Brand New Day

Chapter 1
Chapter One

"I have brown eyes."

Settling back in the chair, she appraises the pokerfaced teen with a posture so stiff, he almost smiles. Good. "Alright," she continues in that moving-on tone of hers that he finds ever so charming, and huh, look at that, her lower lip tightens. "Anything else you’d care to share, Ryder?"

That cardigan you’re wearing is positively hideous.

"My hair, incidentally, also happens to be brown," Ryder murmurs pensively after some tense consideration. "Or would you say chestnut? I think it’s chestnut. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? My brown, in all probability, isn’t necessarily the same as your brown. I read somewhere, once, that our identification of colour is shaped by the world around us, but it follows no predetermined pattern," he rambles, becoming more and more animated as he struggles to push the words from his lips at the same speed they enter his mind. "What’s interesting, though, is that our differentiating perception of colours has little to no effect on our emotional responses to similar shades. Blue, for instance, tends to have a more calming effect due to the shorter wavelengths of light hitting the retina, whereas brown…" His brow furrows, his heart pulsating with anxiousness though he can’t quite pinpoint why. "People rarely - they rarely like brown."

The hand previously still is now scribbling furiously.

There is another lengthy pause.

Clearing her throat, Dr. Flynn crosses her legs and persists, "Ryder, though true to the question, this isn’t the sort of information I was hoping for. How about something a little more personal, perhaps? Do you have any pets? Hobbies? A favourite film or book? That sort of thing. I want to know more about you."

Frustrated by her single-mindedness, the young man scratches the back of his neck where his nails can dig generously into the heated flesh without the intrusive nudging of a certain gaze.

"I’m sorry, ma’am," he shrugs woodenly with a tight, little smile that’s all barbed wire and pointed daggers. "But this is personal. What, do tell, could be more personal than my appearance? Why, it’s the image that stares back at me in the mirror every single day.”

A tightening of his skin, in his chest, a pause mid-breath.

"Not only that, but it’s one of the first aspects of ourselves that we evaluate, compare, grow to love or hate. One could argue that much of our self-esteem relies on how we look. I know, for a fact, that it’s my appearance that consistently lets me down. The skinny kid genius, not much to look at." He momentarily falters. "So damn easy to overlook."

Dr. Flynn straightens immediately as if personally slighted, and with an inward roll of the eyes, he knows, in that instant, that he will not bow down to whatever holier-than-thou garbage she tries to throw at him.

"Ryder," the woman begins softly, oozing patronization. "I know that high school can be difficult for someone… someone such as-such as yourself. However, if you could just try and-"

"You know what?" He stands abruptly. "I think we’re done here."

Therapy, he decides, may not be for him.

…

Wilting from his wrists are three rubber bands, limp from inexorable use.

Yellow, red and blue.

The blue, he thinks, is probably his favourite - should favouritism be defined by the actions of our subconscious. Whilst his mind is preoccupied with greater things, Ryder’s fingers will slink underneath and hook onto the shrivelling, faded elastic, tugging playfully at first, before gradually extending further and further, each biting release heightening in intensity, fresh strikes and blistering pain, reverberating harshly against flesh and bone, as he pulls back and-

Snap.

Ryder shakily exhales.

Then glances around quickly, alarm shortening his breaths, before his shoulder’s sag and he flops back as Ryder notes the deafening silence that comes with lonesomeness. He quickly rolls down his sleeve, once again feeling thankful that his guardian isn’t home.

Clearing his throat, Ryder plunges back into the puddles of unfinished schoolwork around him, armed with only his trusty black pen and an uncompromising need to contribute something of value, however small or insignificant.

But it’s far from easy.

Reams of information from months prior bond and amalgamate in his mind and he squints with the momentous effort it takes to cling to the knowledge that they are not one and the same. This is one of those times that his substantial memory really screws him over. Sure, they tell him that it’s limitless, and yeah, that’s great and all, but lately it’s been getting pretty cramped up there. There’s little movement, everything’s stuck, and in the haste and panic to regain that previous fluency, there is only confusion where there used to be a spark.

After several minutes of rereading the same paragraph, Ryder cradles his head as it dips in frustration and thrusts his fingers through his hair, clutching vehemently at the silky strands until his hand starts to cramp.

Bitterly disappointed, the teen shoves away from the desk and marches over to snatch his car keys from where they hang abandoned on a hook by the door, glaring fiercely at the alluring object from which he’s been banned from using with such single-minded hatred that he wants to laugh at his own absurdity.

This isn’t his car keys fault. Nor is it the pen’s that had busted under the force of his frustration, or even the pillow he thumps and fluffs every night because no matter the position he employs, he can never seem to get comfortable.

