flirting with disaster

two

            There was more than one way to be dead, and Ryan Beaumont knew that pretty damn well. First off, there was his dad – Less of a person, now, and more of a fragment of a human being. The only way Rye could really tell he was still alive was from the faint sound of keyboards clacking on a computer, and the flutter of pages being tossed into the air, or torn up on really bad day, and expletives flying when the work got tough or things didn't go his way coming from his office. Rye never went to check on him, because he knew things that his father had done that he didn't want to think of, and, by all means, it was easier for Rye to pretend he was a ghost than have to face the reality that he wasn't.

Rye knew that, by all practical measures, he was dead to his mother. And he knew, if he'd had the sort of friends that told each other their feelings, they would've tried to talk him out of the mindset. There was the whole general stereotype that parents were supposed to love their children, no matter what, but Rye had long since learned that his didn't give a fuck about him. His mother had made that clear enough by packing their things up in the middle of the night when Rye was out doing who-knows-what – Getting high, probably – And left, taking the twins with her and never looking back. Robbie had sort of done the same, as well – Once he'd graduated and gathered enough money to get out, he had, leaving Rye to deal with everything on his own. It wasn't even like Rye could blame him, but there was still a part of it that hurt – Maybe because Robbie no longer felt protective of him like Rye felt for the twins, and never bothered to try and help Rye, as well.

But, you know, Rye didn't like to think about it, or even focus on it for too long. Lingering on it meant more pain, and it was a well-known fact that bad boys didn't feel pain, didn't feel anything. Somewhere along the line, Rye had adopted the persona as a way to protect himself, and it became so much a part of who he was that he could no longer tell who he used to be, deep on the inside, beneath all of the layers of coping mechanisms that Rye used as his shield.

And, the thing was, Rye didn't even really like the person that he had become. The truth was, he was dead to his own damn self, and that's what he was drinking to forget that Friday night. The realization of it, though it had been present for a long time, had become more persistent and nagging and bothersome lately, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it was because of that beautiful Andy kid, who represented everything that Rye wasn't – Everything that he longed to be – Who he felt such a desire to be around, as if, maybe, he could rub off on him and make him feel human again, even though them getting together would mean breaking every unwritten rule in the book. Maybe it was because Rye was known for, and sort of relied upon, being unattached. It was easy enough to have series of one-night stands when it meant nothing to you – And, in fact, it was easier that way. Caring for somebody opened up the possibility, and, in Rye's opinion, inevitability, of being hurt by them.

Or, you know, it could've been caused by the two people that Rye still let himself love. He'd showed up at the place his mum had moved into, hoping to spend an hour or two with the twins, only for her to forcibly push him away. The only reason that he hadn't pushed back harder, demanded to let him see them, was for their own sake. They were still so young, and he wanted to keep it that way. He'd had to grow up way too fast, and he didn't want the same fate for them. He didn't want to have to explain to them why he would hurt their mother, who he knew they still loved. So, he didn't.

He only let out his pent-up frustration now, after one too many drinks, as he wrecked the face of some kid he didn't even know, and watched with no sense of satisfaction as he whimpered and a thread of mahogany blood streamed down his face. Rye didn't even really enjoy committing senseless acts of violence, unlike some of his boneheaded sociopathic friends. In fact, he sort of hated it, mainly because it made him hate himself. And maybe he wouldn't be feeling the physical effects of it when he woke up tomorrow, but, emotionally, he'd be aching, and, in that way, it was a form of self-punishment for him.