Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11903814.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy, My_Chemical_Romance, Panic!_at_the_Disco, Paramore, Pierce
      the_Veil, All_Time_Low, Halsey
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz, Ryan_Ross/Brendon_Urie, Patrick_Stump/Jack
      Barakat, Patrick_Stump/Vic_Fuentes, Patrick_Stump/Alex_Gaskarth, Patrick
      Stump/Mike_Fuentes
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz, Vic_Fuentes, Jaime_Preciado, Mike_Fuentes,
      Tony_Perry, Gerard_Way, Frank_Iero, Mikey_Way, Ray_Toro, Brendon_Urie,
      Ryan_Ross, Hayley_Williams, Rian_Dawson, Alex_Gaskarth, Jack_Barakat,
      Zack_Merrill, Original_Male_Characters, Original_Female_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Post_Traumatic_Stress_Disorder, Dissociative_Identity_Disorder,
      Borderline_Personality_Disorder, Schizophrenia, Anxiety, Depression,
      Bipolar_Disorder, Rape, Pedophilia, Sexual_Abuse, Verbal_Abuse, Emotional
      Abuse, Underage_Sex, Suicide, Substance_Abuse, mental_institutes, Hurt/
      Comfort, Love, Smut, Fluff, Suitehearts_AU, Rape_Aftermath
  Series:
      Part 1 of Folie_á_Deux_Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-25 Completed: 2017-09-06 Chapters: 20/20 Words: 98054
****** Carpe Diem ******
by IWrtBksNtTrgds_(orphan_account)
Summary
     Ever since he was born, Patrick's been alone. Accompanied only by the
     fellow Foster kids, caregivers, and therapists, he makes his way
     through a mystery that has haunted his dreams since he was twelve.
     Secrets are revealed and his true past of trauma and abuse is
     uncovered and bringing on obstacles he can't face alone.
     Only the man from his nightmares can save him now.
     •••
     WAS FOLIE Á DEUX
Notes
     Part One: Carpe Noctem
***** Mute *****
Group therapy.
I don't know who came up with this idea but they must have been the biggest
idiot ever born. That one person that had the amazing idea that talking about
our problems could solve every last one of them (note the sarcasm). That one
person created the idea that the things that make us different from the rest of
the world, the things that distinguish us more than we should be distinguished,
can be so easily solved just by talking about them.
I don't know who had the fucking perfect idea that thinking and talking and
discussing and analyzing every last detail that got us here could possibly help
us. If anything, it has to make the problem worse. The more we think about it,
the more we fear it. The more we fear it, the worse our condition may get, the
worse out condition may get, the more therapy we get. It's ridiculous.
The only reason I'm here is because I was forced here. There's nothing actually
wrong with me. I'm completely normal and I don't belong here, I swear. This
stupid counseling center doesn't know the difference between normal people and
ill people these days. For example: I'm normal, Donovan is ill with depression.
He never smiles, not even a twitch of his lips. He always looks so bothered and
when he speaks, his voice has a tainted undertone. Broken. He is asked what he
wants to do in life and he replies with, "I want to end it."
"Why?"
"Because I have no purpose."
I don't know why the hell I'm here. Really, they're all just sick and I'm the
only healthy person here.
Everyone else is sick in the head, it's pretty obvious. The moment I stepped in
this room for the first time, I knew I didn't belong here. They were all so...
depressed and jittery and not to mention a few of them were hugging themselves
like their lives depended on it. Unlike me, they were all so damaged and
scared. I'm not. I'm not sick. I'm not mental. I'm not depressed. I don't have
anxiety or suicidal tendencies. I don't have anything they say I have. I'm
healthy! It's unfair.
Then again, life is unfair. I learned that pretty early on.
So here I am. Sitting in a cold, metal chair in a social services center,
completely bored out of my mind because I left my notebook at home, and I can't
draw or write to try to distract myself from everything here. I can hear
someone beside me basically breathing down my neck. Her name is May. May Ann
Campbell. She's looking around like everything is all so new to her and making
tiny sounds that are almost inhumane. It's getting annoying but I need to keep
reminding myself that it isn't their choice to be like this. It's just... fate
I guess.
"Who would like to go first?" Our counselor, Dr. Johnson, asks, his light brown
hair with blonde highlights weaved through each strand, standing nearly
straight up. If each piece were a tree, his head would surely be a slowly dying
forest. Rude, I know, but still kind of true. He's aging badly. I wonder what
his wife says about it. Probably fairly negative things.
As I aim my focus back at the room, the beige walls, the gray carpet, I wait
for someone besides me to say something, anything so I don't have to start the
session. But, of course, nobody says anything. I don't blame them. They don't
want to be here. I don't want to be here. Not even Dr. Johnson wants to be
here. They think they're perfectly fine. They think they can continue with
their sickness but I know even little Ruby has severe anxiety. It's pathetic.
Why can't I just leave?
"How about you, Patrick?" He asks softly. I knew it. My eyes dart up to meet
his, a spark of a bright fire in contrast to my dark glare as I try to scare
him off. This must be the three-hundredth time I've been here and he knows I
won't play along. "What's happened this past week for you?"
I shake my head and sit back in my chair, refusing to say a thing to that
stupid little shit.
I just don't want to do this. I will not help him. I don't care how much money
he might offer me, I don't answer to people I don't like. Then again, I don't
like anyone. I don't trust anyone so I don't talk to anyone. I don't tell
anyone about my problems as if that shit is going to help me. It's complete and
utter bullshit.
"Patrick," he warns me, a sound of frustration in my voice. I look back at him,
a glare still in my eyes. He looks exhausted, frustrated, done with me. That's
good. Maybe I can get out of this hellhole soon, "Are you sure you don't want
to talk about it?"
I shake my head stubbornly, he only sighs and goes onto the next person, the
girl who was making those small noises. What's her problem? Well, she's
basically six years old on the inside, fifteen on the outside. Head trauma from
when she tripped and fell off of a building. Don't ask how she fell off that
building, what she was doing on that building, why she tripped, why she didn't
die. She was extremely lucky, the impact should have turned her brain to putty
but it didn't and they found her sprawled on a sidewalk.
