{ is this the real life? [closed]

[douglovedinkpart2]

Irene had many nightmares, but this one was the one she had the most. It was also what really happened.

It was still there in her head. She could recall the day perfectly: it was a Wednesday, the day she only had two classes. And so, she had the morning off. It was Irene’s chance to catch up on grading tests, working on her article she planned on submitting to the L.A. Times, and perhaps even see what the new J. Crew catalog had to offer.

She had no idea.

The screams, at first, confused her. Irene just assumed they were a bunch of kids fooling around, and so she ignored it. She thought she heard some sort of popping noise; she disregarded that as well. Then—silence. Irene could still hear her heels clacking against the linoleum, echoing the bitter tranquility that filled the air. And she could remember how she felt, suddenly eerie and violated, and the way her footsteps slowed to a stop.

Irene felt tense. Class was in session, and so the silence was welcomed, but realistically, she knew it was something that was hard to maintain in a school. Also, she knew certain juniors and seniors had off at this hour, and frequently she had to go off and stop their shenanigans. But today, the hall was empty. Irene shivered, and crossing her arms, felt goosebumps. And then she heard the squeaking of sneakers, someone shouting, and she turned around.

It was a boy from her U.S. Government class. “Ms. A!” he cried, and he flailed his arms frantically. “Ms. A! He’s a got a gun! He’s got a—”

A crack rang out, and then the boy was falling, falling to the ground, and a pool of blood began to form around his head. Irene, eyes wide, stumbled backward; what the fuck was going on? she remembered thinking. And Irene, who seldom cursed (even in her head), felt lightheaded. She would have fainted, if it had not been for the appearance of the shooter himself.

He stood opposite her, twenty feet away down the hall, eyes gleaming, lips sneering. “Ms. A,” he said, and he slowly started walking over to her. In his hand, he carried a gun, and Irene felt her mouth go dry. “Ms. A,” he said again, closer now, “My favorite teacher.”

Irene was paralyzed. Rooted to the spot. Her brain told her it was time to go, but her legs were stiff, and somehow she felt the need to stay. But it was stupid, Irene knew, and yet she had no clue what to do. Soon, the student was before her, reaching out. His face was crazed, his eyes bloodshot, and why was the stupid smirk still there on his face?

He grabbed her breasts. Irene felt all the blood rush to her face as she fought back a scream. Somehow, she knew if she did, he would kill her; better to let him fondle her than die, right? And he was laughing and was squeezing hard, too friggin’ hard. It was painful, and finally, Irene had to do it: she whimpered.

And then the boy frowned. "What's wrong, Ms. A?" he said. "Can't take a little... pain!"

He twisted her breasts, and Irene screamed, falling to her knees as he let go. She collapsed to the ground, compressing herself into a position similar to the one she held in utero. Irene started crying, and the student knelt beside heard, his gun now pressed against her head.

"You were a pretty good teacher," he said, and Irene began hyperventilating when she felt a presence of an erection against her legs. "You taught me so much. About how great men shaped this country, led it through wars, all that shit. But there's one thing you didn't teach."

She squeezed her eyes shot when she heard the sound of the boy reloading the gun. This is it, Irene thought, I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Oh, God... please... help...

"The difference between the innocent, and those who hold power."

Whatever the boy intended on doing at that moment was interrupted. All of a sudden, an unforeseen body came out of nowhere, pushing the boy off Irene and forcing him into the wall, cracking his skull hard against the tile. Irene remembered trying to sit herself up, but seeing her hero, felt woozy. More screaming and yelling had ensued, and Irene slowly faded; falling down again, her world slowly went black. She couldn't remember anything after that.

But she still remembered this. Even now, months later, Irene dreamed about it. She woke up, sweating, heart pacing. Her head felt heavy. And it wasn't always the shooting. Oh, no. She dreamt about dying in general. Car accidents. Slipping. Choking on a piece of steak. Which, was quite odd, seeing that Irene was a vegetarian.

Now, Irene was finally getting used to it. On a weekly basis, she had these nightmares twice, and it was something she expected. But God, was she tired. This time she had woken up at 3:07 in the morning, sweaty but chilly. Running fingers through her damp hair, she looked at the clock and sighed with the annoyance of having only three more hours left to sleep. Wasn't that fun.

She turned her pillow over, snuggled back down under her blankets, and closed her eyes again. But sleep did not come. Irene laid awake in the darkness, staring out the window into the black, wondering how she'd ever overcome this.

Then, out of nowhere, the telephone began to ring. Confused, Irene turned over in bed, propping herself up on her elbow. She looked around for her phone, thinking it was her cell, but then realized it was the landline. Hastily, she dragged herself out from under the sheets, and walked out of her room to answer the phone.

