The Three or Four Times Ryan Tries to Kill Himself (And the One Time He Kind of Does)
Author:
all_depends Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Rydon
POV: Second, Ryan's
Summary: Because Ryan fails at life. And death.
Disclaimer: Um, no, this didn't happen. I don't own these guys, duh. And yeah, the story's mine.
Beta:
youignorantfool Author Notes: I wrote this like in four hours the other day when I was feeling kind of depressed. Again. And yes, I wrote about death. Again. Oh well, uh... enjoy.
You grab a notebook and pen, the first one you find, which happens to be purple in ink. You tear out a lined piece of paper, leaving a messy residue at the edge of the page from the holes the spirals go into. You sit on your chair, place your utensils on your desk, and begin to write. The words flow with great ease directly from your mind to your hand to the paper. You let out emotions, apathetic of who reads or what they think. This time, it's just you letting the world know what really haunts your mind.
And so you write—
To my friends and family and anyone who cares
I'm sorry I'm doing this but
I know you might hate me for this
Regardless of
after thinking for so long I think I'm doing whats right. Im tired of living, i just dont find the motivasion to live anymore. All my days are the same always boring and gray and to depressed to see any happiness in this world. I'm sorry if I'm hurting you, but if you love me you will acept accept my decision of killing myself because i'm sure you dont want to see me in this much pain all the fucking time. so please don't judge me. Everyday I find a new reason to hate my life and the world and i just see that its not worth it because theres nothing beutiful enough or nothin that's really worth it cuz everything sucks.
I'm leaving and never comin back
This is my last goodbye I'll miss you
Everyone take care, and please forgive me if you can
Ryan Ross
When you've written your signature and think you're done with your letter, you put the pen down and carelessly fold the paper in half, then in half again so that it now resembles a square.
You stand up with confidence and then check outside the door. No one's home, so you step back inside and gather all the stuff you've accumulated and planned on using to carry out your mission. You tuck the note inside your back pocket and head for the back door leading to your backyard.
Once outside, you approach the tree that's planted there, tall and decent-looking. You hope what you have is enough to get the job done, although you're well aware that cheap comes with a price. Still, you take the microphone that came with your karaoke machine and tie one end to the trunk of the tree, securing it with duct tape. You take the other end, the one with the mic, and throw it over one of the branches. The mic makes it across and falls, hanging upside down. You extend the chair you were sitting on just minutes ago and place it just below the mic. The chair successfully supports you, but you're not sure about the tree branch. You pull the black cord connected to the microphone as a test, and the branch moves a little more than you expected. You want to make sure it's strong enough to hold all your weight, so you jump and hold on to it with your arms, falling hard on your butt after swinging there for a few seconds. You stay on the ground and wait for your butt to recover, but soon that's not the problem anymore.
There's a crack. Then it's dark.
*!*
You go for the pills next time. Easy. Practical.
You open the kitchen cabinet and all you find is Advil. You take the package and sit on the dining table, looking in front of you at the box of pills, a full glass of water, and the not-so-neatly folded letter you wrote.
You open the rectangular package, drop a pill on your palm, and pinch it with your thumb and index finger. You throw your head back and pull out your tongue as far as possible, hurting your throat just a bit. You lead your fingers to the opening of your mouth and hesitate one or two seconds before letting go of the big, blue pill. Instead of going straight down your throat, it sticks somewhere on your tongue where it's not far enough to swallow. You spit it out and try again, thinking it's unbelievable you still have trouble swallowing a fucking pill at sixteen.
You try again and this time it actually makes it far down enough so that you swallow it with a drink of your water. Now it's time for the next pill, so you repeat the whole process again. The second pill makes it as well, but you begin to choke and you don't know if it's because of the pill or your own saliva or a combination of the two.
After coughing repeatedly and feeling your eyes water and struggling for dear life, the pill slides up your throat and into your mouth. You spit it out and immediately drink more of your water, having trouble breathing and drinking and coughing all at the same time.
