Be Somewhere

“Your observation time is up, Ricky. You're being discharged,” The nurse said grimly. At some point during his numerous stays he had become acquainted with her. He could tell by the shallow weariness that covered her face that she was worried he would be returning before long. “I thought I should let you know, you're gonna be visited by some social workers... a stunt like this isn't going to go unnoticed for very long.”

“Well you know how much Richard is going to love that,” he replied with a twinge of sarcasm. She tossed him a sympathetic look before shutting the door behind her. While climbing out of bed, he took notice of his surroundings. There wasn't very much to pack; from the looks of it there was nothing, to be exact. Not even his original pair of clothing had made it into the room with him. He snickered to himself, “Are they afraid I'm going to cut myself with zippers, or something?”

Someone knocked on the door and he sighed. Once again he would have to put on a facade and pretend that he was in a good mood. He opened the door and smiled at his attending physician. The doctor handed him a set of clothes and turned to walk away, but Ricky grabbed his arm before he got a chance to escape down the bleached corridor.

“May I ask where the clothes I was wearing are?”

“They were drenched in the blood from the cuts, plus you went into shock from all the pills you took and threw up a lot. Your parents made the decision that they would just be thrown out.”

“Oh...”

Ricky let the man's arm go and his own fell limply to his side. His hospital gown rusted as he closed the door and swiftly made his way back to his bed. A quick glance at his clothing revealed how much his parents were trying to turn him into something he wasn't. A pair of baggy jeans that would more than likely fall down to his ankles and a shirt with some indecipherable slang on it. He shook his head in disgust at the failings of his generation.

“Do they fit?” His mother poked her head in the door and smiled weakly at him. He couldn't help but notice how different she looked on the rare occasions that she managed to stay sober. A pang of hurt hit his stomach and he turned away from her as tears filled his eyes. The only reason that she would stop drinking was to put on a charade for the public, so that she could play the grieving mother of the suicidal teenager. Despicable.

“No, but I believe that thats the point of the style... or lack there of.”

“Honey, I want you to know... me and your father still love you. We just want you to be happy.”

“You don't ever speak to my father.”

“I meant Richard.”

“Just get out already. All you're in here for is to reassure yourself that you haven't failed as a parent. I'm sick of this shit. I'm not going to coddle you and tell you that what you're doing to me and Aggie is okay. Just... get out.”

After he had slid into the clothing he couldn't help but feel grungy. He left the hospital room with a scowl painted on his face, and walked right out into the parking lot. His mother chased him out of the doors and pulled him back inside.

“Don't be difficult. We have to sign release forms before you're allowed to go outside,” He simply rolled his eyes in response and leaned his back against a pillar. When his mother continued to scold his behavior he sent her a withering glance that stopped her in her tracks. The nurse gave her a sympathetic glance for having to deal with such a 'problematic' child and it took all his restraint to bite his tongue.

Now wasn't the time to go into battle.

When his mother had finally finished signing the half a dozen forms she grabbed his forearm and took him outside. He waved halfheartedly at some of the nurses he had grown to like and stuck his tongue out at others who he wasn't quite so fond of. The car ride back to the house was silent and awkward. His mother gripped his hand when they had sat in the driveway for a few moments.

“Honey...”

“I am never going to forgive you for what you've done to me.” He wrenched his hand free of her clammy grip and stared daggers at her. The hurt that resided in her for once clear jade eyes made him smile on the inside. If she could hurt him, he could hurt her; it was only fair. He made sure that the car door slammed behind him when he left her crying in the car.

The smell of Tequila still lingered just as strongly as it had before he had left. Richard at least had been doing shots in his absence; his mother appeared to have been sober for a couple of days so he wasn't quite sure whether or not she had been drinking. His name was called in a slurred tone and his suspicions were confirmed when his stepfather lumbered around the corner into the entryway.

“I'm going to my room,” he said coldly. Richard simply watched Ricky while he climbed the stairs. When he turned to look at his inebriated guardian, he couldn't help but grin with faint amusement. The stairs were a formidable opponent according to the confused expression that was plastered to his face. Richard wasn't quite so bad... most of the time.

His room felt stale and the air was musty. The two days that he had been gone seemed like forever. New dust had gathered and settled on all the things he held dear. A sigh escaped his lips as his eyes lingered on dozens of things that had, at one point, been a quick fix. Poetry books, empty sheet music, and hundreds of CD's littered the shelves. His old guitar had gathered more than two days worth of dust and he couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since he had actually played.

Everything in this room mocked him. The posters that hung on the wall portraying bands that inspired messages of hope and survival. Blades and needles hidden in very crevice that no one would dare look. All of it was a contradiction, and he himself was the hypocrite who had made it so.

