It'll Break You.

Ryan doesn’t want to bang his wrists on the corner of the table. Ryan doesn’t want to pass out from lack of food. Ryan doesn’t want to take a knife from the kitchen drawer and stab it through Brendon’s heart.

You never told anyone about your imaginary friend. Boys who can legally drink and vote are generally too old for imaginary friends. And friend is the wrong word, too. Enemy. Imaginary enemy. How many people have those? You can’t ever be the same, can you? Always have to be different. They go left, you go right. Everyone wears jeans and you decide to show up naked. Actually, I think that was a bad dream.

She (or he—you can never be too sure on that point either) sits behind you, with stick-thin, pale arms wrapping around your waist or shoulders. She (or he) whispers in that sickly voice and it stays in your brain, echoing around your skull for hours and hours until you take something to make it go away.

Sometimes you imagine what it must look like to everyone else when you run down the sidewalk from someone that nobody can see except you. And when Brendon asks about the bruises on your wrists, you don’t know how to answer. It wasn’t your fault. He (or she) just kept telling you to over and over (and over and over and over) and you finally did it so he (or she) would shut up. But s/he never does.

And then you start losing weight like a diet-crazed middle schooler. ‘It’s so fattening, Ryan. It’s so bad for you. Don’t eat it. Your thighs are disgusting. Look at you. Cottage cheese thighs. I don’t know how he can have sex with you without vomiting everywhere. You fucking heifer.’

You’ve learned by now not to scream ‘shut up’. You accidentally did once on the bus. Everyone looked at you and you hid in your bunk for three hours until you hoped they had forgotten about it. But you think it. You screw your eyes shut and think it over and over (and over and over and over) in your head, but s/he just laughs.

‘You think you can silence me? You think you can make me go away? I’m not going anywhere, Ryan. I’m staying right here. As long as you’re here, I’ll be here.’

Part of the reason you stop eating is because s/he makes you with her (or his) ugly whispered words. Part of the reason you stop eating is because you’re trying to make yourself disappear. Because if you disappear, then so will s/he. You do it for so long that finally you pass out. And s/he laughs at you and moves onto another way s/he can fuck up your life.

So while you’re left with the aftermath of your friends watching every bite you eat and making sure you don’t throw it up afterward, s/he’s whispering in your ear and spinning pictures of nightmares filled with monsters and maggots.

Once the fear of your eating habits has passed and the eyes aren’t so watchful anymore, s/he makes you start banging your wrists until they bruise again. You don’t want to. You don’t want to lie to Brendon. You don’t like the way it hurts and spikes up your veins and the marrow inside your bones. But you don’t know how to say no. What would happen if you said no?

S/he’d probably kill you.

But is that so bad? Because when you’re dead, you’re dead. And s/he can’t get in your head anymore. And you think about it, but something always stops you from starting. Brown eyes with long, dark eyelashes. You can’t leave him.

Sometimes it makes you angry, that the only reason you can’t be free is because of him. And you know it’s a bad idea to get angry. S/he can get to you so much easier when you’re angry. S/he can make you do things you never thought s/he could. Like getting a knife out of the kitchen drawer, walking upstairs, and stabbing it through his heart.

You trip on the stairs. Brendon hears the scream and runs downstairs to find you sobbing, your hand bleeding, and s/he’s no where to be found. He wraps gauze around your hand and you lie and tell him you were cutting a box open and couldn’t find scissors. When he asks what you’re doing cutting boxes open at three in the morning, you don’t have an answer.

He sighs and scoops you up, carries you to bed. While he’s holding you, he strokes your hair and talks. He says he’s scared, says he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with you. He says he wishes you would talk to him. He says he wants to help you.

You don’t say anything. You know he can’t help you.

S/he appears the next morning when you’re brushing your teeth. You lean over to spit and when you straighten up, s/he’s behind you. You turn your head, but it doesn’t stop her (or him). S/he just leans in closer and starts whispering in your ear.

You try to pull away from her (or his) voice, but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. You start humming, but s/he just puts his (or her) lips inside your ear and now there’s no way to escape. S/he’s punishing you for tripping up the stairs, for not doing what s/he asked you to. But you won’t, you won’t. You won’t hurt Brendon no matter what s/he says.

‘That’s what you think.’ S/he screams in your ear and then s/he’s gone. For now.

