He was lying on his bed, head pressed against the wall in the absence of a headboard, with his knees bent and raised to support his computer. He furiously typed whatever came to mind, as he was never one to pass up a possible lyric or poetic remark. He spilled his every thought while the glow of the screen, his digital canvas, created a foggy aura that made the blackness of his unlit bedroom seem like it continued forever. The contrast of light and dark hurt his eyes if he tried to look away to gather his thoughts and make words form sentences in his head, so he just directed his attention to the clock in the corner of the screen. 2:17 AM.

The paint on the computer was chipped and scratched from two years of tough love and the once frosted black keys had grown shiny in just the spot where thin fingers struck them. They were worn and reflective, just like him, and he kept typing. Every night without fail, he confided in his dearest friend his every thought, feeling, and secret. It was a one way conversation he was glad to have, appreciative of the only time he felt as if he was being listened to, and as the screen displayed to him perfectly every word he typed, he knew he was understood completely. It was like having a friend sit across from you, nodding compassionately and sometimes repeating your thoughts, simply for justification and to make sure you knew you had his complete attention. The slight vibrations against his thighs and the quiet, dull hum were enough to weigh his eyelids down, blinding him just long enough for him to slip away momentarily into a world he dreaded every night.

He didn't know where the dreams came from. He never knew what caused them to happen. All he knew was that when he slept, they would be waiting. Staying awake until he felt sick from energy loss only made them worse, but avoiding sleep bought him some time in which he was the only thing that could occupy his mind. If he slept, he had no control. He had taught himself to distinguish between awake and unconscious, but knowing where the line was drawn made no difference to him. When he slept, he was frozen. Unable to move and completely engulfed in whatever his mind decided to throw at him, he felt too vulnerable. It took every ounce of energy he possessed to jerk himself awake, a sharp physical jolt to his entire body being the only thing that could wake him up during these times. He knew it had to be done and he knew it would fix the problem, giving him enough time to rub his eyes and turn himself over, which allowed him to dissolve into a more peaceful sleep if he was lucky. But it was hard to do. The dreams were intense and real, and he was able to hear the voices and feel the hands, able to cry the tears that they pulled out of him. His dreams, whatever they were, took pleasure in taunting him. They usually won the battle and he was left trembling inside, unable to shake himself the little bit that he needed to escape. They would defeat him, and all he could do was feel the terror until he fell into a deeper sleep that forced them to leave him alone. A while after first closing his eyes, the dreams would slip back into hiding. He figured they always left to begin writing the next night's horror story.

The sensation of his computer beginning to slide sideways onto the bed brought him back to where he needed to be, just in time to keep him from an early encounter with his demons. He pushed the machine back to its original position and directed his gaze to the light that was quickly entering through the doorway. The figure of his father appeared, slightly hunched over and half supported by the doorknob.

Oh God. Not now.

"School tomorrow, Ryan. Sleep." His father's voice was scratchy and loose from a lifetime of cigarettes and it was wavy and confused from the night's endless supply of alcohol. Ryan could always sense the kindness in the man's voice, regardless of what the drug made him say alongside whatever actions it made him take. It was this hint of kindness that tore at Ryan every time he was forced to leave his dad alone to fight with himself and lose consciousness sometime later on the couch. Some nights, Ryan just wasn't strong enough to lay vulnerable in his own bedroom, in the house with his father. He never wanted to run from the good man that was hidden inside somewhere, but sometimes he was left with no other choice.

Ryan nodded and cleared his throat in preparation for words, but none came to mind and he stayed silent. His fingers continued clicking away at the keys to drain the rest of the thoughts from his head before he would reluctantly obey his father and set his computer aside to try to pursue the simple sleep he always hoped for. He braced himself as his father staggered into the bedroom and pushed the door shut.

"I meant now. I'm not dragging you out of here in the morning. Put it away."

Ryan's heart jumped as one of his father's hands pressed down hard onto his forehead, his fist giving his hair a consistent pull while his other hand found its way to the computer screen. With one quick pull toward his own body, the man had thrown Ryan's life onto the floor and it landed with a sharp crack. The glow flickered, leaving the room in complete darkness for a few agonizing seconds, and Ryan was relieved when its light returned. Not because it was now illuminating his father's melted face, but because he knew he had not lost himself when it hit the ground. He clenched his teeth from fear of what could come next.