Maybe you're not meant to die by OD.
*!*
You had to think more seriously about this one, but you finally made up your mind.
You found a nice bridge that you can easily jump from and hopefully you’ll drown at the bottom of it. Actually, you pray the impact will kill you before dying a slow, agonizing death underwater.
You stand right in the middle, facing outward. You take a brief moment to take the whole view and situation in, let it sink in your mind and get used to it. You take the note from your back pocket and leave it on the ground, putting a rock on top of it to keep it from flying away with the air. Then you breathe in and let it out slowly before climbing to the outside of the rail. You look down and see the water moving, slight waves giving it some texture. The fall is far, and suddenly your palms are sweaty and your wrists get those tickling bubbles in your blood. Your body asks you not to let go and jump, and your foresight advises you the same, but you're here and you can't turn back now. You've made up your mind and you have to end it one way or another.
Intruding your thoughts, a loud ring comes from the cell phone in your pocket. Your fists clench tighter and you shut your eyes as a reaction to the scare the phone gave you. You carefully retrieve the phone from your pants and answer the call without checking the number.
"Hello?"
"Ryan, where are you?" It's Jon.
"I'm… Uh… What do you want?" you protest.
"I need a favor."
You sigh loudly into the phone. "Now?"
"Yes, now."
"What do you need?"
"I need you to help me write my book report."
You look at the phone as if trying to send Jon a look via the line. "Are you serious?! I'm kind of busy; can't you ask anyone else?!"
"No, dude. Almost nobody I know did it, and those who did, did it without really reading the book. I know you did and all and I really, really need to pass this class!"
The guilt gets to you but the irritation and need to proceed keep you where you are. "Jon…"
"C'mon, Ry! You're my only hope! I can't afford to fail or cheat and get caught."
You give in, of course, because Jon's your friend and because he leaves you no choice. You hesitate for a moment before answering, "Fine, I'll be there soon."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Whatever. Bye."
You take the phone away from your ear and press the little, red button to hang up. While you're still holding your phone, though, it slips from your sweaty hand and falls straight into the water, making a small splash when it hits down there. You grunt because life is a bitch and then get yourself back on safe ground, making sure you don't slip and fall like your phone did.
*!*
Guns are better. They're quick and easy and painless and guaranteed. After all, it's the most often used method for suicide.
You call your old friend Brendon because he's the only one you know to own a gun. Well, he doesn't, but his parents do. It's a little awkward when he picks up the phone because you haven't talked to him in a while, and the last time you did was awkward on its own.
"Hi, Brendon. It's Ryan."
"Oh, um, hi," he says with nervous—or perhaps fake—delight.
"Listen, um, could you… could you maybe let me go to your house? I need a favor, but I have to ask you when I'm there."
"Yeah, sure," he responds.
You and Brendon used to be best friends, but then you started to like him as more than a friend and decided to ask him out. He said no to you supposedly because he doesn't want to date anyone right now. You took that as a personal offense because everybody knows that nobody wants to stay single just because. Duh.
Well, that was a few months ago, and you haven't talked to each other since, each of you avoiding the other. But seeing him again won't really matter that much since your life is pretty much about to be over, so you ignore the psychological discomfort.
"Hi," you say with lips slightly curled up when Brendon opens the door.
"Hi," he says back, letting you in. "So what is it that you needed?"
"Um, are we alone?"
Brendon seems to be taken by surprise with the question, so you rephrase.
"I mean, I want to ask you something but I don't want your parents to know."
"Uh, no, they're here, but we can go to my room if you want privacy."
"Okay," you say.
He leads you to his room, one which you've actually visited many times before. "Okay, so what is it?" he asks again.
"Do your parents still have that gun?"
Brendon seems to be surprised once again. "The one I showed you and we were always too afraid to touch?"
"Yeah, that one," you say, thinking back at the memory.
"Uh, yeah, why?" he asks confused.
"I need it. If I could borrow it, that is," you clarify politely.
"What for?"
