Freefall
o17.
Another cold afternoon in housing led the inhabitants into the gathering room once again, to mingle and fix their problems, help each other. But there was no mingling; there was no quiet chatter among friends. There was only the constant, still breathing coming from every body in the room, the only sign that some were, in fact, still very much alive, contrary to what some of the other patients may have believed. Some of them still pace the room, or circle in their corners, feet dragging on the floor: scuffing sounds sometimes reach the ears of all who cared to pay that much attention. Others sit at their tables, two to some, some all alone. They rock back and forth, or whisper silent words to themselves while they stare at the blank walls. Still others huddle against the dirty painted walls, hands covering their ears or their eyes, trying to block out whatever was trying so hard to creep into their minds. Time spent alone can drive a crazy person insane.
Ryan knew this all too well, better than he, or anyone else, would’ve liked to. But he can’t change it, so he tries his best to ignore their whispers of pain and heartache, their tortured gestures. He sits at his table in the back, head down on the table, eyes closed in a forced sort of peace. His breathing is steady, and he does his best to block out whatever is going on around him: using the other patients’ breathing to lull him into a state of calm.
“Ryan?” a small voice whispers from across the table. He doesn’t move, figures it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. “Ryan,” the voice sings again, louder this time. Ryan wonders if he should even bother to lift his head, only to get let down at the sight of nothing. “Do you remember me, Ryan? It’s Jesse.” He can sense a smile slither its way onto his face, come to rest somewhere below his nose. He knows that her smile, that brilliant flash of light that seems to be almost always evident on her porcelain face, would be there too. He raises his head slowly, blue eyes coming to rest on the petite figure across from him. He was right: she was smiling. “Hi, Ryan.”
“Hi,” he smiles. “You came back,” he tells her excitedly, as if she didn’t already know this fact for herself. “I didn’t think that you would. I thought-”
“Yup, I did!” she cuts him off, then frowns. “I didn’t bring any cards today. I’m sorry,” she pouts, dragging her eyes away from him.
“It’s okay,” he reassures her quickly. “We can do something else. We can talk if you want to.” He smiles at her, and she returns it happily.
“I’d like that,” she tells him, matter-of-factly, readjusting herself to be seated comfortably for more than just a few minutes.
And so they talked. They talked about the snow, and the slush, and how soon it would all be gone and the flowers would come out again. They talked about their favorite time of the year, and they laughed at how both of them agreed that fall was the best season, because you got to see all the leaves change color overnight and all the yards would turn into beds of brightly colored fun. They smiled as they remembered the first time they’d jumped into a pile of leaves. They talked about new games, like Crazy 8’s and Speed, and how Jesse would have to teach him how to play them the next time they met. They talked about everything and nothing all at the same time. Neither of them would remember what had passed between their lips in those hours, but it didn’t matter because at least they had talked. And that was enough.
They didn’t talk about why Ryan was here, or why he was sick. They didn’t talk about what made him like he was. She didn’t ask about his parents, or his house, or all the things a person might ask about in a place like this. They talked about things that a little boy and a little girl ought to talk about, and nothing else. And Ryan realized that he didn’t think about anything else in the entirety of their conversation. It felt good to be a normal little boy, at least for a little while. In those few hours, Ryan had been an okay boy, who talked about games, and leaves, and snow. And he didn’t want to go; he didn’t want things to end. He didn’t want to be sick again.
But he had to be sick again, had to remember the bad things in the world again, because that was who he was. He wasn’t a normal little boy that jumped in piles of leaves, and played card games, and watched the snow fall. He was sick, and he’d seen things, and he’d been through things. He was scarred, and scars can’t just be taken away with a wish and a flick of a magician’s hand. His scars were a permanent reminder that he would never truly be okay again, a reminder that maybe he was never okay after all. And Jesse couldn’t change that, and the doctor couldn’t change that, and not even he could change that. Because you can’t change something that is embedded in the brain, just like you can’t fix something that isn’t broken.
