Ask Me Why I Hurt

Disclaimer: I do not own “High School Musical” and make no money off of the writing of this short story.

Author’s Note: My take on the already done ‘something bad happens to Ryan’ story arc. I hope it’s a little different. My second true one-shot and kind of stream of consciousness. I hope it makes enough sense. Please review if you have time. As always, if you feel the need to flame, please be civil. Thanks so much!
On a final note, I am looking for a beta. Anyone interested, please send me a PM. Thanks!


The sun was already starting to rise by the time he finally made it home. It scared him because he wasn’t quite sure where all the time had gone. He couldn’t quite remember what he had done for the past five hours. All he really knew was that his body felt as numb as he wished his mind would go. He could remember getting ready for the party, laughing with his sister while she sat on the counter and watched him carefully applying a thin line of midnight blue liner to his eyelids. The party was a bit of a blur, but he knew that he had danced and that he had been having fun. Why was it that the one part of his evening that it would have been best for him to remember was in the sharpest focus in his mind?

Forever flicker in close upon the 3D IMAX of my mind . . . That’s poetic? That’s pathetic.

He focused on the lyrics running through his head. If he focused on the lyrics he wouldn’t have to think about what had happened. He held back the sob as he opened the door to his sister’s room, wanting more than anything to run to her, throw himself down on her bed and sob out the whole story. But, she was sleeping so peacefully, her arms wrapped around the stuffed dog she liked to deny she kept in the bed with her at all anymore. So, he simply shut the door. It was the same with his parents. They were wrapped around each other in their bed, still sleeping, so he quietly shut the door and walked down the hall to his own room. It was only when he was sitting in the shower, his knees pulled up to his chest, that he allowed himself to see the blood between his legs and feel the pain. It was only then that he allowed himself to cry.

It was easy to hide over the next couple of weeks. Winter vacation was the perfect time to stay locked up in his room. And he was a good actor. When, a week into his self imposed house arrest, his mother came to ask him if he was alright he simply feigned a slight illness that was keeping him close to his bed. He almost wished he wasn’t as good an actor as he was, that she hadn’t bought it. He wanted more than anything to tell her everything and simply fall into her arms and let her tell him that everything was going to be okay, like she used to. But, he had lost the ability to speak on what had happened. Whenever he tried, no matter if it was to someone or simply to himself, it always came out as a lie.

It was when school started again that things became really hard. He still acted as he had before ‘it.’ He followed his sister around, sang with her, danced with her, hung out with his new friends. Outside, he was everything he had always been. Inside he was dying. Every day he just wanted to stand on one of the tables at lunch and scream at everyone.

“Look at me! Can’t you see how much it hurts? Someone ask me what happened! Someone make me tell you what happened!”

Of course, he never actually acted on the impulse. That would have been ridiculous. And if he was losing weight at an alarming rate because he couldn’t seem to force down anything but the blandest foods without being sick to his stomach afterward they all seemed to just assume that he was dieting. It was a normal thing for someone like him, a dancer, a drama geek, a… queer… to do, wasn’t it? No one had ever called him a queer to his face, even when he had officially come out over the summer. In general, his family and friends were supportive. But, he felt like they were thinking it all the time. He knew it was paranoid and unfair, but he could have sworn that he saw it in their eyes. That and the fact that they knew what had happened to him and they thought it was nothing less that what he deserved for being the way he was.

He felt, often, like he was going insane. He knew that none of them knew. He wanted them to ask, after all. But he couldn’t stop the nasty, mean thoughts that came into his head sometimes. It was when it became too much to hear the nasty thoughts in his head when he was around them that he began to pull away. He began to wear dark, muted clothing, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, figuring that if he looked more like the “normal” kids in school no one would notice him. He didn’t go out for baseball like he had said he would earlier in the year. He told his sister that he didn’t want to do the musical, that she should find another partner.

The results from his actions had him wishing he had just kept pretending.

“I’m your sister! Please, just tell me what’s wrong! I’ll help you fix it!”

“Gee, man, are you sure you’re okay? You’re not looking too good. Is there anything I can do?”

What would it take for them to get it through their head? There was no way to fix it. He was too broken. There was nothing for them to do. There was nothing they could do. So, he just stayed away. He wore his black, he stopped singing, and he allowed himself to become numb, just like that morning.

Salvation came in the form of the most unlikely. A shaggy headed, brace face with beautiful brown eyes.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Here was behind the gym and no one found him here. So, he simply glared up at the boy in the baggy pants and didn’t say anything.

“Look, there’s this get together tonight…”

“I don’t do parties anymore.” He knew he was being rude, but he didn’t care.

“Not really a party. Here.”

He took the sheet of paper out of curiosity then looked up at the boy, surprised. The boy simply shrugged.

“Takes one to know one. You in?”

He didn’t know what it was about the paper or the boy who had handed it to him, or the day, but he found himself standing outside of the church after school, almost shaking from fear and nerves.

“Want me to hold your hand?” The boy asked, “No funny business. It’s just that… my mother held my hand my whole first time and I felt a bit better. You know, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, right?”

And he found himself in the building, sitting on the folding chairs set in circle, holding the boy’s hand. The boy didn’t let go, even when he stood to take his turn. He simply gave him a brief smile and turned to look at the others in the circle.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Gabriel. Gabe. I go to East High. I’m a senior. I like to board and play the cello. And…I was six the first time my uncle…”

He listened to everyone speak, but found that he could not until later when they were walking back to Gabe’s car, still holding hands.

“It was winter break.” Once he had started, the whole story came pouring out. Along with it came the tears. Gabe simply held him and rocked him, shushing him gently when he broke down past words. It was Gabe who held his hand when he finally told his parents and his sister that night. And it was Gabe whose hand he held a month later when he stood up at his fifth meeting and addressed those in the circle, looking at him with compassion and understanding.

“Uh, my name is, uh, Ryan and…” Gabe gave his hand a squeeze when he faltered and he was ready to say he words aloud, “I was raped. It was four months ago at a party one of my friends…”