"Well, um, it's not easy to say and it's not easy to hear, but I kind of want to shoot myself."
Brendon brings his eyebrows together and drops his mouth slightly open. "What?"
"I'm thinking of killing myself. Actually, it's more of a decision…"
"You can't kill yourself," he interrupts brusquely.
"What? Why not?"
"What do you mean, 'Why not?'? I'm not gonna let you commit suicide. You shouldn't. You can't just throw your life away just like that," he tries to reason.
"It's my life. You have no right to tell me what to do with it," you argue back.
"Yeah but you should think about it more carefully."
"I have thought about it carefully. I don't wanna live. It's that simple."
"But think of what you can do if you do live. You can accomplish great things. C'mon, Ry, you're smart, good-looking, talented. You have many qualities that allow you to have a good life."
"I don't care. I won't care when I'm dead. It's just easier."
"What about those who love you? Don't you care about their feelings?"
"Like who? Very few people will mourn my death, and they'll get over it soon."
"How can you say that? How blind can you be to say that?"
"Look, I didn't come here to argue. I think I should just leave since you're obviously not gonna help me." You walk toward the door but Brendon stands in front of it before you can get out.
"No. You're just gonna go out there and find a way to do it. I won't let you."
"Well then, I'll just sit here and die of boredom, I guess," you state discontent.
Brendon sits next to you on the bed without saying a word. About a minute passes without either of you trying to speak at all until Brendon softly breaks the silence. "You know why I haven't dated in a long time?"
"No and I don't care," you flatly declare, even though it's not entirely true.
"I have HIV," he says, and the words shoot through your mind like the bullet that hasn't killed you yet. "I'm afraid, embarrassed—I don't know. But I think being single didn't bother me as much until I had to say no to you."
You turn sharply to him, his expression serious and yours shocked. "So you liked me?"
"I still do," he says.
You turn your head to look ahead of you, staring at nothing, and just listen to the echo of his words while your heart pounds irregularly. You still like Brendon, a lot. Heck, sometimes you're pretty sure you love him despite of your young age. You feel a very strong affection for him. It's amazing to know he feels the same after all.
"But I can't do that to you, or anyone," he continues. "I wish I could get a second chance and be more careful, but that's not gonna happen. Now my life is compromised. But you—yours isn't, yet you ask me to take it from you. It seems unfair."
You ponder silently at the conflict and confusion between your life, his life, and his true feelings. "You know, it would be cool to die like that."
Brendon drops his gaze and stares sadly at his lap.
"I… I don't mean you. I mean me."
He looks up at you, his innocent eyes still showing a sense of hopelessness. But they also show an understanding of what you mean and ask for more of what you have to say.
You become shy and look away from him. "I mean, if you like me, and I like you too, then maybe we should… you know. I mean, I don't care about my life, and you can't do this with anyone." You wait for his answer but don't look at him, fearful of what he might say or think.
"I told you, I can't do that to you."
"Brendon, I'm gonna try to die one way or another. I'd like no other way than this one."
"But this isn't quick and it doesn't free you like you want."
"Maybe, but if I'm gonna die, I might as well let it happen slowly and enjoy the little time I have left. After all, I have something I want to look forward to."
After moments of mere silence, Brendon speaks up when he's made up his mind. "I guess I want to look forward to that, too."
You give Brendon a light smile, so vague that a magnifying glass would be necessary to clearly identify it. He smiles back at you, and you lean in to him, kissing him.
When the moment comes for both of you to move in the darkness and sweat on the sheets, you join Brendon's club as he gives you his curse as a gift for you to cultivate. Your membership is taken for granted and is more reliable than your written goodbye to life, torn and crumbled somewhere in the garbage can by now. Even if this death is more prolonged than you initially wanted, you don't mind the wait, because you have something worth cherishing in the meantime. Purpose is what you were lacking the most. Now that you have it, maybe it's not ending your life what you embrace about death so much right now as it is your will to die for the fact of not letting die alone.
Y fin.