Freefall
o10.
“Can we go for a walk today? Please?”
Aniston takes on a drained kind of look, sits forward in his chair to give the boy across from him his undivided attention. Maybe he would play along, just for a little while, just to see where it got him. After all, he wasn’t getting far doing things on his own. “Where do you want to go, Ryan?”
Ryan ponders this for a moment or two, scrunching up his face in concentration, as if it would help him to think better. “I think I wanna go home,” he states, matter-of-factly, nodding his head as he speaks.
The doctor’s eyebrows go up in shock, and his brain blanks on a response to the statement.
“I want you to see my home, Mister. I don’t want to stay there,” he reassures, catching his companion’s uncertainty. “I want to show you what I went through. I want to show you what she did to me.”
There: the almost uncatchable transfer between the playful, easy going child and the haunted, twisted young man that now sits before him. “Ryan, I-”
“I didn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t sleep, can never sleep anymore. All I ever hear is that voice, her voice, her words,” he laughs condemningly. “She had her own games. Did you know that? She made me play her games. They weren’t fun. They weren’t normal. I never won; she made it impossible to win…” Ryan’s voice trails off, and his words are left hanging like a smothering curtain over the room.
“Did you ever play with knives, Mister?” His eyes are misty, stuck in a painful reminiscence. “She told me not to. Momma said not to play with them.” He pauses, but he isn’t looking for a response. A bone chilling grin creeps onto his face then. “I did it anyway,” he chokes out. “I’d play with them while she was gone, sometimes when she wasn’t looking. They were all I had, the only thing to keep me occupied.” He shakes his head sadly, regretting something long since past. “I cut myself one time…” Ryan lifts his palms to face Aniston directly.
Twenty or so white lace scars shoot across his skin in all directions. They cross each other, interconnect, feed off of the next one, the last one. They jut out to the side, wrap back around, zig zag in an odd highway of something that should never have come to pass. The marred tissue is a horrific site to anyone other than its host. To him, it is his past, what he knows, who he is.
“She made me do it again… and again… and again…” His words come out measured, emphasis on each one, driving each one straight through the doctor. He winces, hands clenching as if he can feel the knife splitting his skin this very instant. Aniston can’t breathe, barely dares to blink. Blue eyes wander shut, a tear sneaks its way out of the corner.
“She said I should have listened to her,” he whispers ever so quietly. Aniston strains his ears to hear it all, afraid to miss a single word. “She said it was my fault. She said everything was always my fault. She’s right. I should have listened. I shouldn’t have disobeyed her. I was bad, I deserved it. She told me not to play with knives…”
“Ryan, it’s not your fault, it wasn’t your fault,” the doctor stresses, concern evident in his shaky voice.
“You don’t know. I was bad, I was a bad kid. I always deserved it.” Ryan raises his voice, trying to keep it steady. “You don’t know,” he sobs.
“Ryan, no. It wasn’t your fault. Whatever you did, you didn’t deserve what she did to you. No one ever deserves that.”
“I did, I deserved it! Every bad thing that ever happened to us, it was all because of me. It was my fault…” He buries his face in his arms, body wracking with violent sobs.
It was then that Aniston realized that no matter what he said to counter Ryan, the boy wouldn’t believe him. This woman, the one who dared call herself his mother, had brainwashed him, almost unknowingly. She’d broken him down to the point that he truly believed there was nothing wrong with her, but rather with himself. He tormented himself with that fact, night after night. Ryan had acquired a twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome. So, whatever she had done to him, whether physical torture or mental, he knew it only as something he had done wrong: it was justified punishment. That’s what it would always be, unless Aniston found some way to break him out of his torture chamber: break him out of his mind.
“It was my fault…” his words grow quieter, muffled by his shirt sleeves, not wanting to be heard anyways.
“Ryan…” Aniston tests uncertainly. “I’ll try and see if we can go for a walk next week, okay? Would you like that? You wanted to show me where you lived, right?” He baits the boy, trying to get him to bite on.
The boy sniffles a few times, pulls his sleeve across his face, looks at the doctor with morbid eyes. “R-really? You really think that they’ll let us? I’m sick, you know. What if they don’t let me go because I’m sick? I really don’t want to be sick anymore, Mister.”
And so his other half emerges, quelling the distraught part of him back down, to surface again some other time. Aniston found this side the easiest to deal with, naturally, as any person would. This side understood, you could reason with it. This side seemed at least human, had a sort of fractured heart. The other side had no such luck. He had to stop himself, though. Ryan was not just two halves to be thought of as items. He could not be looked at simply as two sides. He was a living, breathing boy that needed his help.
“I think that they will, Ryan, yes. I’ll make sure that you can go with me.” The doctor winks at the boy, trying to instill at least a little confidence in him. After all, that was the least that he could do.
Ryan flashes him a gleaming smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up at the emotion. “You know something, Mister?”
“What, Ryan?”
“You’re pretty nice. Not at all like my momma.” He tilts his head to the side, still wearing that crooked smile. Even though he had already stopped himself once on this subject, Aniston still stood by at least part of what he’d thought. He did, indeed, like this side of Ryan so much more.
