(no subject)
Title: Get Me Out Of My Mind
Author: Destroyedminds
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: 1st, Ryan's
Disclaimer: I made this up.
I try to ignore the constant ringing in my ears. I turn around once I realize it actually wasn’t my fucked up mind making the noise this time around.
“Ross!”
I swipe the corners of my eyes, a painful sting radiates across them. Sleep, I need more of it. I run forefinger and thumb steadily along the crane of my nose. My eyes linger for a few seconds before they connect with another pair across the hall.
The dead, beat looking lady next to the counter waves me over with her wrinkled finger. Need medication, more medication.
I inhale deeply trying to force myself over to her.
She taps the rim of a cold metal chair, “Take a seat.”
I sit down and roll my sleeve up. She turns back to the counter picking out an array of differed pills and capsules. She turns back towards me to hand me a blue kids cup filled half way with tap water. In my other hand she places seven pills. Seven pills, I can take it all at once, I’ve had much experience.
My hand creeps up to my mouth and I toss them into my throat, feeling them hit the back and fall to my tongue. The instantly start dissolving, white chalky powder coating my tongue.
Water finally carries them down to be dissolved into my system.
I hand her back the cup while she's getting my needle ready. Great, exactly what I need, more needles…
"It's funny," I say, staring blankly ahead.
"What is, dear?" She asks, wiping the needle with an alcohol pad.
"I was thrown into here because of taking to much medicine. But in reality-" I cough. I try to force the last few words out, "i've taken more medicine here in the last two weeks, than my whole life."
Ok... well that's enough talking for the week.
She flicks the needle with her long, fake, fingernails. Painted bright pink. Wonder who she's trying to impress. "Just sit still."
She doesn't reply because she doesn't want to, it's also because she doesn't understand. Or she doesn't care. It's a mix.
She ties the pink rubber string around my upper arm suffocatingly. Within seconds I loose feeling in my skin, my arm below it going numb. Sometimes I miss this feeling. Sometimes crave it. Which is apparently a sign of progress to Kelly.
She dips a cotton ball in to the clear, disinfecting liquid. She quickly rubs it over the crease of my arm. It feels cold and way to clean.
I flinch as I feel the sharp tip of the needle sluggishly pierce through my flesh. It's being pushed in deep, searching for the blue webs beneath my skin. My eyes clench together, and i'm barley letting oxygen into my lungs.
The poison flushed through my veins, mixing with pure blood. The unknown chemicals dripping out of the tip of the needle, slipping into me. Relief and need coursing through my brain.
She yanks on the rubber, letting it snap back. bringing me slightly back to reality. It leaves a red ring around my bicep. My blood slowly starts to revive my weakened lim. I give my arm a shake as a I straighten my back against the chair.
She pats my arm, indicating that I can leave now. The kindness in this room over joys me… No How are you today, Ryan? or Are you feeling better today? or even a worthless Hi would be satisfactory. Nothing. Robots.
I really don't think I can keep up with this much longer. This place is supposed to make me forget about the past. But instead, every day's events bring back another memory, another craving, another something I can't control.
I stand up and unbend. I shake my head disbelievingly.
My hands run through my hair as I try to remember what room i'm in. Two weeks and I still forget.
"To right, down the stairs. Room 214" Vicky winks and smiles at me. It finally clicks in what little usable brain I have, that she has to remind me almost every day. On A good day i'll remember, today's not a good day.
I turn towards her, she's up next for meds. She flashes me a preppy grin, and an overly excited wave. I grant her a smile and mutter out a "thanks."
Victoria Asher. Age? Twenty-one-ish. Reason for being in this shitty hole? No one's quite sure, but something's not quite right with her. She's got medium length brown hair, neatly cut bangs. Wears nothing but skirts and dresses. Full chest. gorgeous body. Pretty girl, such a shame.
I stroll down the hallway focused on the door at the end. Too fucking far away. I hold my jacket closer to me, nails gripping to to the zipper strips.
It's a long hall. The walls are a pale manila color, with strips of the paint peeling off. Classy.
I'm on the fourth floor. Medical/office floor. This is where we get out medicine. And it's also the place for the employees to get away to. Because the bottom 3 floors arn't humane enough for them. I once herd them say a nursing home has more life in it. I agree.
I jump when I here a bell. The dinging of the elevator. That only disables bodies get to use. I rather walk up four flights. I don't trust and utilities in this place. Funded by the state.
The doors open and I look back behind me when I hear a low, deep moaning coming from the elevator. It may not be a good day.. but I definitely know who that is.