Days could pass, and time could go on, but scars can’t go away. And the marks are always there: always dragging you down, always eating away at you. “Ryan? Are you okay?” Her voice breaks through his fortress, and he shakes away the thoughts, the facts. He nods, attempts a smile to shoo away the concerned look on her face.
“Ya, I’m fine.”
Ryan knew this all too well, better than he, or anyone else, would’ve liked to. But he can’t change it, so he tries his best to ignore their whispers of pain and heartache, their tortured gestures. He sits at his table in the back, head down on the table, eyes closed in a forced sort of peace. His breathing is steady, and he does his best to block out whatever is going on around him: using the other patients’ breathing to lull him into a state of calm.
“Ryan?” a small voice whispers from across the table. He doesn’t move, figures it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. “Ryan,” the voice sings again, louder this time. Ryan wonders if he should even bother to lift his head, only to get let down at the sight of nothing. “Do you remember me, Ryan? It’s Jesse.” He can sense a smile slither its way onto his face, come to rest somewhere below his nose. He knows that her smile, that brilliant flash of light that seems to be almost always evident on her porcelain face, would be there too. He raises his head slowly, blue eyes coming to rest on the petite figure across from him. He was right: she was smiling. “Hi, Ryan.”
“Hi,” he smiles. “You came back,” he tells her excitedly, as if she didn’t already know this fact for herself. “I didn’t think that you would. I thought-”
“Yup, I did!” she cuts him off, then frowns. “I didn’t bring any cards today. I’m sorry,” she pouts, dragging her eyes away from him.
“It’s okay,” he reassures her quickly. “We can do something else. We can talk if you want to.” He smiles at her, and she returns it happily.
“I’d like that,” she tells him, matter-of-factly, readjusting herself to be seated comfortably for more than just a few minutes.
And so they talked. They talked about the snow, and the slush, and how soon it would all be gone and the flowers would come out again. They talked about their favorite time of the year, and they laughed at how both of them agreed that fall was the best season, because you got to see all the leaves change color overnight and all the yards would turn into beds of brightly colored fun. They smiled as they remembered the first time they’d jumped into a pile of leaves. They talked about new games, like Crazy 8’s and Speed, and how Jesse would have to teach him how to play them the next time they met. They talked about everything and nothing all at the same time. Neither of them would remember what had passed between their lips in those hours, but it didn’t matter because at least they had talked. And that was enough.
They didn’t talk about why Ryan was here, or why he was sick. They didn’t talk about what made him like he was. She didn’t ask about his parents, or his house, or all the things a person might ask about in a place like this. They talked about things that a little boy and a little girl ought to talk about, and nothing else. And Ryan realized that he didn’t think about anything else in the entirety of their conversation. It felt good to be a normal little boy, at least for a little while. In those few hours, Ryan had been an okay boy, who talked about games, and leaves, and snow. And he didn’t want to go; he didn’t want things to end. He didn’t want to be sick again.
But he had to be sick again, had to remember the bad things in the world again, because that was who he was. He wasn’t a normal little boy that jumped in piles of leaves, and played card games, and watched the snow fall. He was sick, and he’d seen things, and he’d been through things. He was scarred, and scars can’t just be taken away with a wish and a flick of a magician’s hand. His scars were a permanent reminder that he would never truly be okay again, a reminder that maybe he was never okay after all. And Jesse couldn’t change that, and the doctor couldn’t change that, and not even he could change that. Because you can’t change something that is embedded in the brain, just like you can’t fix something that isn’t broken.
Days could pass, and time could go on, but scars can’t go away. And the marks are always there: always dragging you down, always eating away at you. “Ryan? Are you okay?” Her voice breaks through his fortress, and he shakes away the thoughts, the facts. He nods, attempts a smile to shoo away the concerned look on her face.
“Ya, I’m fine.”