When s/he comes back, s/he’s so angry that Brendon walks in to find you at the kitchen table, hands clamped over your ears and tears streaming down your face. S/he’s gone and he’s in front of you, pulling your hands into his. He stares at you without a word, brown eyes sad. You want to say something, but there’s nothing to say. You think maybe he sees it in your eyes because he nods and leans in to kiss you on the mouth. And you sit there for awhile in silence, him holding your hands and you trying not to cry again.

You’ve always used sleeping pills and pain killers to escape from her (or him), but now you find yourself thinking it might not be enough. So you decide to find out. You’re at a party one night without Brendon and you take some speed. You don’t even wait until it’s offered, just ask around until someone points you in the right direction.

But it doesn’t help. S/he’s standing behind you, sickly arms around your waist. You feel her (or his) tongue in your ear before s/he’s whispering again. ‘You think you can make me disappear? You think you have the power to vanquish me? You have no power, Ryan. You are nothing and I am god.’

You don’t know how you get home, just that you walk through the door and Brendon’s waiting up. He gasps when he sees you. You don’t know why, just that he rushes across the room and brushes the hair from your face. “My God, baby, what happened?”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. When he hurries you into the bathroom and you see your reflection in the mirror, you understand. Your lip is caked in blood and your chin is red-brown from where it’s dripped down and dried. You don’t remember how it happened.

He washes your face and tucks you into bed. You lay there with your eyes closed, hating yourself. You want to try something harder to make her (or him) go away, but you don’t know how you’d even go about getting your hands on it. And s/he’s probably right. It wouldn’t work. And you’ll just be left with a dirty syringe and him (or her) screaming in your ear.

The first time s/he appeared, you were four years old and your mother had just left. S/he was younger then, too, just a few years older than you. At first s/he wasn’t so bad. S/he just kind of hung around and didn’t say anything. Then one night you asked her (or him) why s/he was there. Then came that smile with uneven, chipping teeth. ‘I’m here because you made your mother run away. Why else would I be here?’

S/he stayed for three years and then one day when you were seven, you woke up and s/he was gone. You didn’t miss her (or him). Neither did anyone else because at that age you weren’t ashamed to tell. Everyone knew about him (or her) and you knew everyone was secretly relieved when s/he disappeared.

S/he came back when you were fifteen and you were trying to convince yourself that you weren’t gay and you hadn’t had sex with that boy in the back of his car in the old Target parking lot. S/he showed up when you were writing in your journal and trying not to cry. S/he was older now and s/he breathed in your ear. ‘Faggot, faggot, faggot. Daddy’s going to kill you, Ry. The reason his pretty little wife left turns out to be a fucking queer.’

“I’m not the reason Mom left.” you whisper. It’s the only thing you can think to say.

‘That’s what you think.’ S/he turns and paces across the room. ‘You are such a pathetic fuck-up. Thank God I put up with you because no one else will.’ And then s/he’s gone like cigarette smoke but without the scent and you’re left to wonder if s/he was ever really there at all.

You don’t mention that s/he’s back. You twitch more when s/he unexpectedly shows up during supper or when you and Spencer are hanging out in the garage, but nobody says anything. S/he hangs around until you meet Brendon.

S/he’s whispering in your ear when Brent brings Brendon into the room and suddenly you don’t hear her (or his) voice anymore. Your mouth goes dry and you stare at Brendon for a minute before shifting your attention to the floor. S/he doesn’t come back until you’re cutting the first record.

‘God, this is it?’ s/he asks, peering over your shoulder at your journal. ‘That Pete Wentz guy must be doing some amazing drugs if he thinks that you can pull off a record. This is going to be a bigger joke than the chicken crossing the road. And you’ll have to move back in with Daddy because you dropped out of school.’

“Go away.” you snap.

Brendon pokes his head in the door. “You say something, baby?”

You shake your head and he disappears again. S/he starts laughing in your ear. ‘Baby. Baby, baby, baby. Does he knew what a fuck up you are, Ry? Does he know that your shitty lyrics are going to destroy his dream and that he’s stuck singing vocals for a band that’s going to be a total flop?’

You grab your pillow and pull it over your head, tears streaming down your cheeks as you desperately try to ignore the sound of his (or her) voice, stabbing your eardrums like fingernails on a chalkboard. You fall asleep and have nightmares about maggots crawling out of your eye sockets. You wake up in a cold sweat with Brendon next to you, playing with a muted Gameboy.

He pauses it and turns to look at you. “You ‘kay, Ryan?”