Kristen. No one know what exactly her problem is. And aside form the fact that she's too old to be here, someones also paying for her to be here. Most people here are thrown in by the state. If someones paying for you to be in here, they must really hate you. What do the experts say? "Depressed state due to deeper meaning." Real professional diagnosis. Although I can see why's they say that. All day all she does is moan something like "Moah-thder" around the halls. We had a vote on it, down in the meeting room. 18 people said it was "mother" 11 said it was someones name. What ever she's saying. I'd hate to be who ever she's calling. Hey, maybe it's who's paying for her to be here.
I focus back on where I'm going. Where am I go-room. I'm going to my room.
I push through the door and stop when i'm faced with two sets of stairs. Up? Or down? What did Vicky say? Down? Yah, I think down. I don't even know what's on the fifth floor.
The echo of my shoes hitting the metal steps mixes with those of others walking the stairs below me. Creating a deafening echo bouncing off the walls.
My head's pounding by the time I hit the seventeenth step. I feel like i'm going to topple over… Finally i'm level with the door to the left of me. I reach to grab the handle, when the door nearly hits me in the face. I wake up a little and take a step back. In walks in a scrawny boy (almost worse than myself). Chestnut brown hair falls from his head to the tips of his shoulders. Hands are buried in his pockets, and a bandana around his skinny jean covered calf. He slightly looks up at me and lifts his hand up to greet me. I nod my head up as we glide past each other.
Mr. William Beckett. I think he's around my age. Twenty-four. As hard as it may be to believe, the quiet, non-social kid, he's a kleptomaniac. English major, had a secure life ahead of him. Who would have thought? That's the thing though. You can jude a person by appearance as much as you want. But you're never going to get ti 100% correct. It doesn't always matter what they look like. They old sweet, little, old ady you pass by at the grocery store could have very well sold drugs to your now dead father. Y'never know.
* * *
I walk in to our room to find Jon kneeling on the floor next to (our) his calendar. I flop down on my bed on the further side of the room. I swear he worships that thing. Especially latley he's been keeping very good track of the days. I, on the other hand honestly don't know what day it is. Life is so repeditive in this place that the days don't even matter anymore. They'd just be another thing on the mind anyway. I don't need anything else on my mind. I cant even remember what room i'm in, you expect me to know what day it is too? That's the way I like it. And that's the way I plan to keep it.
Jon Walker. Crazy mother-fucker. Best-friend (I guess). Primarily wheres t-shirts, kakis, and worn out flip-flops. Keeps a subtle beard year round. Alcoholic.
"Man, you've got five more days"
"He'll be here" I counter.
"Can't wait until I win, dude, i'm gonna love your bed." I got thrown in first, so I got the nicer of the two beds.
"Keep dreaming" I reply.
He throws his hands behind his head and lays back on the ground. "I intend to".
Jon and I have have got a bet going to see how long it will take until Pete gets thrown in here. He's giving it another eight days, I know it will be before that. He's got anger management issues, Pete, always getting into trouble.
"Up for food?" He stares at my with a hopeful look.
"No" I groan, deepening my head into the pillow.
"Ryan, come on, man, i'm starving".
"You're always starving", I mutter.
"Yah, so let's go get food".
Reluctantly, I stand to my feet. I sway a little, giving my legs a second to remember how to work.
"Life's a bitch without coke"
"Dude, you don't need that stuff, shit messes you up"
"So does alcohol!" I snap back in a scratchy voice, a little more defensively then I intended. With my left arm hangin at my side I reach to hold my elbow with my right hand, something I "apparently" tend to do when I'm feeling insecure... According to Kelly anyway.
"I'm not that bad" he shrugs.
"You got caught with a 1.8 or higher on the breathalyzer for the fifth time in one month.
"Whatever, man, I can control it", he says almost too nonchalantly. Denial, he also has denial.
Coke's different, it can't really hurt you, withdrawal just hurts like a bitch.
* * *
Cafeteria.
Probably the biggest room in the building. It has about half a dozen of those long, rectangular, tables they have in elementary school, the ones with the seats attached to them. The floors are tiled and the walls are lined with those cement blocks you see in schools, painted a dull tan color.. Makes me sick.
You walk through the big metal doors and the lines for food are on your right.
Jon plops down opposite from me, tray full of two corn muffins, bowl of eggs, a plate of limp, greasy, bacon, and a cranberry juice held in-between his underarm and side.
He motions toward the cup of black coffee in my hand.
"That all you're having?" He manages to say, mouth stuffed with yellow crumbles.
"S'all I ever have", I say without picking my head up or taking my eyes off the swirling of the steam coming off the coffee.
