Relax, Relapse Again.
1/1
I sat in the hard plastic chair currently located in the corner of the room in perfect view of the bed. The bed where Ryan Ross lay unconscious; an I.V. attached to his arm. He looked so beautiful and angelic in this state. Like he couldn't hurt a fly. If only that were the truth.
I focused on his chest slowly rising and falling. I counted his breaths. His arms were rested lightly at his sides. His beautiful long fingers slightly curled, but relaxed; his greasy hair that still struck me as beautiful even though it hasn't been washed in nearly three days. His beautiful eyes closed, with his long curved eyelashes casting a shadow over his cheek bones.
136 breaths.
I remember a simpler time, when we were young and in love. When I didn't spend my days and nights in this hospital chair watching over him, making sure he had someone to wake up to. Someone to tell him he loves him no matter how badly or how many times he messes up his life.
351 breaths.
Now, our life is an endless cycle of drink, relax, and relapse. I say "our" because, although I don't drink, He is my entire world. Any mistakes of his end up being put on my shoulders. It happens the same way every single time. I'm not home. He drinks too much. There's a few bruises on my part. He ends up in the hospital one way or another. When he wakes up, he takes his hand in mine tells me he's sorry and that he loves me. As soon as I look into his soft honey eyes, I forgive him, I fall in love all over again.
If I were smart I probably would have ended it along time ago. But I can't. I'm in too deep to get out now. If I were smart I would save myself from all this hurt and plain. I would leave and live my life without having to spend at least three nights a week in this chair.
536 breaths.
He wasn't always like this. There was a time when he was healthy, playful, sweet, and . . . well . . . sober. I don't know how it started.
Well now, I suppose that's a lie.
It started after his father died. He had the worst relationship with his dad, yet it still hurt him when he found out his father was dead. the night his dad died he started drinking. Since then he hasn't stopped. Its been nearly a year.
I remember the night I came home and found him. It was a sad sight.
734 breaths.
I came home exhausted and dripping wet. The door was locked so I knocked a few times hoping Ryan would hear me and unlock the door. After there was no answer I pulled out my keys and tried to find the house key. It was slightly difficult considering the wind was blowing the harsh rain directly towards me.
After several attempts I finally made it inside. I flipped the lights on and saw him sitting on the couch. I was slightly confused as to why he was sitting in the dark, but things cleared up when I saw the bottle in his hands.
He knew alcoholism ran in his family. He never drank. He always told me he would never end up like his father. So the fact that I saw the nearly empty bottle in his hands, worried me. Something had to be wrong.
"R-Ryan?" I said his name softly as I inched closer. He didn't look up or even acknowledge my presence. He just continued to look straight passed me into the distance. I walked closer until I was set directly in front of him. I tried to take the bottle from his grasp but he tightened his grip. I gave it a little tug and he tugged back. Finally I ripped it from his grasp and set it down on the table next to us. I crouched down so I was face to face with him and took his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. His eyes lacked the brightness and love he had for everything in the world, they once held so deeply. They were glassy and red, a sign that he had let a few, or many, heart felt tears escape down his face. "Ryan, what happened?" I asked solemnly.
He didn't answer, but tore his face away from my hands and looked away.
"'S not important." His words were slurred and almost child like. It hurt to see him like this.
"Ryan! what happened?' I was more stern this time and grabbed his face with more force. This time he pushed me away.
"No!" He screamed again in a child like manner. He had pushed me with enough force to knock me over. When he saw what he had done he rushed to my side. "Oh my god! Bre-Brenny I'm soooo sorry! I didn't, I didn't mean to!" He slurred wrapping me in his arms. I just sighed and patted his back. As I did so, he moved his face to mine and pressed his lips to mine with a little too much force. I kissed back, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but he tasted like booze, and wreaked of alcohol. I tried to pull away gently but he forced my face back to his.
"R-Ry. . ." I tried to speak under the kiss. But he continued his sloppy drunk kiss, and his hands found their way down to my pants. I stopped him there. I pushed away with more force this time causing him to break away. "Ryan, no, not now." I tried my best to be stern, but he didn't take me seriously. I didn't want to do this now. Now while he's drunk out of his mind and obviously upset about something.
He looked annoyed with me and pushed me down again, attacking me with his lips. This time he managed to get my pants undone before I could push him off.
"Ryan! Stop it!" I yelled sitting up forcing him off of me. Before I could continue, I noticed a drunken glare. "Ry-" I broke off when his hand collided with the side of my face. Hard. I looked at him shocked. I couldn't process it. He'd never been violent with me. Ever. Then again, he never drank, ever.
