Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24234841-20140907061506

09/09/06Edit
When Ryan came to me yesterday, I noticed something strange about him. Unlike the other appointments I've been getting recently, Ryan was not distraught. He wasn't an emotional wreck; he was actually very cool-headed. I assumed he was not here on account of Clinton Wingo, a sophmore who recently died of a heart attack. I was wrong.

Ryan sat down in one of the office chairs I had and sat there looking at me in silence. Eventually, I decided to be the one to start conversation.

"So, uh... Ryan?" He nods his head. "What seems to be troubling you, sweetie?" He hesitated before talking, as if he had a mental leash that jerked back on him when he was about to say the wrong things.

"I was there when Clint died."

"What?" I take a few seconds to process this information, and remember how Clinton had died during a Gym period.

"We were playing tether ball behind the bleachers in the gym. Clint was watching us with a bunch of other kids, waiting for their turn."

"Just out of nowhere, he clutches at his heart and drops to the ground. Naturally, we all laughed. We thought he was joking. We laughed at him. Kicked at his ribs. One guy stomped on his back. When no one could get him to get up, we just went back to playing tether ball. A couple of minutes later, we realized he wasn't joking. We got the coach, who dialed 911 and then the nurse. "

"But he was dead before the nurse could even get to us." I stared at him, speechless.

" I just have a question. Clint was a friend. Not a good friend, but still a friend. I was partly responsible for his death. So my question is... Why don't I feel bad? Everyone else is crying their eyes dry, and I'm standing here feeling like he never even left. I killed this guy, this guy I consider a friend, and I don't even feel a pang of loss."

We sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, with me shocked and him waiting for an answer. The bell eventually rang, and I told him he better go to class.

"Ryan?" I asked. He turned around.

"Come to my office tomorrow. Maybe by then I'll have an answer for you." I said. He nodded soberly.

I don't know what my answer is.

09/10/06Edit
Ryan sat down in my the chair across from mine yesterday with the same look he had on the day before. He was expectant for an answer. "I don't have one." I told him. "That's why you're here. So I can help you find it. I want you to visit me for the rest of this week, including weekends."

Most teens would groan at the fact of having to visit me during the weekends, but Ryan looked relieved. He finally had someone to talk to.

"So, in our first appointment, I'd like you to tell me about yourself. How was your life leading up to this point?"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">Ryan hesitated, just like he did yesterday. "My parents were... ok, I guess-"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"-You're going to have to really open up to me here, Ryan." I cut him off.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">Ryan glared at me. "My dad was a raging alchoholic. My mom suggested he stop boozing up, and he almost killed her. That's why we left him when I was nine, and my mom has been working two jobs ever since. The best part is, I still have to visit that asshole on weekends. Does that make you happy?" He said bitterly. Under normal circumstances, I would have told him to watch his language, but this was too personal of a confession to interrupt.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"I got into sports so I could spend less time with my dickbag dad and bother my mom less. That's where I made friends. That's where I got in shape so I could kill my dad if I wanted to. And he knew I could do it, too. That's why he doesn't bother me anymore. That's why I feel like the best I've ever been." Once again, Ryan had me speechless.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Until fucking Clint went and died. Now he's dead because of me, and I DON'T FEEL A FUCKING THING!" Ryan was yelling now. I needed him to calm down. Luckily, he did it by himself.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"And now... Now I don't feel good. Now I feel bad... Because I don't."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">The bell rang.

09/11/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Today in history we watched a video about the September 11 attacks." Ryan said first thing yesterday.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"And what are your thoughts on that?" I asked him.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Well, I was nine when it happened, so I don't remember much. All I really remember was fear. The fear that my mom, me, and even my dad shared. The fear... I guess, all of America shared."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"And then I got to thinking about it. What if it wasn't the terrorists' fault?"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"What do you mean?" I asked.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"What if... It wasn't their fault they hated America to the point of being homicidal? Those terrorists had been taught since they were children that America was evil. Maybe it wasn't them, but the environment they were raised in."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Maybe." I said.