They say she used to be an adrenaline junkie. Have you ever seen those videos
of people jumping around the tops of skyscrapers from bar to bar on Facebook? I
think it started in Russia but she was one of those people. Her camera didn't
actually record what happened, all we know is that she was on top of a building
and she fell and now she's like this. I've seen some of the pictures of what
happened. It wasn't pretty. Most of us are here from a head trauma. Me? Well
I'm here because people are stupid assholes and apparently insomnia can be
fixed with talk therapy.
"So, May, what's happened this past week for you?" Dr. Johnson asks in the
lighthearted voice he always asks May. He's always had a soft spot for her.
There's another place him and I are different, besides the fact that he's an
optimist and I'm a pessimist; he has soft spots, I don't. I don't care about
anyone. Why should I?
"I learned how to count to fifteen!" May squeals with a grin on her face in
pure joy. It crinkles the edges of her eyes, a true smile. I haven't had one of
those in years. Must be nice, huh?
Dr. Johnson smiles back, "That's great, May, would you mind showing the rest of
the group?"
She nods, and turns to the center with pride in her voice as she demonstrates
what she'd learned, counting all the way to fifteen and I have to watch as she
begins struggling between ten and eleven and again between twelve and thirteen.
I'm subconsciously tapping my toes on the floor with impatience until Dr.
Johnson whispers my name and I stop, a frustrated look on my face but I don't
let him see it.
"That's amazing, May!" The counselor... therapist... whatever says when I've
stopped and she gets to fifteen.
"Thank you, Dr. J-Johunson." She replies, struggling with his name and I try
not to scream.
Dr. Johnson continues through the circle, the rest of the group, from May to
Ruby to Donovan to Trevor to Caleb asking everyone questions like, "how was
your week?" Or, "Have you felt any better?" Or, "Did you try the thing I showed
you last week?" Or, "Why do you think you feel that way?" Or, "Do you think
you've relapsed at all?" It feels like forever, with everyone talking mostly
about if we've had any anxiety attacks or if we've relapsed or if our cravings
to hurt ourselves have gotten worse.
It just convinces me more and more that I really don't belong here. I haven't
done anything they've been talking about. I don't do what they do. I'm not like
them. This stupid group counseling center is fucked up because I'm okay. I
don't get nervous in public and I don't have a reason to live, but that doesn't
mean I want to die and I swear I don't find life meaningless. I don't cut. I
don't think I'm ugly... I mean I don't think I look good but I don't look bad.
I just look normal, does that make sense? What I'm trying to say is that I'm
just a random straight, white guy trying to have a normal life and I don't
belong here. Why doesn't anyone understand that?
"Thank you everyone for joining us today," Mr. Johnson says with a smile as he
concludes the session. His voice is tinted with exhaustion. I don't think he's
gotten much sleep over the past week and it makes me wonder if he has his own
counseling, "I'll see you all next week?"
Everyone hums in agreement. Each note is out of tune, on a different pitch with
a different length on different beats. It's a symphony that nobody signed up
for. They don't want to be here, either, they're just too scared to admit it.
Maybe May wants to be here but even she isn't in the right mind... er...
body... er...
"Patrick?" A woman calls. I stand up, not giving her a single glance. Those
blue eyes, the soft brown hair laced with strands of gray, that light honeyed
skin, the small pink purse. She's Ms. Umbridge without the know-it-all
attitude, wand, or kitten fetish. I don't dare look at her, though. She doesn't
get to be rewarded with the luxury of my eye contact and anyways, I've
memorized how she looks, why would I need to be reminded?
"Are you ready to go?" She asks as I walk over to her, one tired foot in front
of the other, my hands in my pockets as I let out a silent sigh. If it wasn't
for her I wouldn't be here in the first place. I don't want to talk to her. I
don't want to talk to anyone. Never have. I don't even nod as I walk past her
to the door in long, fast strides, my head low.
Thankfully, she doesn't protest to my impatience. She knows I hate it, but she
doesn't know... me... She doesn't know why I don't like talking. She doesn't
know why I was sent to her house in the first place. She doesn't need to know.
Nobody needs to know.
We leave the building, passing the gray walls and the gray and black carpet and
the small wooden oak table decorated with a lamp and a drawer with a silver
knob. It's a boring building, boring and useless and dull and gray and ugly.
I've never much liked this place, it's just so... gross, I guess. The color
scheme, the smell of old people and cleaner... you know like... the cleaner
they use at doctors' and dentists' offices, not to mention the sound of silence
and the stuffiness of it. It makes me feel claustrophobic, like there's no way
out and I can't escape. But... I guess it's not really the claustrophobia
talking, it's the fact that I'm forced to come here and there is no way out. I
can't escape.
Fuck.
"How was counseling?" Ms. Umbridge-I mean-Mrs. Love asks in pointless
curiosity. I almost laugh at how pathetic she is but I don't.
I don't reply. I never reply to her. I only talk to people I like and I sure as
hell don't like Ms. Love. She was the one who forced me here despite the fact
that she didn't have to, she's crossed my boundaries too many times for me to
trust her, she's doesn't understand things like I do. She doesn't understand
who I am and how I think and why I react to things the way I do. She takes me
for a child. Not the cute kind.
She takes me for a pathetic, stupid child.
"Your dad is going to be home late today, he had to go on a business trip with
his boss-" I quit listening to her. He's not my dad. He will never be my dad.
Mr. Love is just another person who's taking care of me for money. If Mrs.
Love's monthly reimbursement checks from the government and society has taught
me anything, it's that money fuels anyone's desire.
I just keep walking to the exit, pressing open the glass door with a bit of
force and not bothering to keep it open for Mrs. Love as I feel the cold air
press against my skin, refreshingly like I'm releasing all the tension and
claustrophobia pent up from what I felt inside the building. My blonde hair is
ruffled by the slight breeze passing through our rainy city of Tacoma,
Washington.
"Patrick, you know you gotta start talking soon..." Mrs. Love says behind me, a
frustrated sigh passing through her chapped, faded lips and I swear to god if
she keeps this up, I'm going to break something (and seeing as the car is close
by, it might not be a good idea for her to continue). Not again, please. Just
stop. I shake my head in reply, I will not talk. I don't care how much she
wants me to; she can ask me every single day until I die but I won't talk for
her. I refuse to. I won't do it no matter how much they ask and bargain and
plead. My voice is off limits to them. I'm mute and I will stay that way until
I die a peaceful death, leaving in my sleep like everyone dreams of, buried in
all their favorite colors with all their friends and family at the funeral. I
would laugh at the thought if I could. I'll never have that because I have
nobody to care for me like that. I have no friends and no family.
