Let's Get Lost

IV. Ryan

LET'S GET LOST

IV. Ryan

        I WAS LIVID after Mom hung up on Johnny. He was her son, and his manner of speech toward her would not be tolerated by me, nor anyone else, for that matter. I was getting sick and tired of John always taking his anger out on my mother and me; if he had just talked to me, things would have been better. The way he kept everything in didn't seem healthy, and he knew it, too.

"Mom, are you alright?" I asked her, placing a tender hand on her shoulder. She sniffed and nodded her head, placing the phone on the counter. I could tell her fuse was going to go off, but around me, she tended to be calm as the ocean on a peaceful day. I hated that about her.

She looked up at me and gave an effort of a smile, although it looked somewhat like she had Bell's Palsy. "I'm gonna go find him, okay? I'll get him home, teach him a lesson or—"

"No, you aren't going to do a goddamn thing about Johnathan. Leave him be. He's chosen what he wants to do," she said, despondently. I could tell she was glad, though, because the fights were getting violent and you could tell Johnny hated our mom.

"But, Mom, I can—"

"No!" She screamed, pushing me out of her way. "No, Ryan. You can't. You can't do anything right, not anymore."

She went out on the porch, slamming the door behind her. I stood in the kitchen, just staring at the linoleum floor . . . thinking, thinking about everything that had happened that night. I lost a brother, probably for good, and my mother finally told me the truth to my face for the first time. I wanted it all to go back to the way it was, when Mom and John would fight over petty things and laugh about it afterward. But, I guess, when people grow, their personality shifts with them, and . . . there's no going back, for those people. I can't do anything, like Mom said.

I walked to my room, the anger inside of me threatening to pour out, so I shoved my hands in my shorts pockets, knowing my violent capabilities. No one, not even Johnny, knew about my anger issues. I was angry all the time, though I kept it in, acting like everything was fine, like I was fine. But nothing was, and I sure as hell wasn't. Clutching the doorknob, my knuckles turning white because I held on so tightly, I slammed the door shut behind me. Angry tears pooled out of my blue eyes, and I ripped at my uncombed hair.

The closest thing to me was the most ugliest fucking lamp, and I ripped it out of the wall and threw it across my room. That made me feel so . . . it felt like a burden was lifted off of my shoulders, but only slightly. I wanted to feel like I was high, like when Laney and I smoked pot. I'd only done it a couple times, but the feeling was weightless, and I didn't have a care in the world. I needed that.

Ripping the posters off of my walls, I tore my room apart; brick by brick, you could say. I needed my mom, I needed my brother—I needed my dad. And, the thing is, I didn't even know who my fucking dad was. That thought . . . it ripped me out of my adrenaline state. I grabbed a rucksack out from underneath my bed, my keys, my phone and my laptop, and went into the living room. Mom still wasn't outside—my guess was she was smoking a cigar, like she always did under stress, but my guess is as good as anyone's.

Underneath the television, there was a glass case that held all of Mom's photo albums, diaries, relics . . . everything. I lifted the standing lamp and crashed the end of it into the glass of the door. Quickly, I grabbed two photo albums and a diary, shoved them into my sack, and rushed out the front door. I hopped into my car and started it, peeled my way out of the driveway, and turned up the radio so the music could drown out my thoughts. I was weeping, then. I heard my mom screaming after me: "Ryan, no! Please don't leave me! Don't leave me like the rest of them!"

I wanted to scream back at her, "If you don't want me to leave, you should've done a better fucking job to keep me here!"

Then, the photo albums came back to memory. I remembered hearing Mom asking Johnny how "it" was her fault. . . . Had she made Dad leave? I had to know, I had to have the answers. I had to put two and two together.

I drove to the Shady Inn, about forty miles from the house, and went inside, breathless and red-eyed. When I got inside, I was hit with the aroma of elders and whiskey, two scents that I did not appreciate when mixed together. The concierge at the front desk noticed my being uncomfortable, but didn't say anything about it. I was glad she didn't, I didn't need a fucking scene that was irrelevant on my hands.

"Hey," I said weakly, placing my shaking hands on the counter so she wouldn't notice that, either. "I need a room."

"Of course," she said, an English lilt tainting her voice. "How long will you be staying here?"

I tapped my foot against the floor in angst; I was becoming paranoid, and I didn't know why. "Uh . . . as long as I can keep up the pay."

"Well, sir," she started, "I'm going to need a set date, or else you can't stay here."

"Enough with the fucking 'You can't!'" I screamed, looking in no specific direction. I looked back up at the girl, and took a meek breath. "I . . . I'm sorry. I've, uh, had a bad day, and that was rude of me to take it out on you. I'll be here until the, uh, the nineteenth."

She nodded and punched something into the computer, then handed me a key for room 181. I thanked her, and she barely looked at me. Huffing, I made my way over to the elevator and punched floor number 2. The elevator music was irritating, but I tolerated it because that's what I did.

When I arrived at the second floor, the lights in the hallway turned out, so I had difficultly finding my room, which added to my impatience. The room, though, smelt of peaches, and I loved peaches—the only calming thing of the evening. I ran my fingers through my hair wearily, and took a deep breath. Suddenly, I had the urge to take a shower; the thought just made me feel like I had to be clean, clean of the day's events and the words said. So, I threw my rucksack onto the bed and went into the bathroom, stripping myself of the sweaty clothes. The water was scorching hot; something I needed, rather than the cold lies I'd been told.

I lathered my skin with the lavender soap, and just let the water clear the dirt off of my body, let it clear my muddled mind. After I showered, I just put on my boxers and walked back into the room. Picking up the photo albums and diary, I sat at the desk-the desk lamp the only light comfort in the room-dissecting each and every book, analyzing everything and nothing.

And, God, did I not like the answers they gave me.