"The lady's are gonna yell at you, man"
"No different from any other day", I reply. Let em yell, maybe it will intensify my migraine until I pass away from the eruption of veins in my head.
He shakes his head disbelievingly, "I don't know why you're not dead yet." Me neither.
The more I eat, the more I throw up, and I'd rather not have that.
"You're like a twig" he mumbles, mouth stuffed with bacon.
But yeah... I wonder why i'm not dead yet, too. Isn't that what we're all doing? Just waiting till we die? Maybe I've got some strange purpose in this world that's not yet discovered. Although it's thoughts like these that build people hopes up. And that's almost as dangerous as it gets.
Like he's reading my mind, Jon pipes up, "At least you stopped shaking, dammit. Man, the other night I thought you were literally going to die. Spent all night on the bathroom floor. Seriously, man, scary."
"Yah, good times". I take in about half the cup of coffee in one go and I involentaryly shiver for whatever reason...
I just kind of roll my eyes. God, they sting. He doesn't know. I lost the only steady job I had a few months ago. Then lost my... roommate. He left. Got sick of paying for my crap. I had to sell all my furniture in my shitty apartment to pay rent. I have no future, nothing planned, pretty much screwed over. Me and him... we were gonna "stick it out together" he said it'll be alright some day. He's human, and he lied. My stupid fault for believing him. But fuck the details. Jon doesn't know how great it feels to be taken away from this fucking reality. I'll do anything to get out sometimes. With my dealer living across the street from me, I could get a fix any time I wanted, just like that. Everything stops hurting for a few hours. Temporary fix, but my only escape. Then two weeks ago, I overdosed, and that's what got me thrown in here. Jon came in a few days after, needed his stomach pumped after being found in his apartment passed out for who knows how many hours. Just… this crazy fucking world.
Jon quickly snaps his head towards me and knocks my shoulder.
I mouth an extremely annoyed, "what?!"
He nods his head to a lady standing next to the cafeteria door. Miss Boyd. Young lady, i'd say twenty-six years old or so.
"Wanna do it?" He whispers.
I look to the door and my eyebrows knit together.
"Do what?".
"Knewbies are coming in today".
Well there goes that... It's tuesday.
"Oh! Uh, right, yah, okay". I'm bored. And it's the only entertaining thing to do in this joint. People come in expecting everyone to be nice to the because "they're just like them". And i'm here to prove them wrong.
"Here!" He shoves a dried out muffin in my hand, and I quickly snatch his juice from him.
He repeats twice, "sit up straight". The later more eager than the first.
I pull my elbows off the table and sit up, as we try to carry out what seems to be a civil conversation.
Miss. Boyd comes walking up and down the tables until she stopes at ours.
"Good morning, Mr. Walker, Mr.Ross."
"Good morning Miss. Boyd" Jon said with a cheerful grin.
I smile at her.
"Would you boys like to welcome the new people today?"
"It would be out pleasure", Damn, he can be charming when he wants to. Talent I wish I had.
"Wonderful, you two are such good boys, just be out in front after you're done eating."
"Great, we were just finishing up" He shoots me a look, I snap back and take a sip of the juice.
I hold up my bottle, "Almost done" I say. It hurts to be civil.
"Thank you!" She yells behind her as she rushes off to go yell at three guys throwing food at each other. I swear we're the only sane ones in here.
I close the lid and throw him his drink back. Giving a disgusted look, Cranberry juice, fucking sour.
"How do you drink that shit?"
Jon smiles nostalgically. "Cassie used to mix it with this amazing rum we had. Only thing that gives me slight satisfaction." He shrugs. Not addicted? Bullshit.
* * *
I hit the bathroom while Jon finishes his meal. Just being near the toilets sends shivers down me, I've spent the better part of a year leaned up against them. The cold ceramic pressed up to my arm, the way the tiles on the floor dig into my skin to show where i've been. The cold, hard, dirty ground, my body pulsing, trying to get rid of the poison. The constant noises coming form myself are all I can hear, they echo off the walls and bounce back to me, reminding me. Headache pounding and hear racing. Knows all my secrets and keeps non of them, just keeps throwing them back my way, The toilets and I have come to be very close friends.
--
I walking in to the front office, and Jon is already chatting up the two guys sitting in chairs, waiting. They look to be about our age, except the mexican looks a bit older (maybe around Pete's age.) He's wearing brightly colored top, skinny jeans, and sunglasses, who does this guy think he is?
"Ryan!" Jon waves me over. The closer I get I notice that the smaller, non-mexican boy isn't talking. As opposed to the kid on his right who seems to keep running his mouth.
