The Undoing Of Ryker Griffithe

The Fall

"Ryker Dean Griffithe" the voice on the speakers said. Shit , was the only thing that went through my mind The classroom fell even more silent than it was before. If that was even possible. I unfortunately knew what was coming next as my stomach filled with anxiety and dread. I don't know who exactly is on the speakers and I sure as hell don't know how they found out. It was years ago and I wake up every morning knowing what I did and regretting it.

"As most of you know, Ryker moved to Southview during the summer between freshman and sophomore year. " the voice continued.

A/N: Just to let you all know, I am Canadian so I have to look up what year is freshman, sophomore, junior and senior. For all the non americans like me, freshman is 9th grade, sophomore is 10th, junior is 11th grade and senior is 12th.

"but, not many people know why. Yes there has been the story that the Griffithes just moved because they felt like it but no one moves to Southview, Oregon from Addison, New York without a damn good reason. Now you're all either thinking How Could Mr. Perfect Be Not Perfect or Why Is He Telling Us This, firstly when I'm done Ryker will no longer be perfect and secondly, you all need to know exactly who you're dealing with. Anyways, getting right to the point, Ryker Griffithe is a murderer." stated the voice. I felt all eyes fall on me, again, and I grabbed my bag and raced out of the classroom to the nearest bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and sat on the floor.

"Yes folks, that's right, Ryker is responsible for someones death." the voice said, "A little explanation is needed. Something probably none of you know is that Ryker is an artist and a damn good one too. He was showing real promise because what he drew was raw. He drew people suffering. He drew the poor people of New York, he drew anorexics and bulimics, he drew people and you could see their story just by his drawings. They were very realistic. Sometimes a little too realistic. Ryker had a best friend named Thalia. The two did everything together and were easily mistaken for a couple by even their closest friends." the voice was reading this part from an article from my old classes website. After this was published it was taken down but too many people had already seen it. "One day in mid December, Ryker drew a picture of a girl crying and slitting her wrists. The girl looked a lot like Thalia although Ryker denies it being based on her but then again, everything is based on something, isn't it? Anyways, Ryker, being the proud artist he was posted it to his Tumblr, rainandteardrops-art , which yes, Thalia followed. Can you guess what happened next? No, well I'll elaborate. Thalia saw the picture and thought that it was about her. No one, not even Ryker knew that she actually was cutting. She went up to the bathroom and scribbled three notes. One to her parents, one to her little sister and one to Ryker."

Oh god, oh god, oh god, no, not this, it was hard enough with the investigation and the posts and the assholes but not here, it wasn't supposed to happen here. I felt my eyes tear up and my mouth went dry, funny how that works. I stared at my jeans, being the only person who really knew what was under them, I let a few tears slip down my face.

"Her parents would not specify what was in their letter but her sister, Lillian did. Heartfelt bullcrap, blah, blah, blah, Ryker's  however was the most interesting, after he had read it one of his friends had stolen it and sent it to us. The letter read:

Dear Ryker, I'm sorry. I trusted you and I shouldn't have. It's not your fault, you were doing what you always do but sometimes it ruins people. How did you find out? I miss you already and I haven't even done it yet. I'm sorry, don't stop drawing, I'm sorry, Goodbye.

And with that Thalia Poppy Harrin, tears running down her face, slit her wrists for the last time and took three bottles of her mom's back pain pills. She was pronounced dead at 4:38 pm, eastern standard time, in Addison, New York."

That's it , I can't take this anymore. I shimmied out of my jeans to reveal the multitude of scars running across both legs. I dug in my bag and found a pencil sharpener. I broke of the plastic and stared at the blade. No, I couldn't do this, not now, not after this long. Fuck it. I slowly drug the blade across one leg, then the next. I repeated this a couple of time. My face was tearstained and probably red and puffy, my thighs were bleeding and nothing was going away. I threw the blade away from me and tried to stop the bleeding. What was I doing, what was I thinking. Why would they do this especially now? What do they want from me?