Weird to think that this place is his panacea now. His mother would choke, and Ryder canāt exactly blame anyone for speed walking past the place as if they could feel their childhood swirling down the drain. Probably something to do with the construction, with blood stains in odd places; something about old residencies having no souls even as one reaches around from somewhere behind you just to say your grave is being deforested as you speak.
Heās had a couple moments go without explanation (not one he could take back to the family, at least). Only knew that his skin was stretched spiderweb thin and that sometimes the images and voices reverberating like war bells werenāt exactly his own, but heād seen equally crazy things back home. Just a different kind of crazy. When the coffee finally finishes he letās out a noise of relief and searches through the cabinets for a mug, supposes itās no more suburban gothic than baking brownies and wiping smudges off the refrigerator door while the news drones on about that one homicide and the two missing bodies just a few miles shy of your house.
Only crazy people pretend their life is anything but, and he kinda likes the fact that no one really pays any attention to the things that fall apart - just that uneasy feeling it gives them, an excuse to turn and pretend they hadnāt seen it.
Itās nice up here, though. Once heās done pretending like thereās an actual choice to be made between the several mugs, each an equally melancholic shade of (you guessed it) black, he pours himself a cup and waits for the caffeine to hit and turn him into less of a monster. Itās a new addiction. Like needing a hoodie indoors. Never really needed it back home, what with the unpredictable - but usually hellfire reminiscent - weather he had to put up with. In all honesty, the only real downside to being up north was just how much it reminded him of being down south. Takes him back to bone-dry Texas heat, back to summer gnawing away at the ends of his t shirt and pulling the handle up and back on a sleek Remington bolt action; the click as a bullet got stripped from the magazine; the feeling of oxhide hands on his collar when he takes yet another shot and still canāt get it right.
Hm. He detests the word damaged. Heās just not a fan of sunburn, is all.
Nope, cats are more his thing. Doesnāt bother to feel embarrassed about how many octaves his voice jumps when his favorite pet strolls in, unperturbed and uninterested in Ryderās greeting but thatās never stopped him from doting on the apathetic thing like it was the only thing heād ever know in this world.
Ryderās got Morty the cat in one arm and his mug in the other when he walks into the living room, grins when he finally seeās louis. Itās gotta be a crime somewhere to have eyes like a marine trench yet hate cats, and some part of him gets off on seeing those blue maze irisā turn into somethinā stolen straight from a black and white movie (and heās startinā to like the way fear hums in his ear, the way frailty is coaxed out and massacred). Letās Morty go when he starts squirming and Ryder doesnāt pay any attention to where the animal skirts off to, just collapses onto the couch once he sets his coffee down on the table next to a pack of cigarettes someone left out. Probably belong to the kid next to him.
Lord knows him and Atlas could burn one or several.
āHey, kitten,ā he beams, sinks into the cushions like black water through pine roots, folds an arm behind his head while he inspects the nails of his free hand. Whatcha up to? on the tip of his tongue, almost drawls out like his interest doesnāt loom greater than the apathy he imposes, but one look at the book in Louis' hand and Ryder getās the gist. Thereās a stack of books in his own room he should be reading. The history of colonialism in the southwest. Unabridged. The thought almost brings a twitch to his eye, not necessarily because of the length or content but the fact that it shouldāve been done last semester...
The shot catches his attention, but itās the crack of the front door and Atlasā signature rage that makes him turn his head, pierces through the nanosecond of stillness like sirens before you step off the edge. Heās yelling something about burying their resident monster in a human mask, but Ryderās long since sworn off both dirt and digging, almost resides to let this one go. Of course he won't. Not when Atlas is about to give him a free show. Follows Louis up the stairs once he drops his arachnid captive, chews on a thumbnail while he imagines what itāll be this time.
Itās okay to kill something that wants to die (right?), but that doesnāt keep him from taking a step back when he finally makes it to the doorway. Catches a glimpse of Cassidy oozing like a red sludge fountain when he finally leans around Louis. Remnants of release wrapped between those golden tendrils of curly hair while tragedy hangs in the air like perfume. It getās considerably easier the more times you see it, thatās for sure. And as much as the image would make for a sick tattoo idea the blood in his body still freezes without his consent, lungs constrict like heās been tossed outside without a jacket.
It really shouldnāt give him room for pause. Cassidy kind of reminds him of a child, and heād rather be in the back of a trunk with his fingerprints burned off on his way to hannibal lecterās basement than deal with one of those (even if Cassidy isnāt much younger than himself). Itās not like he hasnāt seen every Saw movie, or lived in a house with these guys. But everytime he seeās the kid splattered and splayed and hung itās like watching a puppy run out into traffic and get steam rolled, you know? He feels bad even if Cassidy runs into the street of his own volition just to hear his neck snap.
āHey! Where did this fucker get a gun, anyway!?ā
"Probably somewhere shady,"
The moment passes soon enough and heās able to offer an, āyou should really toss drowning his way. I hear itās a lot cleaner.ā
Ryder makes way for Louis to slip out like the fiend he is as Atlas continues to fume. Looks at the gun in Cassā hand as his own find a place in the pocket of his hoodie. Heās a spiteful shit before heās a compassionate one, feels old trauma bubbling up to find a seat next to Cassā. Canāt be that hard to pull a trigger when the target is your own face.
He almost makes a move to go get the bleach for when the kid comes back, but you know what that shit does to dark clothing.