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Ryland Grace had just made the worst decision of his life.
He was sure of it: he had just ruined his life.
Who…who did the Dean think Ryland was? Seven years on a PhD, four more as a scientist. Over eleven years of his life, over a third of his life down the drain. The Dean certainly hadn’t studied theoretical extraterrestrial biology. The Dean certainly didn’t know more than Ryland.
By the time he threw himself into his apartment, Ryland had gone through enough adrenaline to know that he wasn’t thinking straight. He hadn’t just refused to back down, he had flipped off the Dean and told him to…well…
The walls of his apartment weren’t soundproof (ask his smoothie-loving neighbour). But he shouted and yelled and screamed anyway. His words weren’t necessarily directed at any one person, but they certainly weren’t not meant for the Dean. And, really, not not for himself. He expended every curse word he knew in a voice and tone that would surely get him a noise complaint. He didn’t care.
He took off his shoes and threw them at the neatly lined shoes next to the door, scattering them. He kicked over a chair and shoved a mug off his desk, shattering it. His laptop was still open and his paper was still open. His correct paper, containing correct theories about life and water. He slammed it closed and ignored the horrible cracking sound it made.
Tears had been streaming down his face for he didn’t know how long. He had been mid-argument when the tears had started and not two sentences later the Dean had fired him. Ryland wiped his eyes and cursed himself: why did he have to cry when he was mad!? But now he was sobbing.
He knew he wasn’t thinking straight. He wiped his hands across his cheeks, trying to disperse the tears, and tried to calm himself. He took a deep breath or two.
Nope. Not working.
He’d had this kind of static in his head before. The kind that doesn’t just stop with a few deep breaths, as much as he’d like it to. He knew he had to do something to make it stop, and he knew certain things worked. He rolled his clenched hands around and flexed them open and closed a few times. What was once his go-to was certainly not an option anymore. He knew it would stop the static. He also knew that it wasn’t an option.
Ryland did his best not to stomp on his way to the bathroom. He turned on the flickering light and splashed water on his face. His nails dug into his hands as he clenched them as hard as he could. The air, as he took fleeting deep breaths, felt staticky, too. He looked at himself in the mirror, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was, for some reason, a mess. He had a habit of running his hands through his hair when he was stressed, but he didn’t recall doing so, and he had slept last night. And the night before, too. Right?
His hands started to really fucking hurt, so he unclenched them. His hands were still wet from the water. He marked that as odd because he had wiped his hands on his pants – hadn’t he? He raised his hands and got a glimpse of red in the mirror as he moved them up from his side. He looked down.
Three little half-moons on each hand leaked an amount of blood that didn’t make sense for such a small injury. Shit, how long had he been glaring at himself? He flexed his hands twice more, then ran his hands under the cool water. How long had he left the water running? He turned the tap off and watery blood stuck to the metal. He wiped his hands on a nearby towel, which also became pinkish.
The bright red almost seemed fucking cheery.
He cursed his foolishness, then clenched his hands again. As he left the bathroom, he saw his laptop, and the static came back in full force. He wanted to smash the computer to goddamn bits. But he had enough logic left in him to not do that.
His hand twitched by his side. It hurt. It was a nice feeling.
He considered his surroundings. A desk. An island attached to a kitchen counter. A stove and a sink and a fridge. The knife block on the counter. A small couch. A thrifted TV from the ‘90s. The bottle of Advil on the counter. A couple university degrees hung slanted no matter how hard he tried to make them even. The Swiss army knife by a pile of unopened junk mail.
He took another few shaky breaths.
“Stop it,” he hissed at himself. “Calm down.” A few more ragged breaths. “Calm down. Calm down. Calm down calm down calm down. ”
He shivered. It was cold as hell. Had he left the window open? Winter here was brutal. He checked the window by the couch, which was closed, but then again, it couldn’t be opened. The window in his bedroom was closed, but this one could be opened. A screen was screwed in place between the glass and himself. If he opened the window, no bugs or stray leaves or birds could get in. Nor could a particularly stupid cat or dog get out – which was good, seeing as it was a surely deadly fall. Ryland wondered for a moment how much force it would take to break the screen.
Suddenly, he pushed himself away from the window and pulled the blinds closed fast enough to rip them.
But why not test it? his mind (or maybe he himself) asked him(self). The university has fired you. What have you to live for? Nonexistent friends? Nonexistent family?
The tears, though they surely hadn’t stopped in the interim, came back full-fucking-force. A sob wrenched itself out of his chest and he realised that his little epiphany really was right… he had nothing to live for… No job – a job doing science, which he loved more than the world –, no friends – he wasn’t really the type to go out of his way to make them, and besides that Melissa, his only “friend”, had just moved to San Francisco! –, no family – but that wasn’t new – no nothing!
He had nothing to live for and therefore no reason to live.
Ryland took another step back and stumbled, falling awkwardly onto his bed. Thereon he sobbed some more – for how long, he wasn’t sure. The static in his head and the loud sound of his sobs made his ears ring; his head pounded from an hour of crying; and his throat was hoarse from yelling and crying and sobbing.
Fuck, he had no reason to live anymore. His life’s work was gone in one afternoon. Well, it wasn’t gone, but everything he had done to get to that point was worthless now. All because of the stupid Dean and his stupid paper and his stupid self and god how he wanted to do was stay on his bed forever, curled up until he died and rotted…
He’d already had enough of the clusterfuck that was the research world, but still! Ryland had been correct – and the Dean on his high-off-its-ass horse could, in fact, go fuck himself.
Slowly, sob after sob, his hot-as-hell hatred for his paper and the Dean fizzled out for the moment– no, actually, that’s not true. It didn’t fizzle out: it just switched its target. All that hatred turned to point its accusing finger at himself, for it was his decision that got him into this place. He decided to say fuck you to everyone in the study of theoretical biology and he decided to argue with the Dean and his decisions that lead to him getting fired and–!
Ryland put his hands over his face and screamed. Not words, but just a cathartic, almost animalistic scream that helped to rid him of some of his frustration. Some.
He pulled at his overgrown hair and scratched at himself, trying to atone in some small way. He was an idiot. A stupid dumb stupid idiot who didn’t know what was good for him. He was right , and no one wanted to accept that. A fringe theorist, the Dean had called him. Crazy. The stupid fucking Dean had no right to dispute his correct claims like that.
“Stupid fucking idiot!” Ryland said. It was supposed to be loud, but it came out like a whimper. He let up from his tension and laid splayed across his bed, still dressed in his day-clothes, shirt bloodied in places where he scratched too hard – or just hard enough.
He closed his eyes and for the hundred millionth time, tears spilled from his eyes. The headache beat steadily at his head and he found he was too tired to open his eyes.
Still crying, he fell into a nightmarish sleep…