Freefall
oo9.
He had often wondered if he ever really helped anyone, ever truly helped to fix them, or if he just helped them dig themselves deeper into the bottomless pit of insanity. He would never know for certain, of course. Thus there came the need for hours upon torturous hours spent reviewing long untouched case files. Maybe he was hoping to find some closure. Maybe he just had to read them again in order to not forget. It is a funny thing: the mind. They all turn just a little bit differently, each meandering down its own barren road.
Aniston believed that once he let go, truly let go of the case, the person, the story, the memories, that they would simply cease to exist altogether. They would fall into the land of the lost; remain with all the other long forgotten things. They would be no more.
But this boy, Ryan; he would be different. Ryan would get better, go on. And his awful memories would be lost, but not him. He wouldn’t fade away. No, Aniston would make certain that Ryan’s story would never be forgotten, not by him. He was different than all the other case files that were, right now, tucked neatly away in his desk. He, rather his two personalities, struck the doctor, drew him, left him wanting to know more.
Ryan would be alright, would be remembered. He swore it.
---
Broken window panes stare down upon him like monsters, gnashing their teeth, squinting their devilish eyes, erupting into frightful fits of maniacal laughter. They taunt him, mock him, throw terrible names. And all he can do is take it all in, hunker farther away, try to ignore them. But his efforts are to no avail. His heartbeat grows ever faster, his eyes flash back and forth, trying to sort out fact from fiction, reality from nightmare. How long was she going to take? He was scared, alone; she was gone, although it shouldn’t have come as much of a shock. Still, he wished that he was at least trailing along behind her again, instead of cowering in some god forsaken back alley.
He had never been to this part of town before. He wasn’t sure that he ever wanted to return here, either. Though no one could be seen, he had that unnerving sense that someone was watching, tracking him like a radar, studying him. His feet crept back, pushing him further up against the cool red brick of the building. He pulls his thread bare coat closer to his gaunt body, in a failed attempt to keep the chills from penetrating to his bones.
A tune rises in his throat, and he hums along, a welcome distraction from the terror of the present. A crash far down the street sends him into a fearful state, nerves frayed to no end. His teeth chatter, his lip quivers, his mind breaks down. And he can feel a frozen tear drip down, down, hit the ground, mix with the melting snow. “Momma,” he whispers, breath forming a kind of foggy cloud before his face.
It seems like an eternity passes, with the cold nipping away at him, the buildings caving in on him, his own thoughts eating away at him, like the ocean to the shoreline. But finally, finally, she emerges from the building across the alley: the main instigator in the bullying of the small child. She pulls on her overcoat, fixes her ruffled hair and, still not looking at the boy, stuffs a wad of paper into one of her many pockets. “Come on, then,” she mumbles hostilely, trodding up the alley.
That was his queue, and he took off gratefully after her, tailing her heels all too close. “Momma? What took you so long? I thought you just had to pick up some money.” He reaches out for her hand, but she snatches it away coldly, shoving it in her pocket.
“I did pick up some money,” she tells him gruffly, her frown more apparent than when she had first entered the building.
“But then why were you in there so long?” Ryan rubs his rosy pink hands together, blowing warm air occasionally in between their cupped fingers. She doesn’t answer, and he knows that he shouldn’t say any more, but… “Mom-“
A gloved hand reaches out, connects with his cheek, sends him sprawling backward into the sub-zero bank. Painful needle pricks shoot up and down his face, sending his brain into a frenzy trying to relay all the sudden messages to the nerves. He bites his lip. He’d gone too far, he’d said too much. He should have listened to instinct. She was done; he had brought this upon himself.
Ryan stands on shaky feet, brushes the snow off of his clothes. Head dipped low, he trudges after her again. Routine, life, normal: all words he would use to describe this moment. This was his life. This would always be his life. He was wrong to think that things could ever be different. He was wrong to believe that she would change. He was wrong to believe anything. He was always wrong.
---
“Go away. You’re worthless. Go away. Go away. Go away. You’re so pathetic. Should have died. Go away…” The words repeat, shuffle, skip, like a broken record of a haunting past. He rocks back and forth, staring, just staring, repeating the voices.
The room mirrors his heart, his mind: black, foreboding, poignant. His chest rises and falls in rapid movements, moving too fast to possibly keep up with. An uncomfortable twitch pulls at the side of his mouth, and he has the frantic urge to break down, give in, give up. He just had to get her off of his mind, just for tonight at least. He didn’t want another sleepless night, filled with living nightmares. The demons and ghosts fly around him in a rapid succession, pelting him, scarring him, bleeding him dry.
But what could he do? They wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t make them stop, couldn’t tell them to leave. They were him: a twisted branch of his own person. You can’t get rid of yourself, no matter how hard you might try. The nights were always his worst enemy. He was all alone, left with no one to keep the voices at bay, left with no distraction. His mind was all theirs: helpless, vulnerable.