"Hey" I cough.
He points at the older one, "This is Gabe!" I lift my hand. "And this is..uh.." Jon shoots the boy a confused, sorry look. The younger snaps back to reality and looks at Jon.
"Oh, um, Brendon." He says. He sounds like he's about to cry. This is gonna be fun. I hope I get that one.
Jon looks pleased with a cheesy smile on his face.
"This is Brendon"
I nod.
Jon's already got his arm slug around Gabe's prominent shoulders, as they go to walk out of the room. Laughing at something, Gabe's apparently funny. Jon lifts his head in remembrance and looks back at me, "We have to have them at dinner by five!" he shouts out, "You know the rest!" voice fading away as they walk down the hall.
I look over to the kid who looks absolutely like he's being placed in prison. Don't worry kid, prison's not that bad. I'd take it any day over this place. would be a treat compared.
I take a second to give him a look over. Black colored jeans, and a grey hoodie. Nicely shaven. They always make sure your clean and presentable in the beginning. I spot his extremely plum lips as he sucks in the bottom one and nibbles. I laugh to my self, oh god, he's not gonna last a five days in here. Especially if I have anything to do about it.
I realize i'm staring. I smirk and make a motion towards the door.
"Let's go."
He looks down at his feet where his bags are. Then back up at me. Like he expecting me to help him. This isn't a hotel, kid. Jon setting a bad example by carrying all of Gabe's bags for him. Don't assume by exsamples. I should tell him that. But I don't.
We walk out the door with him a few steps behind me. I notice as we walk that he keeps struggling to lift his hand up towards him, but then puts it back down. Like he's trying to fidget or bite his nail but he can't cause his bags are holding him down. If I know people in this place, it's not the only thing holding him down.
We get to his room, number 006.
We don't speak a word the whole way. He just follows me like a good little boy.
Guess I have to speak sometime cause he sure isn't.
"This is your room. Number 663"
"006" he corrects me tentatively.
"Whatever, yah. Remember it." Or vicky will do it for you.
He ruffles and plays with his hair nervously. Kind of in a familiar way. And I notice a bead of sweat on the back of his neck as he turns around. What's his deal?
"Well unpack' I say, moving over to sit on a bed.
He instinctively goes over to the right side of the room, and picks that bed. Even though I didn't tell he which bed was his. He actually had a choice.
-
He begins unpacking his stuff. And I just sit there and watch. He looks over at me a few times. I think i'm making him feel uncomfortable. As the bag shifts a little something shinning catches my eye. What seems to be A blade, grey with dusky city light gleaming off of it, peaks past the parted zipper of his bag. No I know a blade when i see one. It's definitely a blade. Wonder how he snuck that into here.
I've figured it out though. He's a druggie like me. Uses it to sort out lines. Maybe he'll let me borrow it.
“What’s this?” I pick it out and shove it to his face.
For the first time today he actually shows some emotion.
“O-oh” he stutters, “It’s um” he takes it from my hand and puts it in his nightstand’s second drawer.
I step closer and raise my eyebrows, making sure to use my best "ass-hole" tone that's taken me years to perfect, “It’s… What?”
“Opening packages...yeah, dad said he’d send me some things.”
I swing back away from him on the heel of my foot “They have scissors here y’know…”
He ignores my remark and continues unpaking. Seems to be satisfied with his excuse, like he tricked me.
He nervously messes with his sleeves, hiding his hands into the navy blue cloth.
They really should've confiscated that when he checked in here. Wonder how he pulled it off.
I begin rummaging through his bags other bags on the floor without permision. “Got any cigs?” I ask.
He turns around eyes widening. “Stop!” he rushes towards me and I see the corner of a picture frame, I lift it up a little and make out only two people before he slams the top of the suitcase down with both hands. Muscles showing through his shirt from the immense pressure he’s put out.
I step back hand in the air sarcastic like, “Jeez, sorry kid. Do you?”
“Do I what?” he sneers exstremly annoyed.
Well looks like he's already had enough of me.
“Cigarettes, do you have any cigarettes?”
He shuffles over to his closest hanging stuff up neatly. I still have all my stuff in bags, not like I’m going to be here long anyway.
“No” he says with a barely audible whisper.
God, he looks nervous. Standing up straighter than a board, eyes darting around protecting his, whatever it is that’s in that bag. I think I should feel sorry for him, but I don’t, you don’t feel sorry for people in rehab. Who is he? Why the fuck do I even care?
“Why?”