With not much effort, Irene arrived in her kitchen, eyes squinting around for the phone. And as it rang once more, she found it. Picking it up, she yawned, and inquired as per usual, "Hello?"

[ryder]

Ryder hands were sweaty because of how nervous he was right now. It was late at night, and he was still staring at the phone in his hand. What was he supposed to do now? Call her this early in the morning, she might get angry. Ryder was so angry at himself right now. He had plenty of time to have called her earlier. He had given himself since seven o'clock earlier until now. He had put the phone done, giving up, when he tried to go to sleep, but shocker it hadn't worked. He always dreamed about him not getting to Irene in time, that she died because of him. It was starting to become a daily dream and he hated it. He had saved her life, and he still couldn't strike up a conversation face to face because of his wild dreams.

'Just dial the number, it will probably go to voicemail' it was pretty bad when you had to convince yourself to call someone. Ryder always had to force himself to look at her now. She probably thought that he was freak for tackling her, and everytime they made eye contact he couldn't help but blush. Which isn't manly at all, which brings us back to square one. Him not being manly enough to even call Irene. He wasn't a kind of person to deal with embarrassment, even though he dealt with it quite a bit. He started to dial the number, then hesitated. He was just deciding on what he was supposed to say, or that was his excuse. Then, he started to pace. As if sitting, staring at the phone wasn't bad enough he was now pacing like his life depended on it.

'okay, he thought to himself 'get a hold of yourself. Just call Irene, and leave a voicemail. Most people don't allow their phones to ring at night' and with that, he decided to dial her number. His fingers skipped across the keypad like he had dialed that number many times before. But the truth was, he never got to the last digit the many times that he tried to call her before. Not just after the shooting, but tons of time before. Especially after some of his botched attempts to sweep her off her feet.

As the phone rang, over and over, he had to stop himself from pushing the end button. "Hello" and it was that one word, from across the line, that made him go cold. She wasn't supposed to answer the phone! "Er... Hello, Irene. I'm um, sorry, for calling this late...." Damn how nervous he was getting! He had to hold the phone in between his neck and his ear, so he could just wipe off his super sweaty hands. "I've been meaning to talk to you for a while... but I have been...........busy" Crap. Now what was he going to say...?

[/size]

NOTES: Woooohhh! Irene and Ryder! (:

[douglovedinkpart2]

"Er... hello, Irene. I'm um, sorry, for calling this late... I've been meaning to talk to you for a while... but I have been... busy. "

The voice was familiar, deep, a man’s voice. But Irene was confused. Not necessarily because this caller was phoning her so late, but the fact that a man was calling her. Most of time, the calls made to her house phone were telemarketers, her mother, or the dry cleaner; the latter two were female, and the first had no personal relations to her. But this man, the one speaking to her right now, he spoke to her personally. He addressed her by her first name (not even Ms. “Ant-pur-deese!”) and showed a sense of meaning. Irene couldn’t find the words to speak back to this unidentified voice.

And so, she said this: “Who’s call—ca—caaaalling?” and her voice faded into a yawn. A long one, embarrassingly long for Irene, and she covered the phone to finish it. God, she was tired. Rubbing her eyes, it was then that she realized what time it was, and acknowledged the fact that someone was speaking to her at that late hour. “Um, sorry,” she said, “It’s just, uh, kind of late for anyone to be calling.”

Irene leaned against her kitchen counter, phone cradled between her chin and shoulder, eyes roaming through the darkness. For the first time, she noticed how small her kitchen was: it consisted of a fridge, a stove, a sink, and a crowded surface that called itself a counter. That’s what she got for $900 a month; she wasn’t happy, but she fooled herself into thinking she was satisfied. She had been stuck in this place for four years, three of which she spent teaching at Carson. Irene had assumed after several paychecks she’d be able to move, but here she was, still stuck in this shithole. It did its duty of protecting and sheltering her, but Irene always felt she could have... more.

She sighed again, thinking about her pathetic life, thinking of the value of her own. It had crossed her mind several times the past few months: a nagging voice that told her she had deserved to die, that the shooter ought to had taken her life. But he hadn’t the chance to, all to the thanks of one man: Ryder Hynes.

And God! Why did it have to be him? The school’s math teacher had always had a thing for Irene, that she knew, but up until him, she had nothing to give him in return. In a way, he always sort of creeped Irene out, and he was just too plain nerdy for her taste. But the day of the shooting? After he risked his own life to saves hers? How could she hate him now?