"Stop looking like your mother. Stop looking like her and go to sleep. She's not here anymore and you are not going to fool me." He dug his nails into the top of Ryan's head as he shoved it harder into the wall before he let go and backed away from the bed. Ryan held his breath, hoping that the lack of sound and motion would rid his father of all knowledge of his existence. The man's slow exit allowed another flood of light to enter the room before the door was closed again, and it was enough to cause the streams on Ryan's cheeks to glisten under his stinging eyes.

Ryan picked up his computer and added a final thought before sitting it next to his pillow and slowly pushing the screen down, stopping just short of closing it completely and cutting off his secure blue glow. He hid under his blanket and inhaled the sweet autumn-like air that blew in from his window, and he took comfort in knowing that his words still remained on the screen.

...and if I really looked like her, he would not do this to me. Not if he wants her to come back to him. To us. But this is what got her to leave. Maybe I do look like her... maybe this is why he has not changed one damn bit since she made her escape... maybe if he stops this, she will come back... then again, maybe this will just kill me like I have been expecting for so long now. I am falling apart from all this pretending. I can't last. I just thought I was getting better. What is happening to me?

~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan snapped out of his sleep after waking enough to adjust himself on the bed. The intense cold pouring in from the window was enough to make him wonder if he had slept through the fall and into December, a thought he was awkwardly comfortable with. He was too chilled to draw any warmth from the insufficient blanket that hid his body and it was far too cold to drift back to sleep. He arched his back in a weary stretch before he used his hand to bring his computer's clock into view, only to realize that his alarm clock would be shattering his much-loved silence in less than ten minutes. Shivering in the cold was just not worth it and he knew he would be unable to do anything except stare at the wall. His thin arm emerged from under the blanket and pulled the window shut, quickly retreating back to the rest of his body once the wind could no longer blow in. It was uncharacteristically icy outside for an early September morning, a product of a very unexpected cold front, but Ryan always found it interesting how the weather just seemed to do whatever it felt like doing. He anticipated the cold that would fill his lungs on his walk to school. Even if it made him complain that his chest hurt, he loved walking in the cold. It was impossible for him to feel tired during those times even though he normally had to function on just a few hours of sleep. He knew this morning would be no different as long as he left early enough, before the sun got much of a chance to heat anything up and make it feel like summer again. Ryan wanted to forget the summer. It was far too lonely for him to want to remember, and after losing so much and gaining so little, he was ready to start over. He welcomed the start of the new school year, but he was terrified at the same time. He did not like change.

His socks protected his feet from the frozen hardwood floor when he stumbled out of bed and turned off the alarm clock before setting out to grab the first sweater he saw. He zipped it quickly, hiding the shirt he had been wearing for three days prior. It had not left his body in so long except for during the quick showers he forced himself to take. All it took was the addition of tattered black Chuck Taylors before he was completely dressed. It had been a while since he had cared enough to take his jeans off before going to sleep, although they were terribly tight and uncomfortable to lay in. Less effort in the morning, he thought, and he had developed a sense of security from wearing the same clothes day in and day out. After a while, they felt like a glove stuck to his body, a soft but strong barrier between himself and everything that came at him.

Ryan squinted his eyes as he flipped the light switch. He had to size himself up in the mirror, regardless of how reluctant he always was to do so. Streams of salty white residue clung to his cheeks from the tears that fell on them before he fell asleep and he wiped them away after licking two fingers. He could smell the scent of toasted bread coming from the kitchen-the only sign that his father was awake. He was hungry from forgetting about dinner the previous night, but his hair was a more important matter. He didn't mind that it would be hidden and messed up by his hood once he ventured outside. All he wanted was to like something about what he saw in the mirror. The bristles of the brush felt good against his head as it separated tangles and revealed silky brown hair, surprisingly straight even after being such a mess. His teeth snapped together and he cringed as he carelessly tore the brush across the top of his head where his father's fingers had ruined the skin only hours before. Ryan didn't know why, but this made him angry-with himself, not his father. Ryan was convinced that he deserved the pain and he pushed the brush down until he could no longer stand it. Goddammit Ryan, don't start this shit again. It scared him, realizing that the pain felt so good, and he quickly made himself stop. He had gone over a month without damaging himself and he was more proud of this fact than anything else he had ever done. He was terrified of ruining it. Convincing himself that he was worth the personal promise to quit was the hardest thing he ever had to do, but it was going to take a while before he could figure out if it was really worth it, because he deeply missed being able to easily provide himself with so much relief. He knew he had to keep trying.