"You're seventeen, please stop acting immature like this. It's been five years
and you know you can't keep this up." She sighs, "What could have possibly
happened that was bad enough to cause you to lose your voice?"
I snap. I don't say a word, but as I turn, my palm on the handle of the car
door, I flip her off with a glare that means death. Five years ago never
happened. I will not relapse again. I promised myself I wouldn't. I'm healing.
I'm okay.
"Patrick!"
I get in the car, slamming the car door shut in anger. I turn my head from her
side, too pissed to even look at her. I can't help it. I can't help that I
don't like to talk. I just don't like to talk. There is no point in talking.
There is nothing to talk about. Nothing. Five years ago never happened I'm
perfectly okay. Nothing is wrong.
She never talks about it that way. Ever. I'm pissed that she would even take
the risk because she knows how much it affects me.
Stop it. I need to stop. I'm not relapsing again. I'm not going to go through
it. No.
Mrs. Love's car door shuts and we sit in silence for an eternity. Her hands in
her lap, a conflicted look on her features as she purses her lips, unsure of
what to do. I'm so close to whispering to her, trying to will her to just drive
and get the fuck out of here but she does nothing. I guess she's just realizing
how useless she is. Finally.
"I'm sorry, Patrick. I just... I know how hard it is for you after-" she starts
but I only press a finger to her lips and shake my head with a glare, trying
hard to get the message through. I don't want to talk about it. I never have
wanted to and I never will want to talk about it. I hate thinking about it. I
will never talk about it again no matter how much I want to. I will never cry
about it no matter how much my eyes sting. I will never think about it no
matter how close I am to letting my mind trace that thought. I will not let it
get to me. I'm over it.
Mrs. Love nods, shuffling through her purse with the sound of keys and coins
jingling against each other. I lock my door and lean against it, letting the
uncomfortable surface soothe me as I look out the window. The trees are emerald
in color, trailing down the city blocks with sidewalks surrounding them like a
natural island in a manmade ocean. I don't know how long I'm there just staring
out the window with nothing to do but wait and wonder and think. I really wish
I hadn't forgotten my notebook at the house because it's making me feel alone
and afraid and stressed. It's really all I need to occupy myself.
The buildings pass by quickly in colorblind blurs with the occasional chromatic
advertisement, the flash of a tree, the sight of a bird. I sigh, pulling my
hoodie around myself and letting my mind get lost in a maze of thoughts.
The aquamarine sky, the emerald leaves, the stone buildings, the smokey quartz
clouds. The world is like a gemstone that's slowly being replaced with
worthless rocks. It's our cities and towns and people that are the rocks, the
forests and the ice caps and nature that are the gems. Maybe someday, the world
can be a gem again, no stone, just diamond and emerald and ruby and sapphire
and garnet and quartz. Just the pretty stuff. But life isn't pretty. Life is
ugly. Life is a fucked up mess with disappointments and scars. So in the end,
no, the world will never be a gem again. It'll slowly be corrupted by the stone
and the rock. It's going to be ugly and it's only going to get worse and worse.
Everything just really sucks for Earth right now so... on behalf of-
"When we get home could you run to the store to get us some milk?" Mrs. Love
asks in a gentle voice. Too gentle. My one and only assumption is that she
takes pity on me. That makes me sick inside. Nobody feels bad for me. Nobody
could ever feel bad for me. Why should they?
I nod against the window, my cheek slowly rubbing on the cold glass. My fingers
weaved together in my pocket as I fiddle with them softly.
How long will it be before the world is stone? Just completely stone? No gems
of nature and trees and forests and rivers and animals and life. How long until
the world stops breathing? Until the trees have dried up and Earth dies and
even tree houses have fallen and-
"Did you finish your homework?" She asks softly.
Could you shut the fuck up and let me think?
I nod. She nods, too, like she already knew it. Fuck her.
Before I know it, the car has stopped and we're at the house. My eyes dart up
the front of it, watching it like it's going to try to kill me if I step foot
outside the car. It's a small gray house with a white trim, old but new enough
to somehow hold its own weight.
I pull on the handle of my door, pushing it open and slamming it shut behind me
with a loud noise that echoes through the neighborhood. I rub my eyes tiredly
and continue to stare at the house while I wait. There are roses and tulips and
lilacs and even some lavender in the square planters in the front, contrasting
from the light gray of the house.
Chromatic and monochromatic. Funny how everything made by people is colorless
and everything from nature is colorful. Just another reason why I don't like-
"Patrick!" I hear a little boy's voice call from the house, excitedly. I
scrunch my nose, annoyed. I hate kids. I hate people in general. People never
done a good thing.
I watch the door open and the boy's head peak out, a smile immediately crossing
his lips, all teeth, "Patrick!"
I don't even force a smile. I don't feel like it. Not even as he comes running
toward me, I just keep a dull expression on my face as I put my hands in my
pockets and lean against the car, waiting for Mrs. Love to come and give me
some money for milk.
The boy, Justin, is about to hug me, his arms spread and a grin on his face. I
nearly flinch but that's when Mrs. Love snaps at him, "Justin, don't!"
He stops just about a foot away from me, his smile slowly fading as he realizes
his mistake. His arms go limp at his sides, his head lowers, I hear a soft
mumble of, "Sorry, Patrick... I didn't mean to almost touch you I just...
forgot..."
I don't say a thing. I don't give him any pity. He knows better. Not that I
care about him anyways.
"Do you forgive me?" He asks, he looks like he's about to cry.
Okay, maybe I take a little bit of pity. Just a little bit.
I nod, watching Mrs. Love search through her purse and pull out a twenty,
handing over the bill, "Just a quart will do, no getting distracted, alright,
Dear?"
I roll my eyes, taking the money from her and stuffing it in my pocket before
walking away, my pace fast but not rushed.
