Depersonalization.
boom.
This wasn’t me.
I wasn’t really here, wandering through the streets, eyes dilated and bloodshot, totally inept and dazed. No, the real Ryan was at home, reading a good book by the fire. Or maybe he was on the phone, or showering, or even watching porn.
The real me, the real Ryan, knows enough not to listen to Gabe. The real me knows enough not to take anything that Gabe gives you. The real me possesses enough common sense to never do any of this.
But then why do I feel like me?
This was too confusing to comprehend at the moment. I really just want some food.
And then: concrete meets flesh, blood meets concrete. Everything is suddenly distanced and fuzzy, except for the hoarse voice beside me spastically whispering calm and soothing nothings into my ear.
“It’s okay. Everything is okay. Just a scrape.”
I stare back up at him, eyes glazed over and a blank expression painted on my face.
Breath hot and sticky against my cartilage, he asks if I’m okay.
“Huh?”
“You just spaced out and tripped over my foot,” he replies slowly, edging away as if I’d hit him, “I’m so sorry.”
Real Ryan wouldn’t hurt a fly. This Ryan, however, is belligerent.
The stranger stumbles backwards, rubbing his hand over the hot and raw, red spot where my skin sadistically whipped his own. The tears began to flood from his russet eyes and he buries his face in his hands.
Drugged Ryan isn’t even fazed by this. He just stands there watching this boy breakdown.
“That’s it!” he screams, “I’m going home and doing it.”
Real Ryan cares. Real Ryan cares about every single, solitary human being.
“I’m sick of being alive.”
If only real Ryan was manning the controls at that very moment. If only, if only.
“This was the last straw. No one cares. No one wants me. Even strangers hate me.”
Cue silence; cue the nerve-racking, crucial split seconds of silence before the catastrophic emergency.
Three, two, one… prepare for detonation.
“Whatever. Do it.”
And boom.
Cue not-so-real Ryan walking away and leaving the stranger sobbing against the orange-red brick building, body enveloped in a fit of shakes.
Imposter Ryan doesn’t even look back.
Rather, he stumbles back to the real Ryan’s apartment and stands outside of room 163 for a good hour before he realizes that the rusted, gold key was gripped tight against his flesh the entire time. Activating the tumblers, he attempts to open the door with his face.
After about his 4th failure, counterfeit Ryan is starting to fade into oblivion and actual Ryan is beginning to shine through. Real Ryan takes charge of the situation and grasps the doorknob, wondering whether or not he’s supposed to turn it to the right or not.
He figures, why not? And he jerks the handle to the right, stepping into the apartment and shutting the door behind him, he’s asleep before he can even hit the couch.
All too soon, dreams are traded for reality and darkness is traded for a blinding yellow peeking through the faint curtains, temporarily stunning real Ryan and making the man curse and groan as he’s harshly welcomed into the nightmaresque world of Monday mornings.
Fumbling his hands over the cool surface of the coffee table, a smile creeps onto his face as his hands clasp the familiarized feel of plastic. Pressing firmly on the red power button, colors and sounds explode from the black box sitting across from him. By default, it chose the channel 2-news broadcast for the still not fully awake Ryan.
A recognizable face flashes onto the screen with the words “suicide?” printed neatly underneath. Ryan is grinding his teeth, trying to remember where he had seen the boy.
“Fuck, where do I know him from?” he groans, holding his aching head in his hands and mentally digging through the filing cabinets of memories he has piled in there. The camera jumps to in front of a Deli a block away from Gabe’s apartment and one by one the memories come marching back. “I must’ve just seen him when I was walking home last night. Man, that’s scary as hell. I was right over there. I could’ve just as easily been killed.”
“Last night at roughly 3:19 AM, the police received a call from a witness that the 20-year-old Brendon Urie of Adirondack Road had shot himself,” the female reporter says casually, as if she was reporting on a pie-eating contest and not the loss of a human life.
Eyes wide with fear, Ryan cannot even tear himself away from the screen even when the phone starts screaming for him.
“That’s it! I’m going home and doing it. I’m sick of being alive. This was the last straw. No one cares. No one wants me. Even strangers hate me.”
Everything clicks and the resolution and focus adjust. And Ryan finally understands.