Ryan felt satisfied with his near-perfect hair and he brought his face close to the mirror to look into his own eyes, trying on a series of smiles and expressions until he found the most convincing one to let people see throughout the day. The hallway was instantly a warmer place than his bedroom, and Ryan held his breath until he appeared in the kitchen to offer his father the smile he picked out while in front of the mirror. The man turned with a small smile and nodded toward the counter, which was occupied by a plate and coffee cup. The plate held Ryan's morning favorite-two pieces of toast, light, covered with strawberry jam. The cup held his new drug, black coffee, cooled enough that he was able to down the entire drink before pouring himself seconds. He clenched the cup in his hand and moved closer to his father, who was leaning against the counter with the sink behind him. All Ryan could do was glance up at his face before directing his attention back to the delightfully bitter coffee. He wanted to talk, he wanted to beg, he wanted to plead... he wanted to cry and scream, try to make him stop, but Ryan knew from previous failed attempts that it was better to just save his energy for his own battles.

"Taste good?"

Ryan nodded, still not taking his attention away from the coffee.

"How are you this morning?"

Ryan shrugged. "Tired. Fine." The man's voice had the same scratchiness that Ryan heard the night before. And the night before that, and so on. But it was always coherent in the morning, which is why Ryan never minded being up early, even though it meant he would go straight back to bed after his father left for work. Usually, though, the summer had been spent mostly staying awake all night and finally retiring after his dad's car left the driveway.

"You excited for school?"

"I guess. I don't know."

"Look, Son, I'm sorry... I'm sorry you have to change schools this year. I just honestly cannot keep paying for the private school anymore." He had shifted his weight and rested his hand on Ryan's shoulder, gentle and painless because it was too early in the morning for anything else.

"It's fine. I'll get used to it. I'll be in school with Spencer now, anyway, so I already have one more friend than I did at the old one."

"I just hope you understand, Ryan. I'm trying to make this work. But you know your mother made the money, and I can't help it. You know she promised to pay for college if you switched over to the public school this year. You know I could never afford that and I just had to take her up on that offer."

Ryan nodded again. "Dad, really, it's fine. It's the beginning of the year, my best friend is there... I'll get used to it."

"I guess I just have to let you mope around here and get over it on your own, then. I know you aren't too happy about it." He playfully punched Ryan in the arm, which made the small boy flinch and duck away, quickly realizing that he was in no danger.

Ryan swallowed his last bite of toast and backed away from his father slightly, looking him straight in the eye. He wanted to use words but there were too many to choose from. Looking at the man's worn face made his chest throb and his throat seize up. So many mornings ended like this with Ryan begging himself to speak and his father knowing exactly what his son wanted to say. The truth was, though, Ryan had tried too many times. He was at a loss for words because talking would just be a repetition of a previous failed attempt, and he felt like he was out of options. He had long since learned to just accept it, unlike his mother, who couldn't live that way anymore. The only reason Ryan stayed behind and resented his mother was because he knew he was flawed, as well, just like his father. Even though Ryan found himself very skilled at covering everything up, and he really did have a knack for it, he still knew he had his own problems to face. She left his father because he had problems, and Ryan couldn't help but to feel that if she ran from one set of problems, she most definitely would not want to drag another set along with her. Even when he had to run for the night, usually finding comfort on Spencer's oversized sofa with the boy's mother sleeping in the recliner nearby in case he needed anything, Ryan could not leave his father. He had come to accept that this time in the morning was all he would ever have with him. Evenings were useless and pointless and he had to stay secluded in his room, hoping his father would stay in the kitchen. Sometimes, though, Ryan could not be so lucky, but he pushed the words and fists to the back of his mind along with the bruises and stood by his refusal to abandon his life.

"Dad, I... yeah, I just need to go. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"I'm coming home after work, Ryan."

Ryan threw his book bag over his shoulders. "Yeah, but not really. I'll see YOU tomorrow morning, Dad. I love you." He pressed his sleeve against his eyes while he pulled the front door shut with his other hand. He was caught off guard with how hard those last three words were for him to say. He always hoped that it never got that hard, because it shouldn't be. He meant them every time he said them.