Freefall
o19.
Ryan bounces into the room the next morning, contrary to his attitude during their previous meetings. It was a nice change, Aniston comments to himself, altogether welcome to the transformation.
“Do we get to go for a walk today, Mister?” Ryan asks excitedly. For a moment, Aniston swears he’s staring at an actual little boy, save for the height and the jagged facial features. It was kind of scary, actually, how someone could pull off another personality so flawlessly, down to the very last minute detail of the childish smile. And then he had to remind himself that this was not just some disguise, some rouse. It was Ryan, who he was, if only half of who he was. He’d been stopping these thoughts a lot lately it seemed…
The doctor nods, smiles at Ryan. “Mhmm, you get to take me on that walk of yours that you’ve been begging me for. Where are you going to take me, Ryan?” he asks, trying to make small talk while he grabbed his coat and notepad.
Ryan shakes his head, shutting down his question immediately. “It’s a secret, Mister,” he smiles, putting his finger to his lips in the universal sign of quiet. “You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?”
Aniston laughs nervously, rubs the back of his head. “No, I guess not. Well, I guess the sooner we leave the sooner I get to see the surprise, right? Let’s go, Ryan.” He hustles him out the door and down the nicely painted, brightly lit hallway of the main offices. It was a definite opposite of the hallways Ryan was used to: the dimly lit, hard cement walls that offered no comfort or heat to any who entered into their foreboding presence. Ryan skips along behind the doctor, keeping that perfect distance that five year olds so often do: the one that allowed just enough freedom without being too far out of reach.
At the end of the hallway, Aniston slips his card into the slot, pushes the door open when the lock clicks. Cool, refreshing air greets them as they step out; warm air is shut behind them as the door falls shut once more. The snow flies in great flurries across the ground, building the swells on the sides of the road higher and higher, as if soon they would take over the highways completely. The cars zoom past on the tracks of their busy lives, the drivers only a bit more cautious with the snow. They still had places to be, and for goodness sakes, it was only a bit of snow. The moon can be seen, though it is daytime: a globe of white blending into the washed out background.
Ryan pulls his jacket tighter around his thin frame and scoots in closer to the doctor, trying to steal whatever heat he could without getting too close. They stand there in the parking lot for quite some time, neither saying a word, both just staring in awestruck wonder at the fantasy land that was unfolding before them. Everything was glazed ever so delicately, like the frosting on a freshly baked doughnut. There were no rough edges, or uneven patches of unsightliness. For once, they could truly say that the world was sugar coated: a soft, white, fluffy layer of frosting, accented here and there by the delicate lacework of spider web frost.
Neither knew what to say, what to do, or if there was anything to be done. Aniston shuffles his feet, mucking the snow with his brown sole. He steals a glance at the figure next to him, who is watching the doctor’s foot with rapt attention as it circulated through the snow. Aniston clears his throat roughly, and takes a step forward as if to provide some direction.
“So…where was it that you wanted to take me, Ryan?” he questions nervously, shifting his eyes over to the boy. Ryan shakes his head, as if Aniston had asked the wrong question entirely.
“No,” Ryan grins kindly, “I just want to walk. You’re not ready yet, Mister.”
You’re not ready yet? Aniston repeats the words in his head, deciphering, and decoding, and trying to understand: so desperate to understand. “Not ready for…what, Ryan?” he prods, hoping to get something more out of the boy before he shut himself off altogether again.
Ryan shakes his head again, this time in what seems like disappointment. “Just walk with me. Please,” he adds hastily, as if he was new to the word and still learning just where it was to be applied. Ryan takes a few short steps forward, and waits for the doctor to catch pace with him.
Aniston inhales, keeping it all together, and steps forward too, catching Ryan’s stride effortlessly. Ryan smirks, though unknown to the doctor, and once again pulls his jacket taught around his flesh. “We can talk if you want to,” Ryan mumbles, answering the doctor’s unvoiced question. Aniston nods, but says nothing for another block or so.
The cars creep by on the pavement to their left: sloshing through snow, and leaving deep, sullied rivets in the banks. Their drivers are preoccupied on home, and work, and what they would pack in their childrens’ lunches the next day. Occasionally, a pair of eyes would turn from the road in front of them, meander across the faces of the buildings, catch their car’s reflection in the windows as they passed. Soon enough, they would be home, warm by the fireside, and all the worries of the day and the car ride home would melt away like the snow on their boots. And no one would remember the man and the boy trudging along on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched from the sheer weight of life. No one would remember their lips move up and down in that rhythmic movement that so beautifully formed consonants, vowels. No one would remember the smiles and frowns that would occur as each question was asked and answered to the best of their abilities. And no one would remember the ache in each of their hearts: a deafening mixture of sorrow and anguish and loneliness. No one would remember the man and the boy as the snow continued to fly.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Mister?”
“Hmm?”
