Freefall
o16.
“Ryan, I talked with the head of office yesterday,” Aniston prods, trying to get some sort of reaction out of the boy, whether negative or otherwise. But he receives none. Ryan remains seated on the large couch, unmoving, face still masked with a blank stare out of the frost covered window. He wonders if maybe the suit had been right. Maybe Ryan was a lost cause, maybe he couldn’t be saved. Maybe he should give up… He quickly shakes the thought from his cluttered head, however, and tries again. He would not give up, he would not wall off his heart like everyone else in this god forsaken building had done. “He said that you can take me on that walk, Ryan. He said you can go.”
“I’m sick,” Ryan retorts, a hint of spite clearly evident in his young voice.
Aniston nods, afraid that this might happen. Ryan no longer wanted to go, no longer wanted to open up, no longer wanted to hear anything but what he already knew. “I remembered something last night, Mister. Something that…happened,” he chooses the words carefully, fully aware of their effect on the doctor across the room, who awaits Ryan’s next sentence with baited breath. Ryan is in control now. It is Ryan’s game.
“Did you ever… see something that you weren’t supposed to? Maybe a present or something like that?” he asks, not wanting a reply. Aniston tips his head slightly, saying that yes, he had. “Did you ever get in trouble for it?” he questions, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Again, the doctor nods at the boy. “What happened? Did they take the present back? Did you get sent to your room?” Another nod. “Did you ever go blind because of it?”
There is no nod of agreement this time; there is no movement from either body except for the blinking in between the stare down. Oh yes, it is definitely Ryan’s game. “Did you ever get hot coals to your eyes for seeing something that you shouldn’t have seen?” he whispers menacingly, trying to capture all of Aniston’s intrigue. “Did you ever lie awake at night, writhing in pain, because it hurt too much to do anything else? Did you crawl around your house on your hands and knees because that was the best you could manage to get around? Did you ever wonder if you’d ever be able to see again, Mister? Because I did. Whenever you remember being little, do you remember pain, and tears, and being scared of every step you took, every breath that you inhaled? Because I do.” Ryan pauses, collects himself, trying not to get out of hand. He has to stay calm, he tells himself. It wouldn’t do him any good to raise his voice. “I’m sick, and there’s nothing you can do to change that fact,” he finishes, snapping his head back around to face the window, indicating that he was done talking.
His eyes follow each falling snowflake, jump to the next one without so much as a second thought. It swirls and twirls and churns through the air in a menacing state of perfect control and poise, like well trained gymnasts performing their routines. Any other time, he might have found the scene quite beautiful, but not now. Now he just wanted to go stare at his wall again. No… right now, he wanted to talk to Jesse.
“Ryan, I… I’m sorry… I didn’t know,” Aniston tries to pull Ryan back out of his shell, genuinely tries to make him understand that he did care about the boy.
Ryan laughs demeaningly, shakes his head in disgust. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? How could anyone possibly know what went on outside of their perfect little worlds, in their perfect little bubbles, tucked away nice and safe from the big, bad world?
“Can we just talk about it, Ryan? I want to help, please.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help,” Ryan snaps at him. He sighs, lowers his head shamefully. Then, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong.”
Ryan knew how to control himself, knew just what to say, just what to do, just when to pull back, just how much he could say. Ryan was good, Aniston remarks. He’d seen so much of the world, the bad part of the world, and he knew how to play its game perfectly. He knew how to play, but it seemed he still hadn’t figured out how to win. Maybe Aniston could beat him to it…
“Ryan, I want to go on that walk. So whether you come with me or not, I’m going. I would like you there, but it seems that you don’t want to go. So…”
The boy’s eyes flash with anger, lock on to the doctor, then compose themselves and drop back down to look at his hands. Aniston allows himself a slight smile: he might be able to pull this off after all. “Well, I guess I’ll need to tell the head of office that you’re not going after all.”
Ryan sets his jaw, clenches his fists, then smiles. “Who said I didn’t want to go? I’d be happy to go with you, Mister,” he sneers, trying to stay collected. He didn’t handle things well when he wasn’t in control. Ryan had laid the bait, but Aniston had twisted it around to work for him instead of the other way around. And Ryan couldn’t sit by and take that. He’d gone too long not being in control, and Aniston finally understood this. Ryan was a control freak, and it was Aniston’s job to beat him at his own game.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” Aniston smiles warmly at him, not giving away anything. “I’ll be sure and tell the head of office. We can go next week.”
