For a lot of people it would have been hard to understand the reason why Ryan studied so diligently for an exam he was never going to see the results of. But these were the same people that would have whispered conversations the frosty morning of the funeral, discussing how disturbed and odd this particular young person was.
‘There was always something strange about him; something not quite right…’ One would proclaim, pursing their lips in a distasteful way.
‘Such a pity on his poor mother. No respect, none at all.’
‘I never trusted him. Something about his eyes…’
‘The way he walked…’
‘One time, you know, I said hello to him and he…’
This type of conversation would likely be ignored, however, by the many people who were simply there as a friend of a friend. These people would have little thoughts about Ryan, since they had barely known him. They would draw their hands further into their sleeves and shuffle awkwardly on their feet – making sure to avoid eye contact with any relatives.
And, of course, there would be those who smiled as though they were at a celebration – as though they were at one of the most beautiful places in the world. It would be these people who would likely buy new clothes and do their hair to go out that night – because they knew the truth. They knew all about Ryan.
By the whispers of the little old women at the funeral, you would never guess that Ryan was good looking – that he had blonde hair, a charming face, a friendly smile, an active lifestyle. Most would not even consider the possibility that he had a lot of friends – that he had a girlfriend called Shannon who was quite fond of him.
If someone could rewind back to a week before the funeral, the way you can with a movie, it would be interesting to hear the conversations about Ryan – particularly among some of those same people.
Mary Harold, from the little cottage by the ocean’s edge, would talk with her friends over freshly baked scones about what a credit he was to his parents. She would tell them how similar he was to Martin – and how he was just as pleasant. Of course, it would not be long before they grew tired of this praise, and the conversation moved to more tragic and shocking stories.
Ryan’s friends would tease him with envy about how much studying he did – how he was sure to get full marks in the exams. And Ryan and Shannon would have quiet conversations on rainy afternoons about whether A’s in the exams would make it sad for his parents. Shannon thought so. Ryan didn’t. Getting a C would surely make them roll their eyes and say a joke about him slacking off in his final days – and that he simply could not have, especially when he wasn’t present to make a rebuttal.
Melodramaticism was, obviously, to be avoided at all costs. But Ryan and his friends did that anyway. Any mention of his approaching departure was mentioned in the same tone one might talk about going on holidays. ‘Good luck! Have fun! Don’t forget your sunglasses!’
‘Are you sure, though?’ Katy asked one June morning, as three of them were walking on country lanes.
‘I wasn’t sure about anything when I was born,’ Ryan laughed, noticing how the sun reflected off rain droplets clinging to vividly green leaves at the side of the lane. ‘So I don’t see why I need to be at death.’
That was usually the point when they started throwing things at each other. Anything more than thirty seconds of serious talk was certainly enough.
‘But seriously,’ Ryan said, eight months earlier when he was first explaining his decision. ‘I’ve went through school – all the life training, or whatever you want to call it. I know I’ve been given everything I need in order to be someone, but there’s simply nothing I want to do, no one I want to be. I’m happy enough to leave now.’
‘Well, think about it.’ Was the advice he was given.
He did think about it. A lot. And now he was beyond ready.
He thought it might have been a rainy night – the night he died. Simply because that would have been kind of fun – the whole ‘movie’ feeling and everything. It was a clear night, though, and as he drive down the motorway he could not help but smile at how beautiful it was. The stars shone. They weren’t ridiculously bright – that would have been cheesy – but they shone in a nice kind of dull way.
He had picked the bridge months ago – wooden, at the edge of a cliff, rocks very far below. Quaint. And guaranteed to take him were he wanted to go.
The side road he had branched on to was deathly quiet when he turned off the engine of his car. He could hear the distant sound of waves, and that was nice. He took a steady and calm breath before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. He locked it – purely out of habit, of course. After a seconds thought he left the keys in the lock. It would be a little bit rude to force the people who found him to have to search his mangled and lifeless corpse for the keys of his car so that they could move it to unblock the bridge, which was sure to be busy in the morning.
Climbing over the side was a tad awkward, but he didn’t mind. He listened to the sound of the ocean for a little while, felt the breeze on his skin. The rocks below didn’t scare him – his feelings towards them were neutral.
Should he wait another moment? No, just go now. He was tired.
And so he let go and fell down through the cool night air, loving the exhilaration and grinning from ear to ear. And of course Ryan died. And the funeral happened. A few people talked, but on the whole the world wasn’t very much changed.
And Ryan forgot the sunglasses.