"Be back by five!" She shouts, I don't bother to look back because there's no
way in hell I'll take three hours at the goddamn store. It's fucking stupid.
My feet keep going as I put my hands back in my pockets and keep my head down,
throwing my hood up. I hate people looking at me. I hate the way they stare at
me like they're disgusted. I don't fucking understand why.
I lost myself to stupid thoughts along the walk, watching the trees and cursing
humanity. I've always watched from a distance, I don't interact, I just watch
with a hint of humor in my eye
When I finally arrive, my eyes dart up to see the big sign reading Walmart, the
blue and white star-thingy beside the logo. It makes me feel a little sick
inside and I don't know why. I just don't like going out. It's not that I have
anxiety, I just think there are too many risks. Someone could accidentally
touch me, try to start a conversation, ask a stupid question, I hate it. I hate
this. I hate that she always sends me out. Why doesn't she send someone else
from the home like Dylan or Justin or Tanya? At least they would get their
first chance to see what the world is really like. Not all fun and games.
I continue to walk, my hands stuffed in my pockets and my head down with my
hood fluttering back down off of my head. I don't bother grabbing a cart,
instead, just walking to the dairy isle. My head down the whole way as I let
myself get lost in my thoughts again, it soothes me a lot.
I don't know why it soothes me, it should make it worse, shouldn't it? I mean,
I think about the things that happened-
Thinking does fuck things up. It leads me down old, forbidden trails. Unsteady
trails, one wrong step and the bridge could break. Then again, I've always
wanted to start burning some bridges, there are people I want to forget. Ruby,
for example, is useless to me. I don't want to learn about any of her problems.
I mean... what's the point if I can't fix them?
Useless.
Subconsciously, I open the fridge and pull out a quart of milk, the white
liquid sloshing in the carton. I feel bad for the cow that had to give its milk
for it. It might be dead by now.
I might sound kind of hypocritical by saying this but people are useless, have
you ever noticed that? It's not that they're necessarily bad, I just don't like
them. They fuck things up a lot and make you feel uncomfortable. They do things
without asking first and the next thing you know, someone else is going batshit
crazy because you didn't hold up your end of the deal. You did something that
made them not feel right but at the same time, is it the victim's fault for not
telling the triggerer? Triggerer isn't even a word, is it? Fuck I need to pay
more attention in English. I hate homeschooling.
The air is cold on my front but I can't feel it for much longer before the door
is shutting and I'm left staring through the fridge at my reflection.
It doesn't look like me. This boy in the mirror looks insane. I'm not insane.
I'm like May, I'm a different person on the inside. I'm not who I look like.
This boy in the mirror, he has blonde hair, like the color of honey. His bangs
hanging just over my right eye in a smooth, rounded style with a few stray
strands here and there. This boy's eyes are colorless through the glass but I
can tell they're tired. Tired from insomnia, endless nightmares that take over
his once peaceful dreams and kill him inside, paralyzingly him, keeping him
from sleep.
He has chapped, pink lips, pressed together in a tight, firm line. He
especially looks like shit with the black hoodie, ripped jeans, and old shoes
from goodwill added. His wardrobe isn't that great, I can tell. It consists of
old tees, faded jeans, and worn sneakers. He looks homeless. He basically is
homeless.
I realize people are probably worried about me. Wondering if they should call
security or something because I've been standing here for one or two minutes
straight lost in my own directionless thoughts. There is no goal to them. They
all end dead or continue on to infinity.
I'm about to move, blinking away the thoughts and trying to get ahold of
myself.
And that's when I see him.
Dark brown eyes shaded by his black and messy hair. It reaches the tops of his
ears in a layered cut that covers the back of his neck as well. He doesn't
smile or grimace but I already know he has a smoker mouth through his sensitive
red lips, he constantly licks them, I know his habit. He wears a leather
jacket, too, with four pockets: two on the chest, two in the bottom corners of
the clothing. The thing that really stands out to me, though, is his stubble
and I don't know why. You see stubble everywhere. Why does it make me of all
people feel so weird.
I know my breathing hitches but I barely feel it. I don't dare spin around. I
don't dare walk away. I just stare, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for
him to do something. Anything. Waiting for him to take my hand and lead me away
to God knows where. It could be paradise it could be hell. I'm guessing the
latter.
He doesn't speak, he only walks away, his steps long and slow, turning from the
reflection and I swear I can see his lips curve into a Cheshire smile as he
leaves, disappearing from the reflection. The world is spinning but as I
finally turn and look, he's not there. He's gone... like he disappeared into
thin air...
I shake my head from it. I... I must just be seeing things. He's gone. It's
nothing.
/It's just your imagination./
It's just my imagination.
Right?
***** Sleep *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry these first few chapters are pretty shitty but it'll get a
     little more interesting as it passes :P
I can't sleep.
I don't know why. I guess it's the insomnia and the nightmares. It's the only
illness they're not lying about and even insomnia is just barely an illness.
It's more of a setback, I guess. Then there's the nightmares... I don't like
thinking about them but sometimes they still get to me and they'll keep me
awake in the dead of night when the rest of the house is fast asleep in a long,
dreamless sleep. Even when I'm desperate for rest, sometimes they'll still
creep under my skin and force me to lie awake for hours and hours, watching the
night pass through the windowsill in dark shadows and bright specks.
The moon rising and falling with its great craters and bright silver glow and
the stars and planets turning and rotating past Earth, twinkling and shimmering
like lampposts through the darkness. I'll be safe inside my room, listen to
Justin's steady breaths in the bed beside me: in, out, in, out through his nose
as he dreams of living in the far away lands of Narnia and Hogwarts and I'm
left trying to create my own fantasies of... well... I don't really have any
fantasies. Probably because I don't have a dream or a goal in life,
I'm just happy to just... be... I'm unhappy with the lack of sleep and how much
people tell me I'm ill when I'm not but I don't mind living this life. As long
as people leave me alone and I don't have to live by these stupid standards...
I really don't mind this. I could learn to live like this, possibly loving
someone, too. I mean... how hard could it be to love someone? I've never been
in love before and... I don't think I ever will fall in love... it's not that I
don't want to be in love it's just that... I don't know if I could fall in
love. I hate people. People are horrible, they haven't shown me an ounce of
kindness and the only one who has shown me kindness, doesn't know what life is
really about besides basically being completely and totally gay for your foster
brother.