Nope, this one’s on him.

But for all of Ryder’s animosity towards his current situation, it’s not as bad as it could be. As it once was.

His mood is improving, though his concentration still wanes, and he eats a little bit more each day, his appetite slowly returning.

Sometimes, however, he wakes up and hopelessness seizes him. On the bad days, it’s hard to imagine what ’okay’ even looks like anymore, your judgement becomes so skewed, and what little progress he has been making seems pale in comparison to before.

He’ll never let go of ’before.’

It is the scale by which all things are measured, which is ridiculous, Ryder guesses, because ’before’ is crafted in ideals.

Having spent so long becoming this way, to be anything else is jarring - surreal - and not at all like him.

Ryder don’t know how to be anything else, how not to be depressed, but he’s learning.

For so long, suicide was his comfort. It was as much a strength as it was his greatest weakness. Ryder’s own romanticized idea of death and of dying quelled so many fears of the future and trivialized so many insecurities. The pain of his every day reality had become a burden, but the increasingly more enticing end, - his end - was, in its own twisted way, a God-send.

Suicide was his fantasy.

Now… sometimes he yearns for it because that yearning is a part of him, and he feels such tremendous guilt because.. dear Lord, all of the people who care about him, but more than that, Ryder fears it, because of how dearly the thought still appeals to him.

But he doesn’t dare consider it, thankfully.

Death is no longer an option. He wants to want to be here. He wants to want to live.

But he is wretchedly unprepared for it.

So deeply immersed in his thoughts, Ryder doesn’t hear the lock turn or the footsteps approach. Not until a hand suddenly reaches out and clasps his own, stilling his movements, as a male voice intones, "Ry, we’ve talked about this. I agreed to let you wear those on the condition that you used them sparingly." Sighing, he draws the kid’s arm closer and pushes up his sleeve to inspect the damage. Ryder waits, nervously fidgeting.

"Yeah, no," the older man concludes. "This is unacceptable." He steps back, continuing almost conversationally, "You know, this kind of defeats the purpose of me confiscating all of those knifes-"

Ryder’s gaze snaps up to his, breath catching.

"That’s not fair!" he’s quick to interject, feeling anger and betrayal all at once. "This does not count-"

"Are you sure about that, Ryder? Have you seen those bruises?" The question’s rhetorical. Of course, he’s seen them. What does he take him f - Ryder throws a fleeting glimpse downwards.

Holy crap.

"I’m not going to stand for this. You told me that this was a security thing, that wearing them offered some sort of comfort or something, and there was no way I was going to take that away from you, but mark my words, I will not - those bruises-" He falters, pausing to collect himself, before uttering much more quietly, "Those bruises will take weeks to fade. Your skin is purple, Ryder. Just how often are you plucking at those bands, kid? Be honest with me - how much force are you putting behind it?"

"I swear, Dan, I didn’t mean to be so rough! I zone out; It’s instinctive."

"Oh, right," Daniel scoffs, rubbing his jaw tersely. "Instinctive. Of course. Because that makes it alright, does it? Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"Yes! Yes, as a matter of fact, it is!" Ryder suddenly cries, balling his hands into fists and pacing. "Because it means that I don’t want to! Or if I do, I stop myself. Which is more than I can say about three or four damn weeks ago!"

"That’s the problem, though, Ry. I’m not entirely convinced that you don’t want to. Not when I see something like this. Are you impervious to pain, then? Do you really neglect your own needs that much that you simply didn’t notice?" Daniel laughs then. But it’s dark and cynical and brittle, and his gut clenches at the sound. "Don’t mistake me for an idiot, kid. Those aren’t all recent."

Ryder blanches.

There’s not much he can say to that. He has no defence.

"I-I’m sorry, okay?" His voice breaks and his knuckles have long ago turned white - the shame alone bears down hard on the teen’s gag reflex.

"No, you know what, Ry? I’m sorry." Daniel turns away and rams his fingers along his scalp, swallowing thickly. "I’m sorry that I can’t keep fighting for you anymore when you won’t fight for yourself."

His stomach drops. "W-what are you saying?" Ryder stumbles, grasping at thin air. "Do you resent me for this? Is that it? Do you hate me for harming myself?"

Daniel freezes, gaping at him for several seconds, before visibly composing himself.

"How can you even say that?" he murmurs and his voice is like ice. "I can’t hate you, Ryder. Don’t you get that? Because if I do, it’ll hurt." He inhales deeply. "And it hurts too damn much already."

Before Ryder can say anything more on the matter, his guardian, uncle, last remaining family member, turns on his heels and gets the hell out of there.