“You’re so pathetic…” he snivels, shaking his head in defiance. “Go away!” he shakes his head faster, faster. “Go away!” he screams, hands desperately grabbing fistfuls of hair. “Go away!”
Aniston believed that once he let go, truly let go of the case, the person, the story, the memories, that they would simply cease to exist altogether. They would fall into the land of the lost; remain with all the other long forgotten things. They would be no more.
But this boy, Ryan; he would be different. Ryan would get better, go on. And his awful memories would be lost, but not him. He wouldn’t fade away. No, Aniston would make certain that Ryan’s story would never be forgotten, not by him. He was different than all the other case files that were, right now, tucked neatly away in his desk. He, rather his two personalities, struck the doctor, drew him, left him wanting to know more.
Ryan would be alright, would be remembered. He swore it.
---
Broken window panes stare down upon him like monsters, gnashing their teeth, squinting their devilish eyes, erupting into frightful fits of maniacal laughter. They taunt him, mock him, throw terrible names. And all he can do is take it all in, hunker farther away, try to ignore them. But his efforts are to no avail. His heartbeat grows ever faster, his eyes flash back and forth, trying to sort out fact from fiction, reality from nightmare. How long was she going to take? He was scared, alone; she was gone, although it shouldn’t have come as much of a shock. Still, he wished that he was at least trailing along behind her again, instead of cowering in some god forsaken back alley.
He had never been to this part of town before. He wasn’t sure that he ever wanted to return here, either. Though no one could be seen, he had that unnerving sense that someone was watching, tracking him like a radar, studying him. His feet crept back, pushing him further up against the cool red brick of the building. He pulls his thread bare coat closer to his gaunt body, in a failed attempt to keep the chills from penetrating to his bones.
A tune rises in his throat, and he hums along, a welcome distraction from the terror of the present. A crash far down the street sends him into a fearful state, nerves frayed to no end. His teeth chatter, his lip quivers, his mind breaks down. And he can feel a frozen tear drip down, down, hit the ground, mix with the melting snow. “Momma,” he whispers, breath forming a kind of foggy cloud before his face.
It seems like an eternity passes, with the cold nipping away at him, the buildings caving in on him, his own thoughts eating away at him, like the ocean to the shoreline. But finally, finally, she emerges from the building across the alley: the main instigator in the bullying of the small child. She pulls on her overcoat, fixes her ruffled hair and, still not looking at the boy, stuffs a wad of paper into one of her many pockets. “Come on, then,” she mumbles hostilely, trodding up the alley.
That was his queue, and he took off gratefully after her, tailing her heels all too close. “Momma? What took you so long? I thought you just had to pick up some money.” He reaches out for her hand, but she snatches it away coldly, shoving it in her pocket.
“I did pick up some money,” she tells him gruffly, her frown more apparent than when she had first entered the building.
“But then why were you in there so long?” Ryan rubs his rosy pink hands together, blowing warm air occasionally in between their cupped fingers. She doesn’t answer, and he knows that he shouldn’t say any more, but… “Mom-“
A gloved hand reaches out, connects with his cheek, sends him sprawling backward into the sub-zero bank. Painful needle pricks shoot up and down his face, sending his brain into a frenzy trying to relay all the sudden messages to the nerves. He bites his lip. He’d gone too far, he’d said too much. He should have listened to instinct. She was done; he had brought this upon himself.
Ryan stands on shaky feet, brushes the snow off of his clothes. Head dipped low, he trudges after her again. Routine, life, normal: all words he would use to describe this moment. This was his life. This would always be his life. He was wrong to think that things could ever be different. He was wrong to believe that she would change. He was wrong to believe anything. He was always wrong.
---
“Go away. You’re worthless. Go away. Go away. Go away. You’re so pathetic. Should have died. Go away…” The words repeat, shuffle, skip, like a broken record of a haunting past. He rocks back and forth, staring, just staring, repeating the voices.
The room mirrors his heart, his mind: black, foreboding, poignant. His chest rises and falls in rapid movements, moving too fast to possibly keep up with. An uncomfortable twitch pulls at the side of his mouth, and he has the frantic urge to break down, give in, give up. He just had to get her off of his mind, just for tonight at least. He didn’t want another sleepless night, filled with living nightmares. The demons and ghosts fly around him in a rapid succession, pelting him, scarring him, bleeding him dry.
But what could he do? They wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t make them stop, couldn’t tell them to leave. They were him: a twisted branch of his own person. You can’t get rid of yourself, no matter how hard you might try. The nights were always his worst enemy. He was all alone, left with no one to keep the voices at bay, left with no distraction. His mind was all theirs: helpless, vulnerable.
“You’re so pathetic…” he snivels, shaking his head in defiance. “Go away!” he shakes his head faster, faster. “Go away!” he screams, hands desperately grabbing fistfuls of hair. “Go away!”