Ryan took a deep breath that hurt his rib cage. He exhaled, inhaled again, inched his arms under, and pushed himself up on his hands and knees, the carpet soft underneath. His head swam. He felt his stomach tighten, and he puked on the carpet, which hurt the ribs some more. He stayed that way for a bit, on his hands and knees with his head hanging like a winded horse. After a long, dizzy moment, he was able to push himself to his feet and walk to the bathroom.

The shadows of the beating were already on Ryan's skin. The knowledge that his own father can do such a thing, again, just broke something inside of him, something that would remain long after his skin and bones were healed. He believed with his whole heart that adulthood would set him free from his father’s grip. A stupid fucking hope.

It was a sadness in his eyes, a heaviness, an unyielding sorrow that slowed his speech and robbed him of his once easy smile. How could he be so naïve? Thinking his father could change, thinking he would change.

Fucking stupid idiot, he snarled at himself as he turned on the sink faucet. Blood trickled down his face, staining the sink's white porcelain. Purple-black bruises are already forming on his cheeks and under his right eye. He drew up his blood-splattered shirt and rested his hand on his ribcage. Not broken. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

He cleaned his wounds as thoroughly as he could, rinsed the blood from his face and neck, and brushed his teeth before reaching for the medicine cabinet and swallowing three painkillers. Then he just stood there, in the middle of his large bathroom, resting his head in his hands on the sink and closing his eyes.

Pain is just an illusory sensation, he reminded himself. You can shut it down. You can shut it down. Shut it down.

After a few moments, he realized he can no longer be in the house. It felt contaminated now, and he needed to physically and mentally detach himself from it, so he walked, painfully slowly, to the front door when Martha emerged from the kitchen.

“Mr. Ryan, please, let me help you,” she pleaded. 

“I’m leaving,” he muttered, clinging to the last shreds of dignity he had.

“You need to go to the hospital. Wait here while I call the driver.”

“I’m fine.”

“You need to see a doctor!”

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT I NEED!” he shouted, leaning against the wall as he struggled to speak. It hurt too much.

“I’m sorry.” he gasped, “Just.. please go clean the living room. I’ll be back later. I’m fine, don't worry.”

He waited, wide-eyed, heart in his mouth, hoping for kindness. He needed a hug, even if it was just words. He needed soothing like a child. 

I need help, I'm lonely. I feel so abandoned. Just come, just help me. Won't you please help me? I need company. It would help so much.

He couldn’t look at her, couldn't look at her expression. The same expression everyone around him looked at him, yet, deep down, he secretly wished for it. In those moments of pure desperation, he wished for that pity, and that made him feel weak. Weaker. 

He hurried outside, the cool evening wind easing his breathing, and dialed his driver's number. The pain became a little more bearable as the medications ran through his bloodstream.

When the driver arrived and stepped outside of the car to open the door for him, he was taken aback by Ryan's appearance. He paused, his hand on the door handle. “should you change your clothes, Master Ryan?” he asked.

“Crimson brings out my eyes, don't you think?” he said, squeezing a smile, looking down at his white shirt, now covered with splatters of various shades of red. Everything hurt. His back, his face, his hands. His pride.

He walked past the driver to the car and shut the door behind him.

Loneliness was Ryan’s poison. It ate at his spirit, and nothing he did could make it go away. No cigarettes, no alcohol, no drugs, could loosen it. Nothing ever touched it, not his love affairs or the bar room boys. It was a losing battle. A sinking ship.

He fought for far too long, and his mind began to turn against him. He used to swallow down the pain, quickly and effectively. Eat it up into his belly and wear a passive face, a tentative smile and act meek, but he couldn't find the strength to control his emotions anymore. 

In the car, the tears unexpectedly came. Hot and salty, falling fast and thick on his cheeks. He fought against them, cried without making a sound, short rapid breathes escaped him until he calmed down. He bit his lower lip, and closed his eyes while clutching his fists as tightly as he could.

Pain is just an illusory sensation. You can shut it down.

By the time he opened his eyes again, the tears were gone. He wiped his cheeks, took a deep breath and said to the driver,

“Take me to the city, I have business to do.”