The clothing he was wearing was only a further sign of the hypocrisy that plagued him. Was this really all he was? A simple doll to be dressed up, thrown around, and left to rot at his owner's wills? Hot tears stung his eyes and he wiped them away before they could become droplets on the floor. He yanked his closet doors open and pulled out some electric blue skinny jeans and a black V-neck shirt to match. Rimming his eyes with black and blue eyeliner, he smiled at the end result that began to emerge: himself.

He grabbed his guitar case and sat down on the edge of his bed. The case felt lighter than normal and when he opened it he saw why. Most of his song books had been moved. Though he was sure that he himself had moved them, he couldn't remember quite where to. His fingers traced over the words he had inscribed into the back of the fretboard with his knife.

God Left Yesterday But I Remain.

He grimaced at the memory of when he had carved this into the dark wood. Richard had been in a particularly foul mood and had taken the liberty to break Ricky's nose. Ricky had carved the letters into the guitar and had let the blood drip in and stain it so it was permanently a reminder of how far there was left to fall.

Breathing Towers To Heaven by AFI; one of the only songs he had bothered to commit to memory. He strummed his fingers softly along the strings and hummed for a few moments. before the lyrics started.

“I saw this alone, the city was aflame. Did I turn right in or turn away? Seems I went back home, holed up for a day. Some say a year passed but, that's okay. I'll stay. I'll stay...” He continued to sing and play the song until the final chords settled in the air. Without hesitation he played it again, always focusing on the line that he had engraved on the instrument. God left yesterday but I remain.

After several repetitions of the song Richard started to screech at him; a headache had apparently followed the copious amount of liquor he had undoubtably consumed. Ricky didn't hesitate, he plugged in the guitar and played it louder.

“Summertime is long. In God's name, who would stay? God left yesterday, but I remain. So I left my home and took a whole new name. Blessed be the ghost that fire claims today. Today...”

It wasn't long before Richard had stomped up the stairs and shoved the door open. Ricky placed the guitar on the bed when he noticed the look that Richard was tossing his way. If looks could kill he would have been a victim of heart failure.

“Didn't you hear me hollering at you to stop playing?” Ricky nodded with a smirk on his lips. This small act of defiance had Richard visibly shaking with rage. “And you decided that the best course of action would be to keep playing?” The smirk never disappeared from his lips, even as he shrugged his shoulders in reply.

Richard's eyes dilated and he crossed the room in two long strides. His face loomed inches from Ricky's and he could smell the rancid stench of alcohol and unbrushed teeth. A firm hand gripped his wrist and pulled him a little bit closer to the older man's body. Without a thought to the consequence, Ricky spit in his face and yanked his arm free. They both stood in shock for a few moments before realizing at the same time what Ricky had done. He didn't even dare breathe.

“You,” Richard said venomously, “You little brat.” He grabbed Ricky by the back of his neck and shoved him down to the floor. “We're already being investigated for the shit you pulled and now you dare do that?” Ricky clenched his teeth together when Richard's foot made contact with his lower spine. “If you didn't wish you were dead before, you sure will now.”

“Richard!” Ricky looked up to see his mother in his doorframe. “If we're going to have social services here every few days do you really think it's a good idea to give him fresh bruises?” Another kick landed on an old bruise for good measure before Richard leaned down and hissed a warning in his ear. while lifting him up by the roots of his hair.

“Don't you ever do that again. I guarantee you that you won't like what happens.” Richard left him in peace on the floor and Ricky sighed when the sound of only one pair of footsteps headed away from his door. A hand rubbed the small of his back and he turned to see his mothers concerned eyes staring down at him.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine,” he replied icily, “not that you care.” She dipped her head in shame and bit down forcefully on her bottom lip. Singular tears formed a river that carved a passage down her face.

“I know I haven't always been a good mom, Ricky.” She pleaded, “But please understand that I'm trying. Please, just tell me what I can do to make it better.”

“Leave.”

She nodded her head solemnly and stood to exit his room. When she shut the door behind her, Ricky strained to hear her footsteps down the hall. He was relieved to hear the stairs creak and slowly tried to sit up, only to cry out and fall back to the floor when a sharp pain ripped through his lower back. Grimacing, he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his knees, and then carefully into a standing position.

He knew that if he could make it to the bed he would be able to take something for the pain and lie down while it took affect. That was if he could make it. The fifteen feet took on the dimensions of a football field in his mind and he groaned in protest.

After what seemed like ages, he finally made it to his place of rest. Two pills were poured into his palm and he gulped them down. His head felt light and the world started to spin above them. Whether it was from pain, or the pills he did not know; but Ricky blacked out. The last thing he heard was the slam of a bottle on the table as his mother wailed:

“I need a drink.” When Ricky finally awoke several hours later he wished wholeheartedly that he had just been allowed to sleep a little longer.