Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > His Mentality Is Strained On Friendship
His Mentality Is Strained On Friendship
3 reviewsA 15 year old Ryan is calling out for help. With a drunken father Ryan needs a friend. Is Brendon more than he asked for?
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Again. He had done it again.
He did it a few years ago too, but it wasn’t as bad as it was now.
It was my birthday. I was 15 years old. And he had done it again.
My father had given me the same birthday present: A trip to the hospital and a 3-hour wait in reception.
I sat very still, careful not to make eye contact with any of the other kids that were sat there. They all looked nervous. I guess I had looked that way once, the first time it had happened, but I had gotten over the shock and the nerves. I had just ended up feeling bored and disappointed.
He had promised. Last year he had sworn that it wouldn’t happen again, and if it did: It wouldn’t be on my birthday. It had happened a lot after that, almost every month.
He had promised. But I don’t trust his promises. I never will, and I never really did.
Every now and then, I glanced irritably at the clock. The hands were moving slower than they usually did. They crawled sluggishly around the plastic circle, dragging themselves over the numbers. Watching them just made me feel more annoyed, so I looked away hurriedly and told myself to calm down.
It was 5:30 A.M in the morning.
It had been 2:30 A.M when my dad had decided to crawl into the house and collapse noisily onto the kitchen floor. I had been awake anyway. I couldn’t sleep. I never sleep until dad gets back and I know he’s ok. I had actually been in the kitchen at the time he had slumped in.
I had sighed and rolled my eyes at the lump of flesh that was lying on the kitchen floor: the lump of flesh commonly known as my father.
The first thing I did was to sit down and finish my glass of milk that I had poured for myself, and then, I had called an ambulance.
Now, it was 6:30 A.M in the morning and I was seriously pissed off.
Most kids had left already and there were only about three of us still there.
I closed my eyes with boredom and sighed with annoyance. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed the calm; can-I-help-you expression had been wiped from the receptionist’s face.
She was a nice lady and has always been at the reception when I come in. I frowned as she glanced around the room; her eyes were searching and worried. She continued to look and her eyes settled on me.
She stood up quickly and walked briskly over to me: her heels making clicking noises on the hospital floor.
“Ryan?” She said; her voice strained. I looked up at her. She was biting her lip with worry.
“Yeah?” I replied. I sounded bored and irritated but I couldn’t be bothered trying to sound cheerful after I had been sat there for about 4 hours.
Her face crumpled a little bit as she contemplated what to say to me.
“Your father…well…um…he…” She bit her lip again. If she kept doing that she’d have no lips to bite. “Do you have anyone at home?” I shook my head and sighed again. She knew my background, why did she bother asking such ridiculous questions? “Oh well…um…the doctors say you should just go home. Then come back later ok?”
I couldn’t believe it. I knew what that meant. It meant my dad was too far past it to be let out anytime soon. A surge of anger went through me.
Why did he insist on drinking so much? He could just try not to drink. Even if he did drink, he didn’t have to drink that much. Especially since he knows it’s my birthday, unless he forgot. Like last year and the year before and the year before that …
I stood up slowly; my fists were clenched into balls. My knuckles had gone white. I just nodded at the receptionist, my expression blank. I don’t think my face will ever have another expression for a long time. Unless it’s of boredom of course, which is likely.
I walked quickly to the door, and just as I was about to open the door the receptionist called something to me. I didn’t listen; I only walked out of the door, my hands almost shaking with anger.
Whatever she had said, it sounded like:
“Your father says he’s sorry.” But that can’t be what she said. I know that’s not what she said. My father would never care about something like my birthday, would he?
He did it a few years ago too, but it wasn’t as bad as it was now.
It was my birthday. I was 15 years old. And he had done it again.
My father had given me the same birthday present: A trip to the hospital and a 3-hour wait in reception.
I sat very still, careful not to make eye contact with any of the other kids that were sat there. They all looked nervous. I guess I had looked that way once, the first time it had happened, but I had gotten over the shock and the nerves. I had just ended up feeling bored and disappointed.
He had promised. Last year he had sworn that it wouldn’t happen again, and if it did: It wouldn’t be on my birthday. It had happened a lot after that, almost every month.
He had promised. But I don’t trust his promises. I never will, and I never really did.
Every now and then, I glanced irritably at the clock. The hands were moving slower than they usually did. They crawled sluggishly around the plastic circle, dragging themselves over the numbers. Watching them just made me feel more annoyed, so I looked away hurriedly and told myself to calm down.
It was 5:30 A.M in the morning.
It had been 2:30 A.M when my dad had decided to crawl into the house and collapse noisily onto the kitchen floor. I had been awake anyway. I couldn’t sleep. I never sleep until dad gets back and I know he’s ok. I had actually been in the kitchen at the time he had slumped in.
I had sighed and rolled my eyes at the lump of flesh that was lying on the kitchen floor: the lump of flesh commonly known as my father.
The first thing I did was to sit down and finish my glass of milk that I had poured for myself, and then, I had called an ambulance.
Now, it was 6:30 A.M in the morning and I was seriously pissed off.
Most kids had left already and there were only about three of us still there.
I closed my eyes with boredom and sighed with annoyance. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed the calm; can-I-help-you expression had been wiped from the receptionist’s face.
She was a nice lady and has always been at the reception when I come in. I frowned as she glanced around the room; her eyes were searching and worried. She continued to look and her eyes settled on me.
She stood up quickly and walked briskly over to me: her heels making clicking noises on the hospital floor.
“Ryan?” She said; her voice strained. I looked up at her. She was biting her lip with worry.
“Yeah?” I replied. I sounded bored and irritated but I couldn’t be bothered trying to sound cheerful after I had been sat there for about 4 hours.
Her face crumpled a little bit as she contemplated what to say to me.
“Your father…well…um…he…” She bit her lip again. If she kept doing that she’d have no lips to bite. “Do you have anyone at home?” I shook my head and sighed again. She knew my background, why did she bother asking such ridiculous questions? “Oh well…um…the doctors say you should just go home. Then come back later ok?”
I couldn’t believe it. I knew what that meant. It meant my dad was too far past it to be let out anytime soon. A surge of anger went through me.
Why did he insist on drinking so much? He could just try not to drink. Even if he did drink, he didn’t have to drink that much. Especially since he knows it’s my birthday, unless he forgot. Like last year and the year before and the year before that …
I stood up slowly; my fists were clenched into balls. My knuckles had gone white. I just nodded at the receptionist, my expression blank. I don’t think my face will ever have another expression for a long time. Unless it’s of boredom of course, which is likely.
I walked quickly to the door, and just as I was about to open the door the receptionist called something to me. I didn’t listen; I only walked out of the door, my hands almost shaking with anger.
Whatever she had said, it sounded like:
“Your father says he’s sorry.” But that can’t be what she said. I know that’s not what she said. My father would never care about something like my birthday, would he?
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