Ryan Hawkins- A man with 3million egos

After that whole drama at the mental facility…

I felt disgusted.

Not at anyone.

At myself.

Crying in public?

For the first time?

It felt like I exposed something that should've stayed buried.

Weak. Like I failed Mom.

Because deep down, I did.

But I'm still here.

I can still find answers.

Even if I have to drown in cheap alcohol just to hear them.

---

That Night at the Bar

The music was loud.

The lights? Dim.

But inside me? Silence.

It felt like the world hit pause —

Like it finally realized it was too cruel for a delulu man like me.

Tumor.

Mom.

Guilt. Shame.

Questions with no answers.

I took another shot of whatever bitter liquid the bartender served.

Tasted like regret.

And broken childhoods.

> "You okay, boss?" the bartender asked.

I nodded.

How do you tell someone:

> "No, I'm not. I'm a walking graveyard of unsaid things."

Since I was a kid, I held it in.

The tears. The screams. The words.

I remember that day.

The day Darius — my father — jumped from that building.

I watched it on the news.

Over and over. Like some sick rerun.

And then?

I watched Mom crack.

Day by day.

Like porcelain dropped and re-glued by shaky hands.

Since then, something started brewing inside my head.

Like grief decided to rent a room in my skull.

Never left.

> "One day," I thought,

"My brain's gonna explode."

And honestly?

Maybe tonight's the night.

---

I looked at the bartender — half-drunk, half-curious.

> "Hey… like, instead of mixing stuff…

Can I just buy the whole bottle? The black label?"

He raised a brow. Half-suspicious. Half-concerned.

> "Yah, boss, I can give you that…

But you sure you're okay?"

> I smiled — the expensive kind:

"Yeah. Just for tonight. Fake it 'til I break it."

He hesitated, then slid the bottle across the bar.

> "Here. Take it. No payment. Call it comfort on the house."

> I blinked.

"You sure?"

> "Yeah. You look like you need something stronger than advice."

I gave him a nod. And a tip — not a bill.

A thank-you.

> "Accept it, okay, Mr. Kindness?"

---

Bottle in hand, I stepped outside and started walking through the city.

Neon lights flickered.

Cars passed.

The world moved.

And I?

I was drinking.

> "Hmm! Ahhh… so you're my comfort now, huh?"

I muttered to the bottle.

"Be gentle. I'm fragile."

Another swig.

Medicine for pain that didn't have a prescription.

---

I kept walking through the City of Hope.

Maybe it was hopeful — once.

Not tonight.

Bottle in hand, I waved at strangers like a drunk mayor at a sad parade.

> "Hey bro! Your girlfriend's pretty. Keep that."

They laughed. Genuine.

Untouched by tragedy.

> "That's a real smile… huh.

Wish I could do that again. The real kind."

I turned a corner.

Slipped into the shadows — behind trash bins, behind the noise.

And I cried.

Not the heroic kind.

The ugly, choking, snot-and-silence kind.

I saw others curled up on cardboard beds.

Barefoot dreams.

Reeking of survival.

But they slept.

They had peace.

Me?

I just kept walking.

> "Maybe I'm the real homeless one,"

I whispered.

"No place inside me feels safe anymore."

Then it hit.

The thunder in my skull.

Familiar. Violent.

Every breath stabbed.

Vision blurred.

My knees gave out.

Bottle dropped.

I collapsed.

> "Sht… not now—"

Trembling.

Cold concrete.

My body on the sidewalk like it belonged in the trash.

No home.

No Rachel.

No Mom.

No jokes left.

Just me.

And this damn tumor…

Dancing again.

"I didn't want to die.

I just didn't want to feel like this anymore."

---

[Thank you for reading, God bless]

-"I'm a walking graveyard of unsaid things."