His Name Is Regret
"Do you have any regrets?"
“So, do you have any regrets?”
It’s such a simple question. Not an extreme interview question, he supposes, and he blows it off with some lame answer about how every choice you make in life will take you in two ways and he’s happy with where he is right now, so he supposes he’s made the right decisions.
He’s a fucking liar.
When he gets home a week later he eats a bowl of cereal and takes a shower. And when he comes out he stands in front of the mirror, staring at himself. He has circles under his eyes and his hair needs cut again. His eyes are bloodshot from drinking too much and smoking too much and crying himself to sleep at night. He’s losing weight he really shouldn’t be.
Do you have any regrets?
“How about everything?” he barely whispers, almost unable to hear his own voice. Everything is a simple enough answer.
Everything encompassing cheating on his boyfriend, the love of his life, the only person in the world who had his back in every fucking situation, who would shake some sense into him when he was too far gone to realize what he was doing to himself and the people around him. The boy who held his hand when his father died, who forgave him for broken promises and words that he didn’t mean. The only person in the world who had been able to understand him despite the fact that he didn’t understand anything.
And then there were the drugs and the lies and the girls whose faces he couldn’t remember, the boys whose hands he couldn’t remember. the nights where he woke up alone with stiff joints, unable to remember who or what he had done and how many times and where he had been and how he had gotten home.
Cutting strings with everyone who had been there for him, his surrogate family, the faces and people that he knew would have loved him forever, even if he had made some of the same decisions, so long as he hadn’t done so with that fucking cocksure grin on his face and his attitude and the hatred and the sheer meanness. When had he become so cruel? He had never meant to become the person he was staring at.
And there’s no way to say sorry, no penance, no prayers. He’s an artist. One of those people who stays in their head and creates from it and doesn’t apologize because if they’ve done something wrong then they fucking deserve to suffer and try to scratch their way out of some hole.
It’s not that Ryan has regrets. It’s that, collectively, Ryan is a regret. And he knows it.
* * *
“You deserve this. You walked out on everyone, burned all those bridges, treated them like shit. I know you’re sorry, but you’re proud. You’re so fucking proud and you won’t admit it to anyone even if you admit it to yourself. You’re like this child playing grown up. And I love you, God, I fucking love you, but you know it’s true. You could go back. You know they’d take you back. But you won’t do that. Because you’re afraid of how it’ll be different because it can’t ever be the same. And you’re so afraid that you’d rather just be miserable and stay stuck in here.”
A finger flicks against Ryan’s forehead and he lowers his eyes.
“I know.” he mumbles.
“I know you do.” It’s a soft voice, comforting almost. And then there’s lips against his cheek and a door clicking shut and he’s all alone again with his thoughts.
It’s such a simple question. Not an extreme interview question, he supposes, and he blows it off with some lame answer about how every choice you make in life will take you in two ways and he’s happy with where he is right now, so he supposes he’s made the right decisions.
He’s a fucking liar.
When he gets home a week later he eats a bowl of cereal and takes a shower. And when he comes out he stands in front of the mirror, staring at himself. He has circles under his eyes and his hair needs cut again. His eyes are bloodshot from drinking too much and smoking too much and crying himself to sleep at night. He’s losing weight he really shouldn’t be.
Do you have any regrets?
“How about everything?” he barely whispers, almost unable to hear his own voice. Everything is a simple enough answer.
Everything encompassing cheating on his boyfriend, the love of his life, the only person in the world who had his back in every fucking situation, who would shake some sense into him when he was too far gone to realize what he was doing to himself and the people around him. The boy who held his hand when his father died, who forgave him for broken promises and words that he didn’t mean. The only person in the world who had been able to understand him despite the fact that he didn’t understand anything.
And then there were the drugs and the lies and the girls whose faces he couldn’t remember, the boys whose hands he couldn’t remember. the nights where he woke up alone with stiff joints, unable to remember who or what he had done and how many times and where he had been and how he had gotten home.
Cutting strings with everyone who had been there for him, his surrogate family, the faces and people that he knew would have loved him forever, even if he had made some of the same decisions, so long as he hadn’t done so with that fucking cocksure grin on his face and his attitude and the hatred and the sheer meanness. When had he become so cruel? He had never meant to become the person he was staring at.
And there’s no way to say sorry, no penance, no prayers. He’s an artist. One of those people who stays in their head and creates from it and doesn’t apologize because if they’ve done something wrong then they fucking deserve to suffer and try to scratch their way out of some hole.
It’s not that Ryan has regrets. It’s that, collectively, Ryan is a regret. And he knows it.
* * *
“You deserve this. You walked out on everyone, burned all those bridges, treated them like shit. I know you’re sorry, but you’re proud. You’re so fucking proud and you won’t admit it to anyone even if you admit it to yourself. You’re like this child playing grown up. And I love you, God, I fucking love you, but you know it’s true. You could go back. You know they’d take you back. But you won’t do that. Because you’re afraid of how it’ll be different because it can’t ever be the same. And you’re so afraid that you’d rather just be miserable and stay stuck in here.”
A finger flicks against Ryan’s forehead and he lowers his eyes.
“I know.” he mumbles.
“I know you do.” It’s a soft voice, comforting almost. And then there’s lips against his cheek and a door clicking shut and he’s all alone again with his thoughts.