One day Justin will learn. It'll go downhill for him like it went downhill for
me and he'll be terrified of life like I am. He'll hate it as much as I do.
He'll hate people and what they do like I hate people and what they do. He'll
see the truth behind what's happening to the world and the environment and how
fucked up everything is. How there are murderers and rapists and victims and...
and people like me... people who've–
Overall, I hate the feeling. I hate the world. I hate how innocent Justin is. I
hate how my thoughts lead here. I hate just lying awake with nothing to do. I
hate wondering what it's like to really live versus actually living the life I
want... but I can't live the life I want... I'm not even sure how to put what I
want into specifics... a house? A cottage? A mansion? Living with a lover? A
pet? A friend? Family? In the city? A forest? The mountains? Britain? Chicago?
Maybe just Tacoma. This city isn't that bad...
I roll over on my right side with my arms bend in front of me, one elbow under
my pillow one above it, just under my cheek with my eyes trained on Justin who
looks... peaceful... how does he look so goddamn peaceful? How does he look
so... happy with life? So happy with this fucked up world? Like nothing
matters. Like nothing could go wrong... like there are no murderers and rapists
and–
I keep studying him, his blonde hair that looks brown in the dim lighting,
nothing brightening the image but my eyes and the moonlight through the window.
It's about an inch or two longer than a buzz cut and covers a little bit of his
eyes. Drool is leaking from the corner of his soft, pink lips. It takes all my
will to just grit my teeth and try not to focus on it as my eyes continue to
trace his figure. His shut green eyes, his chubby cheeks. I hate kids.
I roll back over staring at the ceiling. The worst part about losing sleep is
when I see the hallucinations. I don't get enough sleep and I start seeing
things and it gets pretty fucking terrifying because I'm so sure that they're
there, watching me, but they aren't. It's just a ceiling but I see faces in
that ceiling, girls, boys, the man at Walmart, May, the boy whose name I always
forget who has anorexia. The creatures crawling across the surface with their
hands behind their backs and their white eyes staring down at me, slick
skinned, mouthless. All I can do it stare back and watch as they come and go
and the only thing that stops me from screaming from fear and terror is the
fact that I know they're not real.
Jesus Christ I just need to sleep.
So, I shut my eyes.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Nothing happens.
I only see the man at Walmart from earlier today. His dark hair, the blue eyes
and leather jacket. And that stubble. That goddamned stubble. I need to stop
thinking about him because I don't know who he is. I don't know why he was
there. I'm guessing he was a hallucination, too, from the lack of sleep.
Sometimes they'll come at really weird times in really weird places. It's
unsettling, it really is.
It really is...
***
"Patrick," I hear someone say in a daze-like voice beside me. I don't reply.
I'm so tired... I just wanna sleep a little longer... I haven't gotten this
much sleep in... forever.
"Patrick?" The voice says again. I let out a huff of air, frustrated for being
woken up so early, "Are you okay?"
I nod into the pillow.
Yes, I'm fucking fine now leave me the fuck alone. I want to sleep.
"You've been sleeping for fourteen hours straight. Mrs. Love wanted me to come
up and check on you to make sure you aren't dead." Lacey replies, I know that
voice.
My eyes open wide at the, "fourteen hours straight." And I actually have to
finish blinking away my sleep to process it.
I sit up and look over, my eyes darting up and down her figure as my tongue
darts out of my lips, she looks really nervous talking to me, I don't blame
her. I've given May nightmares in the past just from being who I am, I don't
think they deserve it but at the same time I can't help it and it's useless to
hear about if I can't do anything to help. So... I really don't care that she's
scared. She'll just have to deal with it like the strong fucker she is.
I lean over the bed, reaching forward and letting the carpet graze the top of
my pale hand as I pull my notebook and pen out from under my bed, fanning
through the pages and quickly scribbling down my message for the poor girl in
my neat handwriting.
/Does it look like I'm dead?/
She blushes and steps back slightly, scared and nervous as she stutters out a,
"N-No..."
I nod like it's reasonable and write in another message quickly, my hands calm.
/Tell her I'll be down in a little bit./
She nods, a short staccato nod, and, turns away, walking out of the bedroom as
fast as she can and nearly tripping as she sprints down the flight of stairs
leading to the living room to talk to Mrs. Love. My eyes watch where she was
for a moment as I'm lost in a short daze where my mind just goes...
thoughtless... have you ever done that? Probably not. I don't know.
Once I snap out of it, I let my eyes dart to the clock, I see numbers and at
first they don't make sense and I have to blink to truly process them but
afterwards, I actually understand them: 11:27 AM.
I don't want to get up. I really do not feel like getting up. I feel like
laying here and just... getting lost in my thoughts. No sleep. No food. No
showers. Just me and my deadly, deadly thoughts. I want to stay here forever. I
would if I could. If it means I don't have to talk to anyone else and just sit
here for forever, contemplating the world and trying to find the rhythm... the
pattern of the world. Everything has a pattern, have you noticed? Or... or some
kind of a cycle. There's the daily cycles, seven daily cycles in a week, four
weekly cycles in a month, twelve monthly cycles in a year. Wake up, eat, go to
your business, eat, come home from our business, eat, go to sleep. Birth, life,
death. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. They're all cycles.
Is there a cycle for the world, though? Is it undiscovered? Or is it the cycle
of history? Are there cycles in history? I need to stop thinking...
At least the hallucinations are gone.
It's right, the ceiling is just a ceiling. Just white paint on brick. There are
no inhuman creatures crab-walking across the ceiling, staring down at me.
Just... ceiling.
I shudder at just the thought of them, closing my eyes, but I only see the
creatures behind my eyelids and I have to open them again, shooing away the
unwanted visitors.
I don't want to get up. I want to sleep. I want to stay and sleep for forever
and never wake up... just sleep a dreamless sleep... last night was heaven. I
hadn't slept that well in... in... I've lost count of how long... my notebook
might know... maybe...
I frown and, now exceptionally curious, open up my notebook again, pulling my
knees up to my chest with the book resting on my thighs and I immediately fan
through the pages, looking for the last time I'd slept well.
