39 | in which she holds him

The present and the past coexist,

They make us who we are.

Good or bad.

We're made of all that and more.

.\.|./.

Crystal Monroe

| in which she holds him |

Rape victim ...

When I hear the words, I imagine a young girl in the shadows, perhaps hiding her bruises and wiping her tears. What I do not imagine is the God-like man I have come to know as Ryan Falls.

I stare at him, unable to believe a word that comes out of his mouth. The small space of the motel-room closes in around me, suffocating me and blocking out everything but Ryan's voice; his trembling voice, hushed as if he's afraid of even the walls hearing him.

Yet he's telling me.

And I don't know what to say.

"I was seven when I became a boy-scout," he's saying, his gaze rooted on his own hands. "Martin Grey was the loveable scouter. Parents respected him and kids looked up to him, including me. At first, he trained us, acted like he loved us and called us a family. Sometimes, he'd take us back to his house, and we'd sit there while he baked us cookies. He said that he only took in the best of the batch for special training. So when he picked me, I was pretty excited. I was the best of the batch, and going to get special training by the man himself. The liar ..."

Ryan closes his eyes and bows his head, while I sit frozen on the bed in front of him. No words come to my mind but even if I could speak, what would I say? What am I supposed to say?

"He took me into the basement and turned the lights off," Ryan goes on, his voice carrying over to me over the wind. "He said ... he said he was going to train me how to handle a predatory attack. It was a privilege and ..." He takes a deep breath. "He tied my hands and blind-folded me, telling me I would have to know what's going on by using my other senses. 'Play dead,' he said. 'The more you struggle, the worse it will hurt,' he warned. I didn't know what to think. Until it happened. I didn't just play dead. I died that day."

My heart jumps into my throat, my stomach flipping over. I lower my gaze, unable to look at Ryan anymore. His words don't make sense, or perhaps I don't want them to. Everything I have believed about the world comes crashing down, destroying the perfect image of humans Ryan's smile and kindness have created in my mind.

"I cried and I screamed, but there was no one to help. No one was there. No one heard me. 'Training,' he said, but that was the only time he lied to me. After that, it was always 'the normal way to learn about sex'. It's natural, Ryan,' he said. 'All kids here go through it,' he lied."

Ryan takes a deep breath but I'm holding mine, my lips sealed tight. I'm afraid that if I move, if I even breathe, I would break down and be unable to put my pieces back together.

"I didn't know what to think," he says. "My life changed, but that was just the beginning. There was no one I could ask for help. My mom, she didn't care. I told her I wanted to quit scouting, but she couldn't let her initiation fee go to waste. My dad might have cared if he ever found out. He never did."

Suddenly, I hate Ryan's parents. I hate everyone he knew. I hate the entire city of LA, the state of California, the universe that couldn't stop the cruelty that he faced. And I hate myself for being a part of this world.

We claim to be the superior creature, humans. We're supposed to be God's beloved, the evolved form of all species. We have brains and hearts, and yet ... when humans stoop low, they're worse than animals. I never considered it before, not until now. Not until Ryan.

"Dad wasn't home that night. He hadn't left us yet, but he was hardly ever around. When he came back, I told him I needed to talk to him about something. He didn't look at me when he said he was tired and that we'd talk in the morning. We didn't talk the next morning, for that was his last morning with us. He left, and Martin Grey couldn't have been happier.

"The next time he invited me into his basement, I tried to stand up for myself. I'll tell everyone, I threatened him. He laughed, saying he would expose me. His basement was dark, but there were night-cameras. He had every moment on film, and every time I imagined anyone seeing it, I trembled. I shouldn't have surrendered, but I did. I was scared. I was a coward. I still am."

I open my mouth to tell him that's not true, but no words leave my lips. My heart is locked tight in my throat, and I'm afraid I'll end up sobbing if I try to speak. I don't even understand how he can sit here and tell me about it. No wonder he's kept it all inside for so long. I don't know what I'd do if I was in his place.

"My school counselor suggested a therapist for me, and the therapist talked to mom about it. My grades were slipping and I was losing my mind. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I didn't have any friends, and I was so close to ending things. I was depressed, fed up, and suicidal. Mom said I was doing it to get attention. She couldn't deal with my drama, and I was a burden that was only making her life worse.