You nod but the word ‘no’ slips from your lips. Brendon sets the Gameboy on top of your journal and slides down to wrap his arms around you. He kisses your mouth and strokes your hair, then sings to you until you fall asleep.

S/he’s there the entire time you’re cutting the album. Generally s/he leaves you alone when you’re recording your parts, but there are times s/he sticks his (or her) tongue in your ear like a snake and you hit the wrong chord. Mainly s/he’s at the apartment, calling you names and telling you how much you’re going to fuck up everyone’s life with your pathetic attempt at song-writing. One night s/he chases you through the apartment and up the fire exit stairs until you’re standing on the roof.

‘You should just do it.’ S/he’s sitting on the edge of the building, legs swinging in the air. ‘Get it over with. Then you don’t have to go through the break-up and Brendon telling you he never loved you.’

Her (or his) voice sounds compassionate. And the way s/he looks at you, it’s like s/he’s talked to Brendon and he told her (or him) that he doesn’t really love you. You take a step closer to the roof. His (or her) expression never changes.

‘I know I’m hard on you, Ryan, but I do care about you. I don’t think you should live like this anymore. I think it’s time you went to sleep. You deserve it.’

You take a few more steps and put your hands on the ledge, leaning over and looking at the street down below. “He’s going to leave me?” you ask, turning to look at her (or him).

S/he nods and you swallow your tears. You hear a scream when you lift your leg to bring it onto the ledge. S/he disappears and you feel two arms around you from behind. Brendon spins you around and stares at you, face paled. “What are you doing?” His voice cracks and you fall against him.

“Promise not to leave me.” you whisper.

“I’m not going to.” Brendon says, voice confused and high-pitched. “Baby?”

You just start crying and he picks you up and carries you back down the apartment. S/he’s waiting for you in the bed you share with Brendon, smirking. And you hate yourself for falling for it. S/he’s never cared about you.

S/he stays until the end of the Nintendo Fusion Tour, until you and Brendon decide to get an apartment together when you go back home.

So when s/he came back this time it was like s/he had something to prove. Like since s/he hadn’t made you jump off the roof that night s/he needed to prove that s/he could destroy you in every other way. And destroy Brendon in the process.

Brendon isn’t going anywhere but you’re sure he’s going to. You wouldn’t stay with you. Who would want a boyfriend that has an imaginary enemy and walks up the stairs with a kitchen knife at three in the morning? He’s going to leave. He’s going to realize that the knife was meant for his heart and the bruises are never going away and he’s going to leave.

You’re staying with Pete for a weekend, jittery as hell. You twitch every time you see her (or him) from the corner of your eye. And finally the older man just grabs you by the arm and looks you straight in the eye. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“I can’t tell you.” you reply, so shocked that he asked. Nobody asks. Everyone just tries to ignore it and brush it off as an eccentricity that doesn’t really matter.

“Are you on drugs?”

You shake your head and he lets go of your arm. “You’re not starving yourself again, are you?” His back is to you and he’s digging in the refrigerator for a drink.

“No.” S/he’s standing behind Pete, cheeks sunken in, making horrible faces that make you want to scream, but you just avert your eyes and look at the floor.

“So why can’t you tell me?” He straightens up and you feel her (or his) hands on your shoulders so you raise your eyes up to meet his.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

He bites his bottom lip for a minute before giving a noncommittal jerk of the head. “Okay. But if you want to, you can.” He opens the soda and takes a drink. He slings his arm over your shoulders and starts leading you to the basement. “I just got the first season of ‘Gossip Girl’ on DVD.”

You’re still jittering the rest of the night and at one point Pete leaves the room and comes back with a pill that he slaps in your hands. “Just take that, will you? You’re freaking me out.”

He hands you a glass of water and s/he shakes her head at you, so you pop it in your mouth just to spite her (or him). You swallow a mouthful of water and hand the cup back to Pete. You both go back to watching the television, with her (or him) whispering in your ear, but gradually you notice his (or her) voice getting softer and when you turn to look, s/he’s not there.

Your bones feel light and you fall asleep with your head on Pete’s shoulder.

“What did you give me?” you ask the next morning when you wake up.

He’s in the kitchen making coffee and you’re staring at him with a hunger in your eyes. “Why?” he asks.

“Because it worked.”

“Worked how?”

You look down and start picking at your cuticles. “It just helped.”