He places a red and black, diamond pattern sweater vest on a felt hook. So clean, so nice, like it’s how he was thought. Why is this kid even here? Is he lost?
He turns around and looks at me like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever herd. I stand there arms crossed and eyebrowns raised, awiting an answer.
“We’re not allowed to have them here” he say in almost a question-like form.
"so." I remark. Were not allowed to do a lot of things here.
We stay in silence once again for some amount of time. 5 minutes maybe? A half hour? I don't know, i've slowly lost the ability to sense time. Took a lot of practice to be able to do that. I've been alone a good part of my life. And when you're alone, all you've got is your mind. No matter how much it hates you or how fucked up it is. It's there, and it's not going anywhere. So lesson is, you'll always have your mind. Even if everything else gets taken away from you. Learn to get lost in your mind.
“Ugh…” I groan. “Hurry up, would'ya? I need to stop by my room.
He whispers a small “ok” as he struggles to get his t-shirt on the hanger. After the clothing falls on the floor for the third time he gives up and leaves it there slightly embarrassed and internally frustrated.
He goes back to his bag, zips it up, then stuffing it under his bed. Far back under his bed. But at the current moment I’m too out of it to care.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
He’s too busy scrutinizing the sheets on his bed to notice I’ve said anything.
Scratchy wool blanket that’s in desperate need of a cleaning. Or burning.
“Huh?” he turns around, eyes focusing on me.
After I’m done picking at my nail I repeat to him, ‘you’re lucky.”
I wait a few seconds for him to respond but not surprisingly he doesn’t.
I huff out of frustration. Deciding whether I should continue with my explanation. No matter how much it burns my throat to speak long sentences.
“You’ve got this room all to yourself until next week.”
I’ve seemed to catch his attention. He doesn’t respond but I contine anyways.
“We get a new “shipment” of screw-ups every Tuesday. Gabe is in Will’s room right now because William was the only person who didn’t have a roommate. Well until you came in. You have it all to youre self till some other kid comes strolling in next week.”
Half way through my story I’ve lost his attwention once again. Stupid kid.
He’s not even listening anymore.Exsaminitg his room. I give up. I bring up a hand to rub my throat. It stings and I know my voice didn’t sound so heavenly ether. Probably the longest thing I’ve said all month.
I take a deep breath in. “Come on," I say, pushing my self off the bed. I start walkling to the door when I don’t here footsteps behind me.
Is there a key.. or something?” He ask protectively.
“What Paranoid, kid?’
I laugh, it’s honestly the funniest thing I’ve herd all week.
“Let’s go” I turn back around and head out the door.
“But”
I take a second to try an accept who this kid is.
“Listen,… brandon.”
He's biting his lip again. Something in me... a flicker of more familiarization.
“Uh. Brendon..”
Brendon. That’s a stupid name. I think the mother’s “A” must of looked like and “e” on the birth cirtificar. That’s what I conclude. Who the hell names their kid Brendon?
“Listen. You’re in a mental hospital,” I exsplain very slowly. “You’re a just another destroyed mind in their eyes. They don’t care abotut you, the don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t."
I choke on my last few words, coughing. “They not gonna treat you civily and they sure as hell aren’t going to give you privacty. In fact youll learn that they take very measure they can think of to take your rights away from you. You’re luck you’ve got a door.”
I breath in and start walking down the hall way.
“Uh, Ryan?”
“What!?” I nearly scream.
His eyes grow wider and he shakes a little. Awe shit.. if I tramatize him..
“Is- um.. “
“What?" I say a bit more calmly.
“Isn’t your- you said your room was up that way” He patheticly lifts his hand and point to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Like I said. Today is not a good day.
>
I sit back on my bed trying to remember what I even wanted from my room. My rooms different from Brendon's. My rooms more set up hospital style. Depends on your condition on what room you get. When you walk in, to the right of the room are two twin size beds. And a nightstand for each. On the left wall theres our calendar. I’ve stil got 5 more days on my bet. And to the back wall are two big windows. Theres one lamp in between the two nightstands and there's a dresser to the back corner in the left side of the room. The beds literally look like hospital beds. They probably are. These are the older rooms. Brendon’s is newer. The building can now house 34 people. Exciting. But his, it’s more set up as a college dorm. When you walk there's a bed on the leftside of the room and one on the the right. Two closets opposite the bed and a night stand for each person. There are two lights in the ceiling. And the colors of the room are much wamer here. The carpeting is maroon colored and the walls are light brown color. With absolutely no paint peeling. Theres's a smaller rug on the floor in between the two beds, 70's styled. It's a lot nicer of a room.