glossy, his lips parted so his teeth gleam. His pupils are dialated, so I can barely see the soft brown, only inky blackness. He looks like every other self-absorbed highschooler, high off their ass. He's one dimentional. Flat. A space cadet, flying around in La La Land, living in his own special little place.

I guess he's the same as everyone else. You know. The rest of them. The partiers and the druggies and the briefcase-towers. I guess he's all about the moment, the temporary fun, the lust of living. 

How nice. How very nice for Brendon. But the thing he, and the rest of the world (or at least most of it) don't realize is that it gets old fast. But whatever. I don't care about Brendon Urie. He can do whatever he wants. See if I care.

I hum a long forgotten nursery rhyme under my breath, only the melody is distinguishable. The words... they're lost to time, I suppose. It's lame and I hate any form of singing, but it'll pass the time until Brendon passes out and I can go sleep.

"Hey, Ryan?" He says finally, and I turn to him. "Yeah?" I breathe, and his hand twitches toward mine, his fingers brushing my knuckle. "You look really...really pretty, right now. You always do." He says, and then he's drifted off to sleep, his face relaxing.

Oh. Well, alright then.

I slide his red glasses off his face, which he only wears sometimes, and fold them, setting them neatly on his desk.

As he breathes deeply, I'm buzzing from the compliment. But it's not like I thought it would be. He's not quite like I thought he would be.

I wonder if he feels what I feel for him. I wonder if he writes songs to my name, if he sits at the gazebo in the school garden and thinks about how nice it'd be if I was there. But no, I have to remind myself. No, not everyone is like me. Not everyone is as poetic, as flawed, as.. imaginitive. As tragic. And I do consider myself a tragic case.

I rub my finger along his freckle-dappled face, and lean in, lightly kissing his forehead. "Oh, Brenny. And here I thought you were different." 

I stand, arching my back into a stretch and walking over to my bed, lying down on it.

Goddamn, Brendon Urie is a prick.

Too bad he's so hot.