He hesitates for a second and you fight your breath when you see her (or him) appear on the counter next to him. S/he’s glaring at you with bloodshot, angry eyes. “Xanax.” he answers, turning back to the coffee maker. S/he looks like s/he’s going to rip Pete’s heart out with her (or his) bare hands, but then s/he’s right next to you, whispering in your ear.

‘You fucking weak, pathetic piece of shit. You can’t deal with the truth? Is that it? You sicken me, Ryan. At least do cocaine like a fucking man. But then again, you’re not a real man are you, you fucking faggot?’

You walk out of the kitchen and down the hallway with her (or him) following you, tongue inside of your ear.

You beg Pete for another Xanax until he finally caves in. You watch with a sloppy sort of smile as s/he fades to black on the couch, until his (or her) demon-eyes go out like a candle flame.

You look at Pete, bones light again. “Do you think a doctor would give me this?”

Pete looks at you. “I don’t know. But I’m not giving you more until you tell me what’s going on.” He doesn’t say it like he’s angry or accusing. He just says it. You sigh and close your eyes, leaning your head back against the couch.

When you open your eyes again, you’re lying in the guest room bed. S/he’s sitting on your chest, face barely a centimeter from yours. You can smell her (or his) breath, thick and heavy like rotted meat. ‘This is becoming a problem.’ His (or her) voice is conversational, but her (or his) eyes are pounding through your head, making you want to scream. ‘I want you to get a knife from the kitchen and—‘

“No.”

S/he scratches a fingernail down your cheek and you bite back a scream. ‘Don’t talk back to me, Ryan, or I’ll rip every pretty little hair out of your head. When they leave you, you’ll thank me for this. I’m the only one who loves you enough to stick around.’

“You don’t love me.”

And s/he screams. It’s a loud scream and it goes in through your ears and echoes around over and over in your head.

Pete’s still in the living room when you run through the house and out the back door, looking over your shoulder to see her (or him) chasing you, face contorted in a never-ending scream. You fall into the swimming pool, sinking underneath the water. S/he’s right beside you, fingernails digging into your chest, dragging you down deeper.

You see her scatter off in the water and then there’s a strong arm around your waist from behind, pulling you up and you gasp for air as soon as you reach the surface. Pete’s staring at you, terrified. You scream and cling to him, arms and legs, terrified of drowning. You can see her (or him) darting around under the water like a shark.

“You can walk here, Ry.” he says. “It’s only five feet.”

“I can’t.” You sob into his shoulder. “S/he’ll kill me.” You’re still crying when he lifts you out of the pool and carries you into the house. And s/he’s right behind you, livid.

You’re sitting against the headboard of Pete’s bed now, in dry clothes with a blanket wrapped around you. S/he’s leaning against the dresser and Pete’s at the foot of the bed staring at you. You’re looking at her (or him) and s/he’s staring right back at you. ‘Crazy little Ryan, seeing things that aren’t there. He’ll lock you up.’ S/he smirks and licks his (or her) chipping teeth.

“So,” Pete begins, struggling to keep his voice level, “you see this girl, or boy, and it makes you do things? But no one else can see it?”

‘Crazy, crazy, crazy. I wonder if they’ll put you in a straight-jacket. Room with padded walls. Wow, Ryan. I don’t think your Daddy even made it to one of those.’

You nod, your eyes never leaving her (or him).

“You think I’m crazy.” you mutter. Not your words, her (or his) words. Your eyes are suddenly wet and you wipe at them with the back of your hand. S/he laughs at you.

“Crazy is pretty relative, Ry.” Pete says. “How long has it been around?”

‘I’m not an it’. s/he hisses. You see him (or her) fly toward Pete and you scream, but then s/he’s back at the dresser.

Pete looks at you, waiting for an explanation, but you don’t say anything. Your cheeks are soaked. There’s a minute of silence except for her (or his) angry breathing. Then Pete speaks. “How long has she been around?”

“Since I was four.” you whisper. “When my mom left. Then he left and came back. She always comes back.”

“Where is she?” Pete asks quietly.

Your eyes land on hers (or his) and s/he stares back. It makes your head hurt. ‘You will regret this you weak, disgusting fuck.’

You bury your face in your arms and let out a choked sob. You feel Pete’s hand on your shoulder, but you push it away. “Leave me alone.”

“Ry—“

“Leave me alone!” you snarl, head snapping up to glare at him. It’s almost her (or his) voice, but it works. Pete sighs and leaves you alone in the room. Well, mostly alone.

S/he flies across the room, kneeling on your legs, pinning your wrists to the bed, her (or his) face an inch from yours. ‘Crazy fucking freak. Crying like a fucked-up little faggot. Thank God Daddy isn’t alive to hear this.’

You cry harder and s/he keeps screaming. You know Pete is listening to all of this from the hallway, you crying over screams that no one else hears, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

S/he wraps her (or his) fingers around your throat and squeezes until you run out of breath and the tears stop. “Why are you here?” you ask when s/he lets go.

S/he stares at you for a moment and for the first time you don’t smell rotting flesh when s/he speaks. ‘Because you want me to be.’

“No, I don’t.” you whisper.

‘I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.’

You stare at him (or her) and s/he stares back. “What’s your name?” you ask suddenly. S/he’s been with you for sixteen years and you don’t know his (or her) name. It’s sort of abnormal. But there’s nothing really normal about this, is there?

‘Bailey.’ s/he answers.

“So you’re a girl.”

S/he shakes her head. ‘I’m not anything. My gender isn’t important to you. It never has been.’ Her (or his) voice is shaking you think.

“I want you to leave.” you whisper.

‘No, you don’t.’ s/he says coldly.

“Yes.”

‘No, you don’t. You wouldn’t know what to do without me.’ s/he snaps. ‘You’re nothing without me, Ryan. You’re just a fucking waste.’ His (or her) fingernails scratch at your cheeks and you start to cry again.

“I’d rather be a waste.” you manage to choke out.

‘No.’ s/he snaps. And then s/he screams. Her (or his) mouth is open and the sound seems unending. One of the windows shatters.

Your hands reach for her (or him), but s/he’s out of reach even though s/he’s inches away. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” you yell. “Go away! I hate you! Get out!”

The screaming stops and his (or her) fingers find yours. Her (or his) face is in yours. You can feel where s/he’s half inside of you, where your bodies join. ‘Say it again.’ The voice is like nails on a chalkboard and you feel it scraping along every bone in your body. Her (or his) breath smells like death. You see maggots and dead babies and your father in his casket.

You want to die. You hope to die. If you had a gun in your hand you would pull the trigger without hesitation. But there’s no gun, no trigger. You pull your arms to your chest and push as hard as you can, a scream tearing from your throat. “Leave me alone!”

You see it in slow motion. S/he flies from you, frozen, off the bed and onto the floor. You see him (or her) pale and disappear. Then everything goes fuzzy and you sleep.

When you wake up, your head is in Brendon’s lap. He’s stroking your hair. Pete’s drinking coffee next to a broken window. “What’s going on?” you ask. Your voice is dry. “Bren?”

“You slept for eighteen hours.” Pete says. “I called Brendon.”

“I have to piss.” you mutter. It hurts to stand up, your head is pounding as you stumble to the bathroom. Your hands and arms are covered in cuts halfway up to your elbow. When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you see four long cuts down either of your cheeks. There is dried blood under your fingernails.

You lean against the doorway when you come out. “What happened?” you ask Pete in a soft voice.

“You tell me, Ry.” he returns gently.

“Baby?” Brendon asks from the bed. He holds his arms out and you find yourself rushing to them.

He holds you while you sob, your entire body shaking. “I did it, Bren. I did it.”

You’re not sure if he understands. You don’t know what Pete told him. But it doesn’t seem to matter. He just strokes your hair and lets you cry yourself dry.

When Pete drives you back to the airport, you offer to pay for the window. He tells you to shut up. And after you and Brendon pick up your tickets, he squeezes you so hard you gasp. “Call me if … if …”

“I will.” you whisper.

S/he’s gone. It’s so strange to see your reflection in the airplane window without his (or her) face lurking in the background. You feel relief and your shoulders are relaxed, but a part of you feels empty.

You cry yourself to sleep in Brendon’s arms on the flight back. In the car on the way home, you stare at the black sky and think. It’s kind of scary being without her (or him). Forever.

“It’s going to be okay, Ry.” Brendon says suddenly. You look at him. “Whatever it is, Ryan, it’ll be okay. We’ll handle it.”

“Okay.” you whisper.

There’s silence for the rest of the drive home. After he turns the car off, you kiss him. “I love you, Bren.”

“I love you too, Ryan.” he murmurs.

“I’d never kill you.” It slips out before you realize, but s/he’s not there to laugh at you.

Brendon doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sighs and pulls you to his chest tightly. “It’s going to be better now, Ry.”

And you believe him.