If I Told You I Loved You, How Far Would You Run?

“RYAN!”

My lungs are on fire, my throat is melting, my ears are killing from the inside out, and then I’m stumbling, falling, running away in nothing but a pair of Ryan’s pajama pants and a ratty old t-shirt.

I have no cell phone and no idea where I am. I’m just running, running, running until my legs give out on me and I sink to the sidewalk. Ryan, I think and the tears start rolling like the credit of a movie. Our movie. And it has a little note at the end: George Ryan Ross III died on a January morning.

I didn’t save him.

“Hey, kid! You need some help?” a voice asks and I look up into the pitying face of man I don’t know.

“No,” I mutter.

“You wanna borrow my phone?” the man asks persistently.

Pause.

“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “Please.”

The man gives me a smile and his cell phone, and I call Jon because I always call Jon when I’m lost and hurt and needing.

“Hello?” Jon’s familiar voice cracks through the speakers.

“Jon? It’s me, Brendon. Something bad happened and I need you to pick me up right now,” I say, trying not to cry.

“Whoa, whoa, where are you?”

I check the street signs. “The corner of 4th and Freemont,” I choke out. “Please hurry.”

“Okay, I’m on my way right now,” Jon says. “Hold tight.”

I hang up and hand the man’s cell phone back to him with a stiff “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Do you want me to wait with you until your ride gets here?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Thank you.”

But he waits with me anyways until Jon’s rusty pick-up truck comes rattling up the road and screeches to a halt in front of me.

I climb in and don’t give the man a second a look, but he still waves at me.

“What happened?” Jon asks in a concerned voice.

“I spent the night at Ryan’s and this morning his dad came in and called him a faggot and Ryan told me to run so I did but he didn’t come after me and it sounded like his dad knocked him over or something and why didn’t I realize this was going on and why am I so stupid and what if he’s dead?!” I cry.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jon says harshly because he knows that sometimes the only way to cheer me up is to be harsh. “Ryan’s been living with his dad for years; I’m sure he knows how to survive him. So dead? Probably not. He’s probably just hurt.” He pauses and grips the steering wheel tighter. “I told Spencer that Ryan should’ve just moved in with us.”

I’m crying and Jon’s driving and that’s how we make it back to the apartment, where Spencer is waiting for us with worry written all over his face.

“What happened?” he asks and I run for the bathroom, leaving Jon to do the explaining.

"I always thought Ryan just had bad luck when it came to getting jumped,” I hear Spencer say in shock after Jon tells him.

How many of those bruises were my fault? How many times did his dad beat him because he had been with me? How many blackened eyes did he have because I snuggled him and hugged him and loved him?

Why did Ryan still stay with me? I wasn’t worth it.

Every single injury of his was my fault.

Mine.

I reach numb fingers out to grasp at my razor.

Every bruise he suffered was because of me.

Slowly, shaking, numb, I lower the delicate blade to my wrist.

It was all my fault.

The blood comes in little droplets of dark red that run down my arm.

I deserve the pain.

Deep crimson just might be new favorite color.