Written Tragedies.
four.
Ryan never should have given in to him. Any of his suggestions. All along, the restrained eye-rolls and sharp retorts, they should have been said, for Brendon’s sake. Brendon was a brilliant musician, yes, but whenever he tried to contribute something to the lyrics, it made Ryan want to bite his head off. And he should have. Ryan should have bit his head off, because then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
Brendon never wanted to be humored. He wanted to be shot down.
“Ryan, how could you?!” Brendon screams, his voice so high and loud that it breaks, breaks in two and leaves him with a wave of pain where his throat should have been. He’s talking about the dying part, of course.
Ryan is leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, which is odd because Ryan doesn’t smoke. He appraises Brendon like he always does, though, with incredulity and the knowledge of his higher intelligence. “Brendon, why do you have to go and do that? Now that pretty voice of yours is ruined.” The only good part of you, Brendon imagines he says, but he knows he doesn’t because Ryan is too nice for that.
“You ruined it, Ryan,” Brendon rasps. “You ruined everything.” These are perhaps the first truthful words Brendon has spoken to Ryan in quite a while.
Ryan extinguishes his cigarette against the wall, which has turned to brick. Brendon finds this odd, too; only a second ago it was perfectly white and nearly indistinguishable from the surroundings. But those have changed too; they’re now standing in a local venue. Brick walls and wood floor.
Ryan approaches him, his steps measured and relaxed. He stops a foot from Brendon, still searching his face. Brendon’s expression betrays an almost childlike hope, his eyes shining up at the older boy in spite of what he’d just said. Because of what he’d just said, rather.
“You bastard,” Ryan snarls, his expression changing into one of rage in an impossibly short span of time. His knuckles strike Brendon’s cheek, the back of his band flying out from nowhere, and Brendon reels backwards, clutching his face and feeling real pain for the first time in… ever.
Brendon laughs.
He’s finally gotten what he deserves.
On the bed, Brendon was awake but not awake, much like Ryan was dead, but not in everyone’s mind.
As far as Brendon was concerned, he had always been the one in the coffin.
Brendon never wanted to be humored. He wanted to be shot down.
“Ryan, how could you?!” Brendon screams, his voice so high and loud that it breaks, breaks in two and leaves him with a wave of pain where his throat should have been. He’s talking about the dying part, of course.
Ryan is leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, which is odd because Ryan doesn’t smoke. He appraises Brendon like he always does, though, with incredulity and the knowledge of his higher intelligence. “Brendon, why do you have to go and do that? Now that pretty voice of yours is ruined.” The only good part of you, Brendon imagines he says, but he knows he doesn’t because Ryan is too nice for that.
“You ruined it, Ryan,” Brendon rasps. “You ruined everything.” These are perhaps the first truthful words Brendon has spoken to Ryan in quite a while.
Ryan extinguishes his cigarette against the wall, which has turned to brick. Brendon finds this odd, too; only a second ago it was perfectly white and nearly indistinguishable from the surroundings. But those have changed too; they’re now standing in a local venue. Brick walls and wood floor.
Ryan approaches him, his steps measured and relaxed. He stops a foot from Brendon, still searching his face. Brendon’s expression betrays an almost childlike hope, his eyes shining up at the older boy in spite of what he’d just said. Because of what he’d just said, rather.
“You bastard,” Ryan snarls, his expression changing into one of rage in an impossibly short span of time. His knuckles strike Brendon’s cheek, the back of his band flying out from nowhere, and Brendon reels backwards, clutching his face and feeling real pain for the first time in… ever.
Brendon laughs.
He’s finally gotten what he deserves.
On the bed, Brendon was awake but not awake, much like Ryan was dead, but not in everyone’s mind.
As far as Brendon was concerned, he had always been the one in the coffin.
♠ ♠ ♠
408 words // 3,718 words total.The end.
I think this chapter is my favorite.
I'd love some comments, sorry for how weird this story is haha.
Merry Christmas. (: