|Bleh... I need to write something... it'll probably come out bad, but I just wanted to write...just so I can. I need to x.x maybe it'll get my inspiration back or something...
This is a character from an RP... I'm going to warn against not shounen-ai so much as a bit of ***** on the part of the character's dad (the sick b*****d -.-) but it'll be brief, so don't worry - and no, I don't support that kind of thing. It's sick and wrong.|
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Night had fallen quite some time ago and most of house was asleep. The grandparents had tucked themselves in, the cat had curled up in its own bed. Lights outside of the house were all off and even most of the surrounding buildings had gone dark. It was getting to that point where most sane people went to bed.
Not that anyone could really call Ryan sane. It wasn't like he was crazy or anything, but he was definitely a little wierder than some people. A blank gaze took in the sights from outside as he sat on the window sill of his little room. Normal people would probably sit on a window seat, or in front of the window, or at least on the inside. No, Ryan had managed to balance himself on the rather thick sill with his feet hanging outside, hands planted firmly against the wood as if to keep him anchored in place.
His pale skin was set aglow by the moonlight that was the only source of illumination for quite a few blocks around. It filtered over the long black shirt that served as his night clothing for the moment, and streaked through his black hair, messy and disoriented as it was. Most guys would probably wear boxers or pants or something to bed, but Ryan found it comfortable to wear just a long shirt. What was the point in wearing anything else?
Of course, that mindset - wearing whatever he felt was comfortable - had gotten him into plenty of trouble through the years. Mostly starting from around the age of thirteen, just before he started ditching school. That's when he found out how nice womens' clothing felt. Wearing it to school was bad because his peers found it funny to laugh and point, and then the bullies found it great fun to beat him up and joke while the did it.
That wasn't the worst part, though. No, there was worse. Even after that, though, he hadn't given up wearing the clothing occassionally. It made him feel better at times. It allowed him to hide that useless, fragile form beneath soft layers and let him become someone different that no one knew. Of course, the therapist had wanted him to stop doing that and start talking to people, but what did he know? He didn't know how Ryan felt trying to talk to people. Maybe if the man grew up the way he had he could tell the boy all of this. But until he did, Ryan didn't want to hear it.
Ryan never really talked to the psychatrist like his grandparents wanted him to. The man wanted to know why he was the way he was. What made him wear womens' clothing? What made him fear most older males? What caused him to go into fits of depression in which he sometimes threatened suicide? Ryan wouldn't tell him. No, he kept the thoughts locked away in his mind as if letting them out would unleash the demon that had died two years ago...
<Enter Flashback: Age 13>
"Hey, daddy! Lookit, lookit! Mrs. Martha says I look cute!" Ryan ran into the room with the biggest grin on his face. His small form was clad in a rather puffy black dress. The bodice was similar to a corset, the strings criss-crossing in the front and back. The shoulders were puffed and turned into sleeves that hugged his arms, flaring out at the bottom into bell-sleeves. The skirt itself went to about his knees but was more rounded, as if it was formed to sit the way it did. Along the bottom was a line of ruffly white lace. Small, dress shoes buckled over his tiny feet, socks reaching up to his knees, just under the hem of the skirt.
Spinning around, he gave his father a grin, who was just staring at him in a rather disgusted manner. Smile fading, Ryan stood quietly, watching the older male, hands falling to behind his back. His dark hair, which he had been allowed to grow to his shoulders, was rather messy and fell into his eyes, but he dared not move to brush them aside. He had been sure that his father would like it!
"What the hell are you wearing?" He man snapped, standing from his position on the couch. Ryan bit down on his lip and let his gaze fall.
"Mrs. Martha says it's cute..."
"It's a dress!"
"So?" Ryan instantly regretted that one little word. A hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him across the room. With a shove, he ended up on the floor with a cry.
"So?! Don't you DARE speak to me like that! It's a dress! You're not a little girl!" The man yelled aiming a kick at the boy's legs. Ryan's reaction was to pull them up out of the way. Sitting up, the skirt hid any of the lower half of his body as he stared up in fear at his father. The man stumbled slightly but caught himself, glaring down at the boy.
"You wanna be a girl that bad?" He growled, pulling the boy up by his hair. Ryan yelled out but didn't struggle, knowing it would only make things worse. "Huh? You wanna be a girly that bad?" He man repeated before tossing Ryan at the couch. Tripping found the boy sprawled out just as his father wanted him and, before he could get up, the man was over him.
"You wanna be a girl, then I'll show you what little girlies get when they misbehave!"
"No! Let me go!"
"Be quiet, you little brat. This is what you get!"
"No! Stop!"
"You wanna be a girl so bad, you can take your mother's place! It's what you get for driving her away, you little snot!"
<End flashback>
Just thinking about it still caused him to quiver. To think, the therapist wanted him to tell him about -that-? Did he honestly think that it would make Ryan any better telling people about such an incident? And the fact that he still wore the female clothing to that day didn't help it at all. No doubt the man would have asked him about that as well.
And the dark-haired male would have no answer. What was he supposed to say? He didn't know why he had started. It had just seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe it was the feeling that there really was something he could do despite the his father's words. He was always told he was useless, stupid, uneeded. That nobody wanted him, not even his mother; it's why she left him there in the first place. That his father didn't want him because there was no way to make enough money to support his drinking habit as well as feed both of them. That he would never become anything more than a prostitute on a street corner because that's all he would be good for. Because he was pretty the only thing he would be able to do right was screw people.
For the longest time Ryan believed a lot of what his father said. He still did, to an extent. There were times when things would snap in his head and his father's words would come flooding back, barating him like the physical man had before he was taken from the world. And then there were times when Ryan was rather disappointed he hadn't been able to be the one to take that last breath and relish in the look of complete horror in the man's face during his last moments.
A sigh escaped thin lips as the boy looked down at the ground below him. His room was located on the second floor, and that drop looked awfully inviting. Just to fall and be embraced by a cold warmth that could only be brought around by one thing. But it wouldn't work, of course; not to the effect he wanted it to. He would have to be higher up for that. A second floor window wouldn't work.
"Let the world break me down... as if I care," Ryan sang softly to himself, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper, but dark and sad at the same time. He didn't really have the best singing voice, but it wasn't completely screeching-cat-on-the-backyard-fence quality, either. He might have been the guitarist for Opulent, but it didn't mean he didn't like singing. He just didn't sing in public since his voice was so strange.
"Got nothing to lose...Like shattered glass, flying to pieces, I'm already torn*..."
*'Let the world break me down ~ I'm already torn' - a line from Scorpio by Trax
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Bombay's Random Writings
Random randomness from the mind of a wierd little person.
That would be me.
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