Ryan nods subtly, loosens his hands a bit, seems to relax once again. “Yes, next week…” he mutters, returning his eyes to watch the gymnastic routine outside the glass.
“I’m sick,” Ryan retorts, a hint of spite clearly evident in his young voice.
Aniston nods, afraid that this might happen. Ryan no longer wanted to go, no longer wanted to open up, no longer wanted to hear anything but what he already knew. “I remembered something last night, Mister. Something that…happened,” he chooses the words carefully, fully aware of their effect on the doctor across the room, who awaits Ryan’s next sentence with baited breath. Ryan is in control now. It is Ryan’s game.
“Did you ever… see something that you weren’t supposed to? Maybe a present or something like that?” he asks, not wanting a reply. Aniston tips his head slightly, saying that yes, he had. “Did you ever get in trouble for it?” he questions, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Again, the doctor nods at the boy. “What happened? Did they take the present back? Did you get sent to your room?” Another nod. “Did you ever go blind because of it?”
There is no nod of agreement this time; there is no movement from either body except for the blinking in between the stare down. Oh yes, it is definitely Ryan’s game. “Did you ever get hot coals to your eyes for seeing something that you shouldn’t have seen?” he whispers menacingly, trying to capture all of Aniston’s intrigue. “Did you ever lie awake at night, writhing in pain, because it hurt too much to do anything else? Did you crawl around your house on your hands and knees because that was the best you could manage to get around? Did you ever wonder if you’d ever be able to see again, Mister? Because I did. Whenever you remember being little, do you remember pain, and tears, and being scared of every step you took, every breath that you inhaled? Because I do.” Ryan pauses, collects himself, trying not to get out of hand. He has to stay calm, he tells himself. It wouldn’t do him any good to raise his voice. “I’m sick, and there’s nothing you can do to change that fact,” he finishes, snapping his head back around to face the window, indicating that he was done talking.
His eyes follow each falling snowflake, jump to the next one without so much as a second thought. It swirls and twirls and churns through the air in a menacing state of perfect control and poise, like well trained gymnasts performing their routines. Any other time, he might have found the scene quite beautiful, but not now. Now he just wanted to go stare at his wall again. No… right now, he wanted to talk to Jesse.
“Ryan, I… I’m sorry… I didn’t know,” Aniston tries to pull Ryan back out of his shell, genuinely tries to make him understand that he did care about the boy.
Ryan laughs demeaningly, shakes his head in disgust. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? How could anyone possibly know what went on outside of their perfect little worlds, in their perfect little bubbles, tucked away nice and safe from the big, bad world?
“Can we just talk about it, Ryan? I want to help, please.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help,” Ryan snaps at him. He sighs, lowers his head shamefully. Then, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong.”
Ryan knew how to control himself, knew just what to say, just what to do, just when to pull back, just how much he could say. Ryan was good, Aniston remarks. He’d seen so much of the world, the bad part of the world, and he knew how to play its game perfectly. He knew how to play, but it seemed he still hadn’t figured out how to win. Maybe Aniston could beat him to it…
“Ryan, I want to go on that walk. So whether you come with me or not, I’m going. I would like you there, but it seems that you don’t want to go. So…”
The boy’s eyes flash with anger, lock on to the doctor, then compose themselves and drop back down to look at his hands. Aniston allows himself a slight smile: he might be able to pull this off after all. “Well, I guess I’ll need to tell the head of office that you’re not going after all.”
Ryan sets his jaw, clenches his fists, then smiles. “Who said I didn’t want to go? I’d be happy to go with you, Mister,” he sneers, trying to stay collected. He didn’t handle things well when he wasn’t in control. Ryan had laid the bait, but Aniston had twisted it around to work for him instead of the other way around. And Ryan couldn’t sit by and take that. He’d gone too long not being in control, and Aniston finally understood this. Ryan was a control freak, and it was Aniston’s job to beat him at his own game.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” Aniston smiles warmly at him, not giving away anything. “I’ll be sure and tell the head of office. We can go next week.”
Ryan nods subtly, loosens his hands a bit, seems to relax once again. “Yes, next week…” he mutters, returning his eyes to watch the gymnastic routine outside the glass.