It was hard enough returning to school in the fall semester: Irene avoided her colleagues as much as possible, for they were always so inquisitive, prying her with questions and asking her how she was doing. Couldn’t they tell she was doing horribly? That she was falling apart on the inside? But no, and the attention still kept coming. Interestingly enough, Ryder himself seemed to stop bothering her, and Irene found herself missing him; ever since That Day, she started thinking about him more. And then some.

She had to pinch herself the first time she thought he had a nice smile.

[ryder]

Ryder just about wanted to hit himself in the face for failing to say who he was. He should have started out with something like- hey it's Ryder. Of course, Irene was probably freaked out right about now, standing with her phone on her ear wondering who was calling her Irene. "Oh, I'm sorry, it's Mr. Hynes, I mean Ryder from school." He liked this woman, and he had basically given her the option of calling him Mr. Hynes. He gave a small shudder, from his stupidity part two. How come every time he wanted to talk to Irene, this happened. Whether it was years ago, to now, nothing changed in the way he felt. Like someone was punching him in the stomach, which didn't help with his thinking process. He was an analytical thinker- things like numbers and equations not how to talk to women. And he didn't think that actually coming out and saying something like ; You + Me = Date? And freaking Irene out.... more than he already had.

"I know that it's a little late to call anyone," and that was where his thoughts ended. He was rubbing his temples trying to come up with something to say, because this silence was getting kind of awkward. He even started to glance around his house, hoping, praying, that something would give him some inspiration. All he saw though, was a boring, two roomed house with white walls and beige carpet. His furniture, or lack there of, was all black. Because, in Ryder's mind, black matched everything. You didn't know what to match with what? Black had all the answers. You shouldn't even walk in Ryder's closet, because it's filled with tons of black pants and shirts. He tried his best not to sigh on the phone, because that might give her the hint that he was sad, or distressed. He wanted to be the one to start the conversation.

At the thought of starting a conversation, Ryan could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't so much as glanced at Irene since after the shooting. You'd think, because he saved her life, he would use that as guilt to give him brownie points but he couldn't force himself to do that. He wanted Irene to like the normal, geeky Ryder and not the one who became heroic. He also blamed his lack of conversation on the odd dreams that he had. That more people died in the shooting, including Irene, and everytime he saw Irene in person that's all he could imagine. Curse his dreams being so vivid. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he was about to say.

He was over the phone, so it wouldn't hurt too bad if she declined his invitation to dinner now.... or so he hoped. "There is a reason for me calling this late. great, now she's gonna think it's important', he thought, mentally kicking himself, "I was hoping that you would go out to dinner with me," What he also loved about being over the phone; Irene couldn't see the bright red color of his face right now. All Ryder could do was wait for an answer, or the hanging up of her phone.

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[douglovedinkpart2]

Any other time, Irene would have expected the invitation. Ryder had always shown interest, and him being him, she had wondered what took so long. That didn’t mean Irene would accept, of course. Ryder was the strange math teacher down the hall who just probably thought she’d be nice to bang; a simple play-thing, probably a one-night stand. But since the shooting? Irene doubted his intentions were that (and were they ever? Irene asked herself; she realized they probably never were). It was true Irene felt somewhat obligated to accept the dinner invite, but for some reason, she felt it was just more that. Considering what he did for her, Irene would say she might like Ryder (but not like that) and would enjoy spending some time with him (once again, not like that). And as Irene’s eyes prowled her kitchen once again, settling on the clock that read “3:16,” she realized she had to speak with him now. An idea struck her.

“How about breakfast,” she suggested, with a certain sense of energetic confidence. “Now.”

Now, Irene wasn’t sure if just anyone would be willing to go out at this hour, but knowing Ryder Hynes, she felt as they he would. She could tell there was a certain sense of desperation, not necessarily bad but good, in his calling her this late: he probably had been wanting to speak with her for a long time, too. And what was that saying? “It’s either now or never.” Better to get things over with, too, without letting them sit and thicken into something harder to deal with.

“I know this great place” she continued, “It’s that little diner in the gas station. It’s not much... but they’re open twenty-four hours, and they have great waffles.”

Irene fought back a sigh. What she really wanted to ask was, What took you so long, Ryder? Why did you save me? Why did it have to be you? Irene knew, if Ryder accepted, she’d be a nervous wreck and wouldn’t know how to approach him. These past few years she had avoided him like the plague, and now she was finally opening up, reaching out and finally accepting his request.

She did feel guilty now, sure, that she had been so flighty with him. But the attention Ryder gave to Irene was unrecognized; it was something she was not used. No man had ever been so attentive to Irene, and yet here was Ryder Hynes, not willing to give up. And so it dawned on Irene, there in her kitchen, that she had to give him a chance. It was the least she could do, after all.