“The snow,” Ryan remarks, warmly, his cheeks now tinged in a frail pink. He watches his shoe melt into the mush underfoot, emerging seconds later to repeat the pattern a thousand more times. “I used to play in the snow sometimes,” he whispers weakly, “when I would wait for Momma. But it was real cold out, and awful wet sometimes too. And the kids on the playground!” he remarks suddenly, as if the fact couldn’t wait another second or it might be lost to the winds of time. “I’d watch them play sometimes too, Mister. I couldn’t play with them,” he frowned. “I didn’t go to school. But I could watch them, from across the street mostly. They had lots of fun. They threw snow at each other and everything!” he revels, astonishment clearly evident on his face. “Momma said it was bad to throw snow… She said if I threw snow that…” he trails off, shoes sliding in and out of the muck below.
“That what, Ryan?” Aniston prods, glad to see him talking again.
His head shakes vigorously, and a long, skinny finger drags through the stale air, coming to rest on Ryan’s lips. It was a secret to decode, and he wouldn’t give it up willingly, Aniston notes stoically.
The corners of Ryan’s mouth float upwards into that disconcerting smile again as his hand falls back to rest at his side. “I threw snow,” Ryan reveals, eyes twinkling as the words waft off his tongue to the unseen air around them. His smile doesn’t falter, and he doesn’t seem to regard it as anything more than a simple secret passed between kindergarten friends. It wasn’t serious, he seems to relay. But he rubs his hands over his arms, trying to warm them, unconsciously telling Aniston that it had been serious.
Ryan slouches down further in his posture as he continues to walk down the barren street, and his arm movements become more and more rapid. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, as if his brain was not, in fact, telling his hands to move at all.
“Ryan?”
The boy jumps, suddenly remembering the presence of his companion once again. “I threw snow…” he mutters, trying to register this fact, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration. “I threw…snow,” he concludes, suddenly horrified by the possibility. For awhile neither says a word, just waiting to see if the other will break. Ryan’s jaw is tense, and his pupils are dilated. Aniston’s hands are shoved deep into the depths of his jacket pockets, and his breathing is stiff, head jumbled. What should he do? Aniston opens his mouth, but Ryan’s moves faster.
“It was cold,” he recalls feebly, the memory playing out again before his eyes. “It was real cold, what she did,” he adds slowly, not expounding. His voice is hushed, broken by the lump in his constricted throat. “I threw snow…”
Aniston nods, unable to form words from within his dry mouth, not sure what to say even if he could.
“But it’s beautiful,” the boy tentatively gropes for words to let the doctor know that it was alright.
“Yes, Ryan. It’s very beautiful,” Aniston whispers to the wind.
“Do we get to go for a walk today, Mister?” Ryan asks excitedly. For a moment, Aniston swears he’s staring at an actual little boy, save for the height and the jagged facial features. It was kind of scary, actually, how someone could pull off another personality so flawlessly, down to the very last minute detail of the childish smile. And then he had to remind himself that this was not just some disguise, some rouse. It was Ryan, who he was, if only half of who he was. He’d been stopping these thoughts a lot lately it seemed…
The doctor nods, smiles at Ryan. “Mhmm, you get to take me on that walk of yours that you’ve been begging me for. Where are you going to take me, Ryan?” he asks, trying to make small talk while he grabbed his coat and notepad.
Ryan shakes his head, shutting down his question immediately. “It’s a secret, Mister,” he smiles, putting his finger to his lips in the universal sign of quiet. “You don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?”
Aniston laughs nervously, rubs the back of his head. “No, I guess not. Well, I guess the sooner we leave the sooner I get to see the surprise, right? Let’s go, Ryan.” He hustles him out the door and down the nicely painted, brightly lit hallway of the main offices. It was a definite opposite of the hallways Ryan was used to: the dimly lit, hard cement walls that offered no comfort or heat to any who entered into their foreboding presence. Ryan skips along behind the doctor, keeping that perfect distance that five year olds so often do: the one that allowed just enough freedom without being too far out of reach.
At the end of the hallway, Aniston slips his card into the slot, pushes the door open when the lock clicks. Cool, refreshing air greets them as they step out; warm air is shut behind them as the door falls shut once more. The snow flies in great flurries across the ground, building the swells on the sides of the road higher and higher, as if soon they would take over the highways completely. The cars zoom past on the tracks of their busy lives, the drivers only a bit more cautious with the snow. They still had places to be, and for goodness sakes, it was only a bit of snow. The moon can be seen, though it is daytime: a globe of white blending into the washed out background.
Ryan pulls his jacket tighter around his thin frame and scoots in closer to the doctor, trying to steal whatever heat he could without getting too close. They stand there in the parking lot for quite some time, neither saying a word, both just staring in awestruck wonder at the fantasy land that was unfolding before them. Everything was glazed ever so delicately, like the frosting on a freshly baked doughnut. There were no rough edges, or uneven patches of unsightliness. For once, they could truly say that the world was sugar coated: a soft, white, fluffy layer of frosting, accented here and there by the delicate lacework of spider web frost.
