Ryan Coleman DISTRICT 4 ~DONE (Again c:)

Ryan is a naturally tender and loving character. He loves to laugh and make jokes, and tries to lighten up tense situations with his sense of humor. He never hesitates to speak his mind. He appears to be thoughtless, impatient, reckless and stubborn. He makes rash decisions and allows his instincts to take over, and also worries about things beyond his control.

After his mother's death, he tries to stay cautious about who he hangs around with. He is constantly at war with himself about who he should and shouldn't trust, but ends up getting attached anyway. That's just him.

He channels all the hatred and blame towards himself for his mother's death, and usually finds himself wondering if she has forgiven him yet.

He is physically strong but emotionally weak. He also has Arsonphobia (fear of fire).


"Where does your story start form, then?" I ask mother.

She smiles and shifts her gaze from the book, to me. Shutting it soundlessly, she lifts her legs up on the bed, and curls her arms around them. 

"My story," she begins to say, "starts from when you were born..."

And then she proceeds to tell me about how she felt, seeing me all flushed and bundled up beneath heaps of blankets. "It was the best thing that's ever happened to me," she says, and I feel myself grin. I make her happy, I think, and that's all that matters.

Now:

My name is Ryan Coleman. I was born on the fourth of September. My mother's name is May Coleman and my father's name is Patrick Coleman. They loved each other immensely but as time passed, they grew apart.

When I was eight, my father wanted a divorce. Mom was obligated to accept, but hated how much it had affected me. I had been upset for months. However, after hearing my mother's muffled cries at nights, I convinced myself that I didn't care about any broken relationships, and that I wanted to preserve the one between me and my mother.

We were inseparable after that.

When I was fourteen, I made some friends. They were the popular guys in our school. They landed all the hot girls and were envied by everybody else. Josh, I remember as the leader, offered me some beer. I had declined at first but then he really pushed me, saying I was such a pussy that I couldn't drink without my mama's permission. That did it. I snatched the bottle from him and chugged down the bitter liquid.

I didn't go home that night.

Mom was furious. She yelled and flailed her arms at me, letting me know how worried she was. I just looked down and didn't respond. I knew I deserved what she was saying. In the end, I told her I stayed at a friend's home and forgot to call her.

But things just went in a downward spiral from there.

Drinking became a hobby, to a full-fledged addiction. I hid bottles under my bed and started staying out late more often. I felt guilty as hell, seeing mom's face and  knowing that she knew something was wrong. She never mentioned it. Neither did I.

7 months later, it happened.

It was dark. Holding a candle in one hand,  mom went in the kitchen to get something, not noticing the spilled alcohol on the kitchen floor. When she slipped, the candle followed.

I was half asleep in my drunken stupor. The smell of smoke filled my nostrils and I woke immediately, feeling surprisingly sober. I made my way downstairs, but it was too late.

The neighbors had called the firemen. The fire was extinguished and everything went swiftly from there. Patrick came to pick me up and I stayed the night at his house, not really in the right mindset to know what was going on.

After 154 days of therapy, I'm able to act like the person I was before. No, I can't forgive myself. I'll never be able to do that. And I'm still afraid of fire, too.

But if mom wanted me to be happy, I'll be just that. For her.