"The therapist wanted to involve services, and he almost did. It was mom who stopped him, telling him I was crazy. I was a joke, and Martin Grey had the ticket to make me a laughing stock. So I pushed through it. I tried to survive, make the best of the rest of my life, and hope everything would be okay eventually. It got better, I have to say, it did. It wasn't happening every few days then, and as I grew up, I only had to see Martin once in a while. I dreaded those days, but I hoped I'd be free soon. College was going to be my freedom, but it wasn't. He was the one who offered my mom to pay for my tuition, and I wanted to die every time he called me his son. I wanted to kill him, and I swear I might have if I wasn't so afraid. I was frightened of him, trembling every time he looked my way."

Ryan pauses, letting us drown in the silence. Maybe he wants me to speak. Maybe he needs me to say something. But I have nothing to say. And maybe he just wants to speak, to let it all out and shed his burdens.

"I tried to stay away," Ryan says, sighing. "I didn't want to go home, wanting to stay away from the neighborhood as long as I could. He lived right next door, and he was always watching, smiling that hateful smile and saying things with his eyes that I just wished somebody else would hear. I tried to stay out, but as I said, I was a coward. I was afraid of having a panic attack with people watching. I was afraid of breaking down to pieces and being known for the weakling I actually was. Until it actually happened. Lilliana was the one who saw it, and she told everyone. I couldn't take it, so I got up and left. I left, Crystal. I left it all behind and hoped I'd wake up from the nightmare. I hoped I would move on and it would go away. I hoped I would find a place to live again ..."

He doesn't finish, but I don't need him to. I'm on my knees before I know what I'm doing. Ryan turns his gaze on me, caution and expectation in his eyes. I see fear in his grey orbs -- the fear of judgment, the fear of abandonment, the fear of being called out for a crime he didn't commit.

I wrap my arms around him, and Ryan curls his around my waist. I don't know how we end up like that, with Ryan's face buried in my hair as I hold him, hoping to say with my gestures what I fail to put into words.

We sit there for what feels like ages, and I feel wetness trickling down my neck. My own tears soak into Ryan's shirt, as we both cry in silence. Neither of us says another word, but neither of us needs to. No words can say what he deserves to hear, something -- anything -- that will make his pain bearable.

Suddenly it all makes sense to me. Ryan's fear of darkness, his avoidance of enclosed places, his tendency to scrub himself until his skin prunes up, and even his anxiety regarding coming back to LA. His mysterious vibes, his secretive aura, the penetrating gaze and the reluctance to share his secrets ... everything makes sense.

I don't know why I never considered it. Sure, I knew there was something he was trying to hide. I knew there was something haunting him, something he couldn't share. I knew he wasn't allergic to cardamon or liked sleeping with the lights on. I could tell there was more to his staying-indoors than a mere dislike for human interaction. The prospect of him being a victim of abuse just never occurred to me.

"We should never have come back to LA," I whisper after a long time, my voice sounding hoarse from crying.

Ryan doesn't answer, his hands on my back as he holds me to himself. His eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling as we lay in bed, and I clutch the fabric of his shirt as firmly as I can. My fingers push his dark hair to the side and he closes his eyes when my skin touches his.

"We should go," I say, sniffing. "Please, let's just go, Ryan. I don't want to be here anymore."

We should never have come to LA, and I can't help but blame myself for putting Ryan through that. I wish I had asked him then, why he wasn't happy coming here. He did it for me, all for me. In order to save me from my monsters, he led us right into his own, fighting all by himself when he shouldn't have had to.

Tears well up in my eyes again and I squeeze them shut, my fingers digging into Ryan's front. He tightens his grip around me, his chest heaving under me when he sighs.

"I don't want to be here," I whisper, and Ryan nods.

His warmth calms me, but being in a place that put Ryan through hell is too much for me to bear.

"I don't want ..."

I keep saying the same thing over and over again, but he doesn't answer. He just holds me in his arms as we lie under the ceiling, waiting for the night to fade away. We're waiting for sunrise, and then we'll leave.

We'll leave behind Alaska, and we'll leave LA.

We'll leave behind my demons and we'll leave behind Ryan's.

We'll run, and never look back.

.\.|./.

A/N: This scene is from Crystal's POV but I'm unsure about it. I want to do a Ryan's POV for it too, but this is a more objective way of getting his story. I might change this later or just write an alternate POV bonus scene from Ryan's POV.

Did you know that around 10.7% to 17.4% girls and 3.8% to 4.6% of all boys report some form of childhood sexual abuse? It's not a joke, and the impact of these incidents on the victim's later life can be disastrous. This story is a first draft, but during the editing, I really hope to elaborate on some of the things I have mentioned here. If you have any suggestions or opinions, please don't hesitate to share. If you're uncomfortable with commenting, feel free to shoot me a pm or get in touch on Instagram where I can chat with you until you get sick of me.