“Do it.”
I wasn’t really here, wandering through the streets, eyes dilated and bloodshot, totally inept and dazed. No, the real Ryan was at home, reading a good book by the fire. Or maybe he was on the phone, or showering, or even watching porn.
The real me, the real Ryan, knows enough not to listen to Gabe. The real me knows enough not to take anything that Gabe gives you. The real me possesses enough common sense to never do any of this.
But then why do I feel like me?
This was too confusing to comprehend at the moment. I really just want some food.
And then: concrete meets flesh, blood meets concrete. Everything is suddenly distanced and fuzzy, except for the hoarse voice beside me spastically whispering calm and soothing nothings into my ear.
“It’s okay. Everything is okay. Just a scrape.”
I stare back up at him, eyes glazed over and a blank expression painted on my face.
Breath hot and sticky against my cartilage, he asks if I’m okay.
“Huh?”
“You just spaced out and tripped over my foot,” he replies slowly, edging away as if I’d hit him, “I’m so sorry.”
Real Ryan wouldn’t hurt a fly. This Ryan, however, is belligerent.
The stranger stumbles backwards, rubbing his hand over the hot and raw, red spot where my skin sadistically whipped his own. The tears began to flood from his russet eyes and he buries his face in his hands.
Drugged Ryan isn’t even fazed by this. He just stands there watching this boy breakdown.
“That’s it!” he screams, “I’m going home and doing it.”
Real Ryan cares. Real Ryan cares about every single, solitary human being.
“I’m sick of being alive.”
If only real Ryan was manning the controls at that very moment. If only, if only.
“This was the last straw. No one cares. No one wants me. Even strangers hate me.”
Cue silence; cue the nerve-racking, crucial split seconds of silence before the catastrophic emergency.
Three, two, one… prepare for detonation.
“Whatever. Do it.”
And boom.
Cue not-so-real Ryan walking away and leaving the stranger sobbing against the orange-red brick building, body enveloped in a fit of shakes.
Imposter Ryan doesn’t even look back.
Rather, he stumbles back to the real Ryan’s apartment and stands outside of room 163 for a good hour before he realizes that the rusted, gold key was gripped tight against his flesh the entire time. Activating the tumblers, he attempts to open the door with his face.
After about his 4th failure, counterfeit Ryan is starting to fade into oblivion and actual Ryan is beginning to shine through. Real Ryan takes charge of the situation and grasps the doorknob, wondering whether or not he’s supposed to turn it to the right or not.
He figures, why not? And he jerks the handle to the right, stepping into the apartment and shutting the door behind him, he’s asleep before he can even hit the couch.
All too soon, dreams are traded for reality and darkness is traded for a blinding yellow peeking through the faint curtains, temporarily stunning real Ryan and making the man curse and groan as he’s harshly welcomed into the nightmaresque world of Monday mornings.
Fumbling his hands over the cool surface of the coffee table, a smile creeps onto his face as his hands clasp the familiarized feel of plastic. Pressing firmly on the red power button, colors and sounds explode from the black box sitting across from him. By default, it chose the channel 2-news broadcast for the still not fully awake Ryan.
A recognizable face flashes onto the screen with the words “suicide?” printed neatly underneath. Ryan is grinding his teeth, trying to remember where he had seen the boy.
“Fuck, where do I know him from?” he groans, holding his aching head in his hands and mentally digging through the filing cabinets of memories he has piled in there. The camera jumps to in front of a Deli a block away from Gabe’s apartment and one by one the memories come marching back. “I must’ve just seen him when I was walking home last night. Man, that’s scary as hell. I was right over there. I could’ve just as easily been killed.”
“Last night at roughly 3:19 AM, the police received a call from a witness that the 20-year-old Brendon Urie of Adirondack Road had shot himself,” the female reporter says casually, as if she was reporting on a pie-eating contest and not the loss of a human life.
Eyes wide with fear, Ryan cannot even tear himself away from the screen even when the phone starts screaming for him.
“That’s it! I’m going home and doing it. I’m sick of being alive. This was the last straw. No one cares. No one wants me. Even strangers hate me.”
Everything clicks and the resolution and focus adjust. And Ryan finally understands.
“Do it.”