Neither knew what to say, what to do, or if there was anything to be done. Aniston shuffles his feet, mucking the snow with his brown sole. He steals a glance at the figure next to him, who is watching the doctor’s foot with rapt attention as it circulated through the snow. Aniston clears his throat roughly, and takes a step forward as if to provide some direction.
“So…where was it that you wanted to take me, Ryan?” he questions nervously, shifting his eyes over to the boy. Ryan shakes his head, as if Aniston had asked the wrong question entirely.
“No,” Ryan grins kindly, “I just want to walk. You’re not ready yet, Mister.”
You’re not ready yet? Aniston repeats the words in his head, deciphering, and decoding, and trying to understand: so desperate to understand. “Not ready for…what, Ryan?” he prods, hoping to get something more out of the boy before he shut himself off altogether again.
Ryan shakes his head again, this time in what seems like disappointment. “Just walk with me. Please,” he adds hastily, as if he was new to the word and still learning just where it was to be applied. Ryan takes a few short steps forward, and waits for the doctor to catch pace with him.
Aniston inhales, keeping it all together, and steps forward too, catching Ryan’s stride effortlessly. Ryan smirks, though unknown to the doctor, and once again pulls his jacket taught around his flesh. “We can talk if you want to,” Ryan mumbles, answering the doctor’s unvoiced question. Aniston nods, but says nothing for another block or so.
The cars creep by on the pavement to their left: sloshing through snow, and leaving deep, sullied rivets in the banks. Their drivers are preoccupied on home, and work, and what they would pack in their childrens’ lunches the next day. Occasionally, a pair of eyes would turn from the road in front of them, meander across the faces of the buildings, catch their car’s reflection in the windows as they passed. Soon enough, they would be home, warm by the fireside, and all the worries of the day and the car ride home would melt away like the snow on their boots. And no one would remember the man and the boy trudging along on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched from the sheer weight of life. No one would remember their lips move up and down in that rhythmic movement that so beautifully formed consonants, vowels. No one would remember the smiles and frowns that would occur as each question was asked and answered to the best of their abilities. And no one would remember the ache in each of their hearts: a deafening mixture of sorrow and anguish and loneliness. No one would remember the man and the boy as the snow continued to fly.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Mister?”
“Hmm?”
“The snow,” Ryan remarks, warmly, his cheeks now tinged in a frail pink. He watches his shoe melt into the mush underfoot, emerging seconds later to repeat the pattern a thousand more times. “I used to play in the snow sometimes,” he whispers weakly, “when I would wait for Momma. But it was real cold out, and awful wet sometimes too. And the kids on the playground!” he remarks suddenly, as if the fact couldn’t wait another second or it might be lost to the winds of time. “I’d watch them play sometimes too, Mister. I couldn’t play with them,” he frowned. “I didn’t go to school. But I could watch them, from across the street mostly. They had lots of fun. They threw snow at each other and everything!” he revels, astonishment clearly evident on his face. “Momma said it was bad to throw snow… She said if I threw snow that…” he trails off, shoes sliding in and out of the muck below.
“That what, Ryan?” Aniston prods, glad to see him talking again.
His head shakes vigorously, and a long, skinny finger drags through the stale air, coming to rest on Ryan’s lips. It was a secret to decode, and he wouldn’t give it up willingly, Aniston notes stoically.
The corners of Ryan’s mouth float upwards into that disconcerting smile again as his hand falls back to rest at his side. “I threw snow,” Ryan reveals, eyes twinkling as the words waft off his tongue to the unseen air around them. His smile doesn’t falter, and he doesn’t seem to regard it as anything more than a simple secret passed between kindergarten friends. It wasn’t serious, he seems to relay. But he rubs his hands over his arms, trying to warm them, unconsciously telling Aniston that it had been serious.
Ryan slouches down further in his posture as he continues to walk down the barren street, and his arm movements become more and more rapid. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, as if his brain was not, in fact, telling his hands to move at all.
“Ryan?”
The boy jumps, suddenly remembering the presence of his companion once again. “I threw snow…” he mutters, trying to register this fact, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration. “I threw…snow,” he concludes, suddenly horrified by the possibility. For awhile neither says a word, just waiting to see if the other will break. Ryan’s jaw is tense, and his pupils are dilated. Aniston’s hands are shoved deep into the depths of his jacket pockets, and his breathing is stiff, head jumbled. What should he do? Aniston opens his mouth, but Ryan’s moves faster.
“It was cold,” he recalls feebly, the memory playing out again before his eyes. “It was real cold, what she did,” he adds slowly, not expounding. His voice is hushed, broken by the lump in his constricted throat. “I threw snow…”
Aniston nods, unable to form words from within his dry mouth, not sure what to say even if he could.
“But it’s beautiful,” the boy tentatively gropes for words to let the doctor know that it was alright.
“Yes, Ryan. It’s very beautiful,” Aniston whispers to the wind.