/December 14th/
/I couldn't sleep last night. I kept seeing–/
/December 15th/
/They keep coming back in my dreams–/
I keep flipping through the pages... December 15th, 16th, 17th, 19th, 21st...
/December 22nd/
/I slept well for once last night. No more night terrors or hallucinations.
Mrs. Love kept asking me who Pete–/
I stop. I force myself to stop. I want to keep reading but I know I'll regret
it. Five years ago never happened. Five years ago I was happy. Six years ago I
was happy. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve years ago I was as good as I
am today. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years ago, I was
growing up in a happy family. Nothing happened five years ago. I was perfectly
fine. I still am perfectly fine. I will never not be perfectly fine. I'm okay,
I really am. Why won't anyone just accept that?
It was just a bunch of bad dreams. Nothing more, nothing less. I pull my
blankets up around myself and hope to god more sleep will just take away all
these stupid thoughts.
***
My eyes open slowly, like the waves of an ocean on the shore, the only
difference being my eyelids still half closed as I try to wake up at least a
little bit. The blankets are warm and I'm note sure what woke me up, I'm
guessing my subconsciousness or some shit like that. I know it wasn't a
nightmare, I can't remember having any nightmares last night and it makes me
kind of happy, proud of myself I guess. I don't have much to be proud of so
that's a first in a long while.
I squint as I look up at the clock and read: 7:47 PM. I slept for eight more
hours. That's... that's twenty-two hours straight... with one break, of course.
I guess Mrs. Love gave up on waking me up, that or she wanted me to sleep
longer. Either way, I think I've caught up on a bit of sleep. At least I'm not
as tired as I usually am and the walls and ceilings are just walls and
ceilings. No unique faces shining out in the dark, mouthless creatures out to
kill me, clowns, spiders, strippers, demons. Nothing. I probably need to write
soon, too. I always write in my notebook. I never don't write in my notebook.
If I don't write things in my notebook, I end up bottling everything up and Dr.
Johnson tells me to let it all out which usually involves a ton of screaming
and crying and breaking down and I don't do that anymore. It got scary for
Justin and Lacey and Tanya and Dylan and the rest of the rats that live in this
goddamned house. Have I mentioned that I fucking hate kids?
I don't want to get up, I really don't. It feels nice and warm laying here in
bed but I know I'll eventually doze off again and I don't want to let that
happen. It's already been twenty two hours, two more would be a bit much and I
need to get up sooner or later... I choose the former. I should at least say hi
to Mrs. Love. She might worry.
Haha. Funny joke.
My eyes are heavy as I throw the blanket off of myself and shut my eyes when I
pull off my shirt and grab a clean one. I don't like to see what my skin looks
like so I never watch. I don't look at myself in the mirror either, only to
comb my hair so I don't look like a mess. I don't like how I look naked. That's
the one thing I can't stand about myself.
I open my eyes once the new shirt is on my chest and I do the same for my jeans
and underwear, quickly pulling on a new pair. Ripped. Faded.
I head to the bathroom where I comb the part in my hair, trying my best to not
look like I just fucked a stripper in my bed with whips and chains included. It
makes me shudder at the thought of it. Sometimes I think of myself as asexual,
just because it's really hard for me to think about having sex with anyone. It
just... doesn't appeal to me I guess... I mean... I don't know. I'm confused...
I don't like sex. I've never liked sex. I don't like talking about it, I don't
like thinking about it, I don't like fantasizing about it. I mean... of course
there's the occasional girl I'll see in the streets but I'll think of her as
beautiful, not sexy. But otherwise, I don't think much of sex. I think it's
kind of scary in a way...
God, I don't know. I get so confused sometimes and it takes me years to figure
out if I'm straight or just asexual. Like... I wouldn't mind hooking up with
someone to go on dates or stuff but... Sex scares me. I'm just scared of
someone taking advantage of me.
I keep silent as I go back to my room, grabbing my notebook, and head
downstairs in short, quiet steps. The stairs creak ever so slightly under my
weight but it's not enough to distract the talking Mrs. Love in the living
room. I actually stop halfway down the flight to hear her, curious about what
she talks about while I'm gone. I instantly regret it.
It starts with a question asked by one of them. An innocent question, oh so
innocent but they doesn't know the half of what they're getting into.
"Mrs. Love?" Justin asks, I know it's Justin. Nobody else has that voice. Only
the little boy who might as well be gay for me because he loves me so much.
It's disgusting... well... not that gays are disgusting, I'm not homophobic or
anything but I don't really like it when people look up to me. I'm a bad
person. I'm a really, really bad person...
"Yes, Dear." Mrs. Love replies in her best caregiver voice, the one that
reminds me of Ms. Umbridge.
"Why can't we touch Patrick?" Justin wonders aloud. My breathing hitches at
this, my breathing hitches horribly at this and I'm surprised nobody can hear
me... It's the question that makes me realize this is going to be a long
conversation...
I sit down on the stairs, judging that I don't want to be standing the whole
time... I shouldn't keep eavesdropping. I really shouldn't. I could relapse
but... sometimes I can't deny myself the pleasure... Humans are so fucking
greedy... I hate it but at the same time I can't help but embrace it. I'll take
my pleasure over my health... Fuck.
"Um..." Mrs. Love is struggling with this one, it makes my insides churn. She
knows, I know she does. She still lies which I guess is good.
"Well, Dear... I don't know that..."
"But Mrs. Love I wanna know!" Justin whines like this is some sort of game.
Like life is some sort of game. I want to see the look on his face when he
realizes life isn't what he thinks it should be. I would fucking pay to see
that look on his face, to see the look of pure terror sketched across his
features. I want someone to capture the exact moment he realizes what life is
really about and how fucked up mankind is so I can see it. I think it makes me
some sort of a sociopath for saying something as messed up as that but...
whatever.
"Justin, even if I did know, I don't think it would be appropriate for someone
your age." She scolds. I shift uncomfortably on the stair, this isn't good.
This is getting me dangerously close to relapsing, I can feel my muscles
tensing, I can feel... I can feel him. But... I can't help it. I want to hear.
I want to know... I want to know what she'll say. I need to know.