Aniston takes on a drained kind of look, sits forward in his chair to give the boy across from him his undivided attention. Maybe he would play along, just for a little while, just to see where it got him. After all, he wasn’t getting far doing things on his own. “Where do you want to go, Ryan?”
Ryan ponders this for a moment or two, scrunching up his face in concentration, as if it would help him to think better. “I think I wanna go home,” he states, matter-of-factly, nodding his head as he speaks.
The doctor’s eyebrows go up in shock, and his brain blanks on a response to the statement.
“I want you to see my home, Mister. I don’t want to stay there,” he reassures, catching his companion’s uncertainty. “I want to show you what I went through. I want to show you what she did to me.”
There: the almost uncatchable transfer between the playful, easy going child and the haunted, twisted young man that now sits before him. “Ryan, I-”
“I didn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t sleep, can never sleep anymore. All I ever hear is that voice, her voice, her words,” he laughs condemningly. “She had her own games. Did you know that? She made me play her games. They weren’t fun. They weren’t normal. I never won; she made it impossible to win…” Ryan’s voice trails off, and his words are left hanging like a smothering curtain over the room.
“Did you ever play with knives, Mister?” His eyes are misty, stuck in a painful reminiscence. “She told me not to. Momma said not to play with them.” He pauses, but he isn’t looking for a response. A bone chilling grin creeps onto his face then. “I did it anyway,” he chokes out. “I’d play with them while she was gone, sometimes when she wasn’t looking. They were all I had, the only thing to keep me occupied.” He shakes his head sadly, regretting something long since past. “I cut myself one time…” Ryan lifts his palms to face Aniston directly.
Twenty or so white lace scars shoot across his skin in all directions. They cross each other, interconnect, feed off of the next one, the last one. They jut out to the side, wrap back around, zig zag in an odd highway of something that should never have come to pass. The marred tissue is a horrific site to anyone other than its host. To him, it is his past, what he knows, who he is.
“She made me do it again… and again… and again…” His words come out measured, emphasis on each one, driving each one straight through the doctor. He winces, hands clenching as if he can feel the knife splitting his skin this very instant. Aniston can’t breathe, barely dares to blink. Blue eyes wander shut, a tear sneaks its way out of the corner.
“She said I should have listened to her,” he whispers ever so quietly. Aniston strains his ears to hear it all, afraid to miss a single word. “She said it was my fault. She said everything was always my fault. She’s right. I should have listened. I shouldn’t have disobeyed her. I was bad, I deserved it. She told me not to play with knives…”
“Ryan, it’s not your fault, it wasn’t your fault,” the doctor stresses, concern evident in his shaky voice.
“You don’t know. I was bad, I was a bad kid. I always deserved it.” Ryan raises his voice, trying to keep it steady. “You don’t know,” he sobs.
“Ryan, no. It wasn’t your fault. Whatever you did, you didn’t deserve what she did to you. No one ever deserves that.”
“I did, I deserved it! Every bad thing that ever happened to us, it was all because of me. It was my fault…” He buries his face in his arms, body wracking with violent sobs.
It was then that Aniston realized that no matter what he said to counter Ryan, the boy wouldn’t believe him. This woman, the one who dared call herself his mother, had brainwashed him, almost unknowingly. She’d broken him down to the point that he truly believed there was nothing wrong with her, but rather with himself. He tormented himself with that fact, night after night. Ryan had acquired a twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome. So, whatever she had done to him, whether physical torture or mental, he knew it only as something he had done wrong: it was justified punishment. That’s what it would always be, unless Aniston found some way to break him out of his torture chamber: break him out of his mind.
“It was my fault…” his words grow quieter, muffled by his shirt sleeves, not wanting to be heard anyways.
“Ryan…” Aniston tests uncertainly. “I’ll try and see if we can go for a walk next week, okay? Would you like that? You wanted to show me where you lived, right?” He baits the boy, trying to get him to bite on.
The boy sniffles a few times, pulls his sleeve across his face, looks at the doctor with morbid eyes. “R-really? You really think that they’ll let us? I’m sick, you know. What if they don’t let me go because I’m sick? I really don’t want to be sick anymore, Mister.”
And so his other half emerges, quelling the distraught part of him back down, to surface again some other time. Aniston found this side the easiest to deal with, naturally, as any person would. This side understood, you could reason with it. This side seemed at least human, had a sort of fractured heart. The other side had no such luck. He had to stop himself, though. Ryan was not just two halves to be thought of as items. He could not be looked at simply as two sides. He was a living, breathing boy that needed his help.
“I think that they will, Ryan, yes. I’ll make sure that you can go with me.” The doctor winks at the boy, trying to instill at least a little confidence in him. After all, that was the least that he could do.
Ryan flashes him a gleaming smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up at the emotion. “You know something, Mister?”
“What, Ryan?”
“You’re pretty nice. Not at all like my momma.” He tilts his head to the side, still wearing that crooked smile. Even though he had already stopped himself once on this subject, Aniston still stood by at least part of what he’d thought. He did, indeed, like this side of Ryan so much more.