#ryderowens

"I got a family back 'ome, yeah," he answered the pretty blonde thing that sat herself beside him at the bar. His finger traced the edge of the glass before he tossed it back, his throat burning with the warm sensation as his blood now purely flowed toxic with the booze. The night turned to early morning as he sat on the stool and drank it all away. "Loving 'em was always so fuckin' easy for me, no matter what they did, but it's facing 'em that became impossible." Spinning around, he stood with wobbling gait as her eyes fell sympathetic. No, I ain't doing that sob story bullshit, he thought as he walked away without another word. He needed to walk this off. So minutes morphed into weary hours, and he was frozen in place as the sun rose across the horizon. He missed them.

Walking around his town, as he walked around this foreign one, there were glaring holes. People were missing, friends were missing, an enemy was missing, a child was missing. Murder had been the ultimate power, and he was infected from then on with the blood of a killer. Ryder crumpled to the ground, and the image was tattooed in his mind forever. Those who took his friends away, his kid away, did they feel the same haunting? He figured that was the worst of it, he could compare himself to them. It was sometimes as though he killed them. In his inability to lead, he lost who he was. This was finding out who the hell that was.

All he discovered was a poor reflection of a sad boy. He'd see someone who from the back looked like Nik, or he'd hear a joke that sounded like something Allister would say, or he'd see a girl smile like Carmen did when she looked at Rein, and they died all over again. Every time. Rodney didn't know how to fix that, so how could he possibly lead his beloved Greasers to a new beginning?

This is why he ran. Never staying in one place for long, Peter Pan kept moving, outrunning grief, outrunning leadership, outrunning growing up. Then it caught him. The sunrise took him by surprise as he was struck with a thought like a deck to the gut. They'd never see another. He'd see a million more, and they'd already seen their last one. That's when this boy, the fearless Greaser leader who hated the weakness of tears, found himself succumbing to them. A single tear came first, then another, and another, as his shoulders ached with the weight of the world. Everyone needed him, and he couldn't be the rock they craved. Tears fell like a breaking dam as his face contorted in the truest form of grief.

No one teaches how to deal with death, not until it happens. Suddenly this person, this friend, is just a body. Then what? He watched someone die before, not up close, but there was this boy. He was that, after all, like him. They were just boys. His gun must have weighed a few pounds at most, but under the weight of a universe screaming for his soul, it felt like thousands. Sometimes, if he let himself really think about it, his hand would shake like it did, his heart would beat out of his chest, and his eyes would show him the crumpled body of a boy named Ryder Owens.

He was the cold-blooded killer, that's what the Socs whispered about him anyway, but why was he still breathing? He still could smile when he saw Holly, still got to hold her, still got to joke with the boys over some beers. That was what they called living. It was an act, all some bitter, twisted act. Someone would come around the corner, and for a second, he would stop and take a second look. Thinking, if only for a brief moment, that it was all a bad dream, they were all still here.

Angrier than before, he let it reside in him like poison corroding through his veins. He always imagined that grief lessened over time, but it never seemed to fade at all. Every time the phone rang or a knock pounded against his cracked, wooden door, he wondered who he'd lose this time. The leader is stronger than the rest, he is the example. That's why Rodney was a god, Zeus on Mt. Olympus, because human wasn't enough to survive this.

His feet slid off the bed and met the cool, harsh floor as he sat up. Sleeping was useless tonight and so was staying. If he couldn't be all they needed, he wouldn't let them see him fail. Pushing himself off the rough mattress, Rodney kicked a path through the familiar mess to grab a handful of clothes from the drawers of his dressed. Tossing them on the bed, he slid his arm under his bed to pull out a worn, tattered bag. He packed away his life like it meant nothing in the world. The meaning had been lost, consumed by the fires of guilt and grief.

Contemplating a note, he stopped once he reached the front door. Carmen would wonder where he was, and he knew he'd miss her the most. He'd miss the chance to ease this pain for her, but what good would that do? There were no right words to fix this, not any of it, not for anyone. For once in his life, he didn't know what to do.

Rodney threw open the door, careless of the noise it made. Nothing would stop him anyway. This is where it began, from the porch to his beloved car, he ran. He ran, and he never stopped. Jumping inside, he muttered, "let's go, baby...it's time to go." Glancing back at his home, he debated writing a note to tell everyone he was so sorry, then he thought aloud,