I was in too much shock for a reaction, so I just stood up and headed for the door. I didn't even know where I was going. I just couldn't be in the room with him.
"W-wait, Brennn I'm sorry! I-I didn mean to!" He said dragging out the 'n' in my name. I looked at him and he was on his feet. He began to run towards me, but he stopped, then proceeded to collapse, falling against the table and landing on top of a now broken lamp. He was unconscious.
I rushed over and tried to get him to wake up, but he was out like a light. It was then that I noticed he was bleeding on his side from where he hit the lamp. I pulled out my phone and called an ambulance, hoping they would get here quick.
At one point when they had him strapped to the gurney, he regained consciousness. He began trying to break free of the straps and started shouting and screaming. Obviously confused, and for some reason, not wanting to go in the ambulance. He continued to cause a commotion as people gathered around to see what was going on. As soon as the doors to the ambulance closed, I dropped to my knees in the pouring rain, and cried. I just let the tears fall, not caring who saw, or what they thought. What was happening to my Ryan?
I wasn't until later when I arrived at the hospital, that I found out why he did what he did. I thought it was just a one time thing that happened because he was grieving. I thought it would pass. But three days after he came home, I found him passed out on the couch, half empty vodka bottle in his hands. And it just never stopped. He became addicted, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't help him.
This time he was found outside a drug store. He had went inside to buy some, then ended up drunk and picking fights with men twice his size.
I had lost count of his breaths somewhere after 800.
I got up off my chair and walked over to him. I placed my hand on top of his and kissed his forehead. I then placed another on his lips. His eyes fluttered open; they carried guilt. He weakly reached up to kiss me again and I let him. He laid back down and a lone tear escaped out of the corner of his eye.
"Brendon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He whispered. I just nodded and gave him a weak smile.
"I know."
More tears fell down his face.
"I love you. Please… I'm sorry." He spoke a little louder, his voice cracking.
"I know sweety. I love you too." I said caressing his face. I had to act strong for him. If I didn't, we would both fall to pieces.
"When can we go home?" He asked solemnly.
"As soon as you can walk. They did some damage to your leg. I don't know how long it will take."
He just nodded. We both knew that he would be back here soon. That it may just be pointless for him to return home.
He looks me in the eyes; a look that tells me he loves me, and that he hates being this way. It tells me he's sorry and wishes he could stop.
I forgive him.
I focused on his chest slowly rising and falling. I counted his breaths. His arms were rested lightly at his sides. His beautiful long fingers slightly curled, but relaxed; his greasy hair that still struck me as beautiful even though it hasn't been washed in nearly three days. His beautiful eyes closed, with his long curved eyelashes casting a shadow over his cheek bones.
136 breaths.
I remember a simpler time, when we were young and in love. When I didn't spend my days and nights in this hospital chair watching over him, making sure he had someone to wake up to. Someone to tell him he loves him no matter how badly or how many times he messes up his life.
351 breaths.
Now, our life is an endless cycle of drink, relax, and relapse. I say "our" because, although I don't drink, He is my entire world. Any mistakes of his end up being put on my shoulders. It happens the same way every single time. I'm not home. He drinks too much. There's a few bruises on my part. He ends up in the hospital one way or another. When he wakes up, he takes his hand in mine tells me he's sorry and that he loves me. As soon as I look into his soft honey eyes, I forgive him, I fall in love all over again.
If I were smart I probably would have ended it along time ago. But I can't. I'm in too deep to get out now. If I were smart I would save myself from all this hurt and plain. I would leave and live my life without having to spend at least three nights a week in this chair.
536 breaths.
He wasn't always like this. There was a time when he was healthy, playful, sweet, and . . . well . . . sober. I don't know how it started.
Well now, I suppose that's a lie.
It started after his father died. He had the worst relationship with his dad, yet it still hurt him when he found out his father was dead. the night his dad died he started drinking. Since then he hasn't stopped. Its been nearly a year.
I remember the night I came home and found him. It was a sad sight.
734 breaths.
I came home exhausted and dripping wet. The door was locked so I knocked a few times hoping Ryan would hear me and unlock the door. After there was no answer I pulled out my keys and tried to find the house key. It was slightly difficult considering the wind was blowing the harsh rain directly towards me.
After several attempts I finally made it inside. I flipped the lights on and saw him sitting on the couch. I was slightly confused as to why he was sitting in the dark, but things cleared up when I saw the bottle in his hands.