"Please, Mrs. Love? I won't let the secret out," He whines and as I duck my
head, I can see him holding out his pinky for a pinky promise. How cute, "Why
can't I touch him? I wanna know what happened. Will he turn to stone or
something if we touch him?"
Kid. You don't know the half of it.
"Justin, all I know is that something really bad happened–" I should do
something to stop her. this is going too far... but I want to know so badly...
I need to know. I'm greedy to know what she thinks. It's fucked up but I just
can't stop myself, "–when he was in his last foster home."
"What kinds of bad things?" Justin asks, all I can hear for a few moments are
my unsteady breaths and the tiny creaking of the stair under my weight. All I
can see is the white of the wall guarding the flight of stairs. I strain my
ears to hear her next few words. What kinds of bad things?
Nothing happened five years ago.
"They hurt him. That's all I know, Sweetie." Mrs. Love replies.
I shouldn't have eavesdropped. I shouldn't have. I need to confront her
already.
I stand up and make my way downstairs, without a care if the stairs creak or
not as I quickly scribble out a message in my notebook... just a not-so-gentle
reminder to never talk about five years ago again. Nothing happened five,
seven, nine, ten years ago. I'm okay. I'm perfectly fine. Nothing happened.
"Why did they hurt him? And why can't he talk?" Justin asks, his voice still so
innocent. Shut up, Kid.
"I don't know, Justin. They never told me..." Mrs. Love says, "I think he's
going to be up soon and–"
"Patrick!" Justin squeals as his eyes lock with mine, I ignore them and instead
look to Mrs. Love who has a look of pure terror on her face. Bitch.
I hold up the message to her, I can see Justin trying to read it but he doesn't
understand half of the vocabulary in the message. Good. He shouldn't.
/Don't you fucking dare talk about me or my past again to anyone. I will
fucking tear you apart understand?/
She swallows and nods, "Could I... speak to you in private?"
I turn away, heading to our computer room where the door locks and there are a
couple of seats placed: a beige sofa and a brown chair at a dark oak desk. I
flop down on the sofa, sitting criss-cross with my back against the arm of the
seat and my pen in hand while I wait impatiently for Mrs. Love to return, my
foot tapping against my leg. I hear her muffled words through the paper thin
walls:
Mrs. Love: I need to go talk to Patrick
Justin: Why?
Love: He just wants to talk for a bit.
Justin: Okay, but you have to pinky promise to tell me the rest later.
Love: I can't, Sweetie, sorry
Justin: Why?
Love: Later, Darling
Just: Mrs. Love...
Love: Later.
I hear her creaking through the house and then the door open as she enters the
room.
"Patrick, you know I didn't mean for him to ask all those questions." Mrs.
Love's voice echoes as she shuts the door and locks it. I scribble down a
message in the notebook.
/You shouldn't have answered. Nothing happened. I'm okay./
I hold it up, looking right into her eyes and it's taking all my will not to
break down. I knew I shouldn't have listened. I knew I should have stopped
them. I knew, I knew, I knew...
"You're not okay. You don't talk, you can barely sleep, Jones said–"
/Jones can suck my balls./
"Patrick!"
/You don't know what happened. Quit acting like you do./
And with that I leave, Mrs. Love is protesting but she knows she can't stop me.
She knows what happens if anyone touches me. She fucking knows the
consequences. She's seen the consequences and if she thinks she can fix what
I've seen, what I've been through–
Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.
I slip my shoes on, willing the tears back.
Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.
First the right shoe.
Nothing happened five years ago. You were okay.
Then the left shoe.
You were forced here. You didn't want to come here.
Stand up.
Mom and Dad are just gone for a while. They'll be back.
Pull on my jacket.
You're not alone. They'll be back.
Scribble down a quick message.
It's okay. Nobody has to know.
Nobody has to know. Nobody has to know
"Nobody has to know, Patrick,"
Don't you dare relapse. Don't. Just–
"It could be our little secret,"
Stop it.
"Shh..."
No, no, no, no.
"You look so good..."
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
"Just lemme see you,"
The dreams. The nightmares. It never happened.
"Don't struggle, Baby. It's quicker this way,"
"Stop it!" I scream. Me. My voice. I'm losing it. No. Please. Stop. Stop. Stop.
"Shh, this won't hurt a bit,"
Mrs. Love's voice is being drowned out by the new one in my head as the long
held back tears fall from my eyes and I feel the floor collide with my side.
"Nobody has to know, Patrick," He says.
Pete... Please... Stop...
"Justin, call 9-1-1."
"Mrs. Love–"
"Do it!"
"It could be our little secret."
"Pete...
"Stop it...
"Shh, this won't hurt a bit,"
"P-Pete..."
"So good for me..."
"STOP IT!"
"Yes? 9-1-1? There's a boy at our foster home going through a relapse–"
"PETE!"
"We need an ambulance immediately."
And then it sort of just... fades out...
And I'm surrounded by darkness, the distant echoes of his grunts and Love's
rushed words...
And then I see him.
Flashbacks.
***** Relapse *****
Chapter Notes
     Updates will come at random tbh, comments are greatly appreciated!!!
The hospital bed is soft.
That's the first thing I notice as I stir awake from my deep sleep. It's soft,
like I'm surrounded by hundreds of pillows. A river of white pillows and I'm
drifting down the slow, steady current, past the headboard sunset and into the
sea. I feel dizzy like that, like I'm rocking back and forth and just staring
at the spinning, plaster sky.
This is what it's like to wake up from a relapse. You feel empty in a way.
Dizzy, but mostly empty. You feel so very empty. Like something is missing in
your life and you've forgotten what that something is but you can't really
discover what. You wake up and... and you can't really quite remember what
happened, although, you feel like you should. In the end, you just lay there
wondering what the hell you did to yourself. How the hell you got to the
hospital with needles in your arms and a heart rate monitor beside your bed.
And then it begins to come back. You just begin remember what happened. You
begin to piece the memories together one by one and your eyes widen as the
realization settles in. The horribly true realization. Something happened.
Something bad.
And I relapsed. I relapsed again. One year without a flashback. One year clean.
One year I was doing okay. One year without a problem arising. And it's all
gone, broken by a simple argument between caregiver and foster child. I'm a
mess. I feel like shit. I always feel like shit but I feel more like shit now
than I usually do.
Nobody has to know.