09/12/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">When Ryan sat down yesterday, he didn't seem very talkative.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"What's the matter, sweetie?" I asked.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Nothing." He said.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">I gave him a look that I give my own children when I know they're hiding something. His mental leash loosened.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"I walked in on my mom yesterday. She was snorting a line."

09/13/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"It's my birthday today." He said.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Really? Happy Birthday, Ryan. How old are you now?"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Sixteen. I'll be getting my liscence in December."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Do you have any fond memories of past birthdays? Any bad ones? Or, how about this- Give me an example of your worst birthday and your best one."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">He paused. "Okay. Worst one first. It was my ninth birthday, and it was around a week after me and mom left dad. We had gotten this shitty apartment, with a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and grease covering this stupid fucking table that was painted to look like wood but was actually plastic. My mom got me a box of cupcakes from Walmart. We ate them together until the power went off. And then we had to feel our way across the dog and cat piss covered carpet to our bedroom. "

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Then, I had this nightmare about me pushing a guy off a building. I would jump down after him, but then realize that there was no ground. He would just keep on screaming that he was going to hit the ground until I woke up."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"That sounds pretty bad." I said. "How about a good one?"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"It was my thirteenth birthday. My mom and I had enough money by then to buy a half-decent house. I also had friends over, and an actual birthday cake. We were about to open presents when my dad showed up, drunk as shit, and gave me this barely wrapped present. Then, he said he was going to go downstairs to get a beer, and fell down the stairs. He had to go to the hospital, and mom and I were laughing so hard."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"What was the present?" I asked.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"I don't know. I threw it away."

09/14/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"You know that dream I had on my ninth birthday?" He asked when he came in.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"I remember you telling me about it, yes." I said.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"I had it again last night, only this time the man I pushed off the building was my dad."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"It may just be because of you remembering about it. Don't overthink it. It probably means nothing." I said.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Ok."

09/15/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">We had started to talk about Ryan's friends and social life when the office called.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">"Can Ryan Miller come to the office please. Ryan Miller come to the office."

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">He picked up his backpack and left. It was later when I saw it on the news. Ms. Miller had died of a drug overdose.

09/16/06Edit
<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   I'm writing this as an eyewitness account for what happened in the lunchroom yesterday. After I'm done writing this, I'm turning it straight in to the police for evidence against Ryan Miller, when they manage to find him.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   Ryan had decided to go to school the day after his mother died, however he did not want to go to his daily counseling appointment. I had lunch duty that day, and my attention was primarily focused on Ryan. Being a popular kid, Ryan was swarmed with people who were offering their sympathy, and you could tell it was really getting to Ryan. He just wanted to be left alone.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   This one kid in general, (Marcus, I think his name was) was particularly bothering him. Marcus kept on talking to Ryan, who obviously just wanted to eat his food.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   Eventually, a smile grew on Ryan's face. He turned to Marcus, and punched him in the forehead. Everyone was in shock. Ryan dragged the unconscious Marcus to the nearest wall and propped him up against it. Smiling while he did it, Ryan kicked Marcus in the face over and over until he wasn't recognizable. Marcus's face was now oozing with blood and his facial features seemed nonexistant. He wasn't breathing.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   People got out of their seats and ran over each other trying to get away. I stood up, and dialed 9-1-1.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">       "Hello, this is 9-1-1. Who is speaking?"

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   Before I could answer, Ryan and I made eye contact from across the lunchroom. The smile drained from his bloody face. He knew what I was thinking, and I knew what he was thinkng.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">       Maybe it wasn't you, but the environment you were raised in.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">       Maybe.

<p style="color:rgb(212,212,213);">   He regained his smile, and ran out of the school. <ac_metadata title="Hi, I&#039;d just like feedback on this story I wrote. I know it&#039;s a little long, but it would be great if you take the time to read it."> </ac_metadata>