He knew alcoholism ran in his family. He never drank. He always told me he would never end up like his father. So the fact that I saw the nearly empty bottle in his hands, worried me. Something had to be wrong.
"R-Ryan?" I said his name softly as I inched closer. He didn't look up or even acknowledge my presence. He just continued to look straight passed me into the distance. I walked closer until I was set directly in front of him. I tried to take the bottle from his grasp but he tightened his grip. I gave it a little tug and he tugged back. Finally I ripped it from his grasp and set it down on the table next to us. I crouched down so I was face to face with him and took his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. His eyes lacked the brightness and love he had for everything in the world, they once held so deeply. They were glassy and red, a sign that he had let a few, or many, heart felt tears escape down his face. "Ryan, what happened?" I asked solemnly.
He didn't answer, but tore his face away from my hands and looked away.
"'S not important." His words were slurred and almost child like. It hurt to see him like this.
"Ryan! what happened?' I was more stern this time and grabbed his face with more force. This time he pushed me away.
"No!" He screamed again in a child like manner. He had pushed me with enough force to knock me over. When he saw what he had done he rushed to my side. "Oh my god! Bre-Brenny I'm soooo sorry! I didn't, I didn't mean to!" He slurred wrapping me in his arms. I just sighed and patted his back. As I did so, he moved his face to mine and pressed his lips to mine with a little too much force. I kissed back, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but he tasted like booze, and wreaked of alcohol. I tried to pull away gently but he forced my face back to his.
"R-Ry. . ." I tried to speak under the kiss. But he continued his sloppy drunk kiss, and his hands found their way down to my pants. I stopped him there. I pushed away with more force this time causing him to break away. "Ryan, no, not now." I tried my best to be stern, but he didn't take me seriously. I didn't want to do this now. Now while he's drunk out of his mind and obviously upset about something.
He looked annoyed with me and pushed me down again, attacking me with his lips. This time he managed to get my pants undone before I could push him off.
"Ryan! Stop it!" I yelled sitting up forcing him off of me. Before I could continue, I noticed a drunken glare. "Ry-" I broke off when his hand collided with the side of my face. Hard. I looked at him shocked. I couldn't process it. He'd never been violent with me. Ever. Then again, he never drank, ever.
I was in too much shock for a reaction, so I just stood up and headed for the door. I didn't even know where I was going. I just couldn't be in the room with him.
"W-wait, Brennn I'm sorry! I-I didn mean to!" He said dragging out the 'n' in my name. I looked at him and he was on his feet. He began to run towards me, but he stopped, then proceeded to collapse, falling against the table and landing on top of a now broken lamp. He was unconscious.
I rushed over and tried to get him to wake up, but he was out like a light. It was then that I noticed he was bleeding on his side from where he hit the lamp. I pulled out my phone and called an ambulance, hoping they would get here quick.
At one point when they had him strapped to the gurney, he regained consciousness. He began trying to break free of the straps and started shouting and screaming. Obviously confused, and for some reason, not wanting to go in the ambulance. He continued to cause a commotion as people gathered around to see what was going on. As soon as the doors to the ambulance closed, I dropped to my knees in the pouring rain, and cried. I just let the tears fall, not caring who saw, or what they thought. What was happening to my Ryan?
I wasn't until later when I arrived at the hospital, that I found out why he did what he did. I thought it was just a one time thing that happened because he was grieving. I thought it would pass. But three days after he came home, I found him passed out on the couch, half empty vodka bottle in his hands. And it just never stopped. He became addicted, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't help him.
This time he was found outside a drug store. He had went inside to buy some, then ended up drunk and picking fights with men twice his size.
I had lost count of his breaths somewhere after 800.
I got up off my chair and walked over to him. I placed my hand on top of his and kissed his forehead. I then placed another on his lips. His eyes fluttered open; they carried guilt. He weakly reached up to kiss me again and I let him. He laid back down and a lone tear escaped out of the corner of his eye.
"Brendon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He whispered. I just nodded and gave him a weak smile.
"I know."
More tears fell down his face.
"I love you. Please… I'm sorry." He spoke a little louder, his voice cracking.
"I know sweety. I love you too." I said caressing his face. I had to act strong for him. If I didn't, we would both fall to pieces.
"When can we go home?" He asked solemnly.
"As soon as you can walk. They did some damage to your leg. I don't know how long it will take."
He just nodded. We both knew that he would be back here soon. That it may just be pointless for him to return home.
He looks me in the eyes; a look that tells me he loves me, and that he hates being this way. It tells me he's sorry and wishes he could stop.
I forgive him.