Only Myself to Give-Rydon-5

I catch a bus from Jon's house and Dad is nowhere to be found when I get home.

Probably out drunk in some bar, I think bitterly, hanging my jacket up in the closet and sloughing my way up to my room to do homework.

About an hour later, Brendon texts me: Hey. Sorry about Jon. He likes being annoying like that.

Well, as much as I love my History homework—sarcasm—texting Brendon sounds a lot more appealing, so I set aside my notebook in favor for my phone.

Haha yeah. Umm … I didn't freak you out today, did I?

Waiting for his answer is nerve-wracking and tedious and I can't concentrate on my homework at all. Then finally—

Nah, it's fine. Everything's cool. Though I must say, I didn't think you had it in you to be that sexy.

A blush creeps up my neck and over my cheeks and I sit there, nervously laughing and biting my lip until I can think of an adequate response.

Yeah? I'd make a pretty hot stripper, don't you think?

And when Brendon texts back, I know that friendly teasing was the right way to go.

Definitely. But you'd need a pair of heels and some fishnets first. ☺

The mental image of myself dressed as a stripper causes me to laugh until I can hardly breathe. Then I hear the front door open and the laughter dies in my throat.

Dad.

* * *

Friday night. Or is it Saturday morning? I'm not sure.

Tossed carelessly across my bed with a bright welt across my upper back and heat rolling off me in waves, it hurts to even think.

"Hey, boy! Where are you?" Dad shouted, slamming the door behind him.

"Here," I croaked and slipped out into the living room. "I'm here."

His eyes had a slightly unfocused look about them and it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize the smell on his breath was alcohol. "'Bout time," he muttered, throwing his coat to the floor. "Damn faggot."

"I'm not," I whispered in a raw voice.

"Not what?"

I took a step back as he stepped towards me. "Not a faggot," I whispered, fear rising in my throat.

"Like hell you aren't!" he hissed, hand shooting out to grab me by the back of my neck, dragging me towards me, like a spider with its helpless victim.

"What did I ever do wrong?" I whimper, kicking my legs out behind me. I hate feeling vulnerable, weak, powerless. Ironic, since that's the only feelings I get when I'm around my father. Fear, pain, misery.

Drowning in these emotions, I feel my grip on reality loosening, slipping, slacking. So I reach for my guitar. The one thing consistent about me over the years. Music.

And my words.

"Watch your mouth," I sing tentatively, hating the way my voice shakes. "Because your speech is slurred enough that you might swallow your tongue. You'd want to give up the ghost with a little more poise than that."

Em, G, Am, C, Em.

"Or was it God who chokes in this situations, running late? No, no, he called in. He called in."

G, Am, C.

"Problem: The hospice is a relaxing weekend getaway where you're a cut above all the rest sick and sad patients on first name basis with all the top physicians," I spit out, remembering that one time I had to drive Dad to the emergency room and the peace in the house that followed, when my phone rings.

My voices trails off and I set my guitar aside, diving for my phone before the ringing pisses Dad off. "Hello?" I gasp, flipping it open.

"Ryan?" Brendon's sweet voice flows into my ears and I can feel my heart rate slowing down and speeding up, cutting corners, breaking the speed limit. "Are you okay?"

No. "Yeah," I lie in a shaky voice.

"Are you sure?" he presses on, voice tinted with worry.

"Everything's fine," I say stubbornly. Solution: Prescribed pills to offset the shakes, to offset the pills. You know you should take, um, take it a day at a time. Fix a vice with a vice.

Brendon doesn't say anything and I'm content to listen to his breathing crackle through the cheap speakers in my phone, and then—

"Why are you lying to me?" he asks in a small voice, and my breath catches in my throat.

"I … I …"

That's when you stutter something profound to the support on the line.

"I just … don't know you that well yet?" I finish lamely.

And with the way you've been talking every word gets you a step closer to Hell.

He murmurs something quietly—I can't quite make it out, but it sounds like, "Someday." Or maybe he'll just push me away like I'm pushing him away.

A pessimist?

It's all my father's fault. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

No, I just can't help it—to say what everything else is thinking.

No, it's my fault.

Let me state the obvious again.

"It's not your fault," he says. "Just … call me when you feel better, okay Ryan?"

"Okay," I say quietly and he hangs up.

I am alone in this bed, house, and head. She never fixes this but at least she helps me forget.

I just wanted to be loved.