It makes me shiver and I shift uncomfortably, I hate waking up in the hospital.
I hate the feeling. It's such a horrible feeling. The feeling that you're
missing something. You feel alone. I am alone. I've never not been alone. But I
still feel empty in a way. Just... empty. My heart feels empty. My mind feels
empty like it's been accumulating waste from my insomnia from... from what
happened and when I relapsed, everything just spilled all that liquid and waste
out and now... now I'm empty... empty in an attempt to start again. All. Over.
Again.
And then deeper realizations cross your mind. My voice. I used my voice. I used
my voice. I had no use for my voice. I promised myself I wouldn't whisper,
speak, groan, moan, yell, scream ever again. I promised myself I wouldn't make
another sound. Why should I? Why... why should I...? There's no use... I'm
strong. I have to be strong... I can't be weak...
Pete got into my mind again. I mean... he gets into my mind fairly often...
almost every night but this time, he really dug under my skin, like the needle
in my arm. He really saw who I am. He saw how weak I am inside. He heard me
scream. Because of him.
Now there's healing. Dr. Johnson will have to talk to me... alone. Without the
group therapy. He's going to ask what triggered my relapse, what the flashbacks
were about, what they felt like, who I saw, if I'm okay, when our next
appointment should be. I'm okay, I really am okay. And I know I question it too
much but goddamn I'm going to question it again: Why won't anyone believe me?
Why won't they just listen to my pleas?
I hate this hospital bed. I hate this hospital. I hate this city. I hate this
state. I hate this country. I hate this world. I hate this universe. I hate
people. I just... I hate everything... I've always hated everything but I hate
it more now than I usually hate things. I just need to write and get this pent
up stress out... please...
My eyes dart up eagerly, wondering if it's here, if they brought it, maybe Mrs.
Love was sympathetic enough to leave it for me, maybe Justin thought it would
make me feel better. With the sight shrouded by my eyelashes, I can easily see
and recognize the book by the white cover and the clear handwriting: Belongs to
Patrick, Do Not Open, #10.
I reach up, cringing at the sight of needles in my arms but I have to read
through my notebook, to refresh the truth... to refresh it all... I need a
reminder every so often... I just... I need to remember... it is why I kept
those pages in there after all...
I grab my book, careful not to make too much noise and lift myself up in bed,
weakly, trying to position myself to read better with the snowy white pillow
propped up behind my back, before I flip through the pages.
It was nine notebooks ago, when I first came to Mrs. and Mr. Love's home (of
course, I always kept the seventh page in my newest notebook to remind myself
in case of a relapse). I had first wrote it in January, five years ago.
I know I said nothing happened five years ago, something did happen five years
ago, it just wasn't super big or anything. It was just... it was what made me
into what I am now. I mean...
Everyone thinks it's a big deal. It's really not... it's... it's really not
that big of a deal...
/March 7th, 2012/
/Everyone wants to know. Everyone wants to know what's wrong with me. Everyone.
It's driving me insane because nothing happened. I was sent to this stupid
place because the last foster home didn't work out for me./
/There was something about that place that was off. I don't know what it was. I
don't know what was wrong with it but I couldn't think straight around there
and it gave me terrible nightmares./
/They felt so real. They're were nights when I couldn't tell the difference
beetween reality and dreams and it just got so terrifying.../
/He was always there. The boy with black hair, he was always they clearest
thing in the room, he always is. /
/He would hurt me worse than I ever have before, beat me, rape me. I could feel
everything he did to me and I can't... I can't ever escape it. They always come
back. I swear I can feel him now, I can feel him shoving me down./
It's all smudged from my dried tears but I can still make out the words... just
barely. With my own added tears, I don't know how long I can last before I make
another noise.
/He'd call me a slut, make me beg, but no matter what he wouldn't stop. Then I
wake up and I see him sitting there at the end of the bed./
/And his name is Pete. I remember screaming his name in my sleep. I remember
the caregivers trying to calm me down but I couldn't because I was so convinced
he was real and he was coming to kill me... I just hate how it all turned out.
I hate how... how much it effected me./
/It was all so real. And I don't know where they come from. /
"Patrick?" My eyes dart up, I quickly press my notebook to my chest out of
reflex. They can't know. Nobody can know. It's a secret. It's my secret. Nobody
has to know what Pete did to me. The only person who knows is Jones and Dr.
Johnson. I specifically requested they don't tell Mrs. Love or just to tell her
about some parts of it. She doesn't have to know. Nobody has to know but me and
Pete and Jones and Dr. Johnson.
But now his name is forbidden. All thoughts of him have to go or else... or
else someone could find out... nobody has to know about him. He's gone now. He
isn't in my mind. It's over, now. It's okay. It's okay.
No more Pete. No more tears. No more words. Not another sound from me. I have
to build up my walls again. I can't let anyone see this side of me. I'm not
weak. I'm strong. I have to be strong again...
He could find me if I'm not...
I nod to the person at the door, the woman with long, black hair, dark chestnut
skin, and an overcoat draped over her skinny shoulders. That cliché detective
girl.
Jones.
"You doing okay there?" She asks, using that part of her voice that she always
uses around me. It makes me sick. It makes me want to scream because I'm sure
she uses that on all her clients or... victims... whatever you want to call
them.
I nod, truthfully. I really am okay. I swear...
"That's good," she takes a seat beside the bed, "Now, I know you don't want to
talk about it, you have Dr. Johnson for that–you are talking to him about that,
correct?"
I nod.
"Okay," she smiles her big, toothy smile. Fucking kill me now, "I have a few
questions, now. Do you think you could answer them for me?"
I nod again. I can't do anything but nod. She would get upset if I shake my
head and I really just want this to be over with.
"Okay," she breaths, "Can you tell me what triggered it? Was it a dream? Did
someone touch you? Did you see something?"
I shake my head stubbornly and swipe the pen from the desk to write down a
message for her.
/I'll talk to Johnson about it. What do you want./
She smiles but it's fake. Nobody would show a real smile to something like
that. Only someone like Justin would, but that's Justin, "Okay... Um... I came
to make sure you're doing okay. The thing is, I... I don't know if Mrs. Love's
home is the best choice for you..."
My heart drops. What if he lives at the next foster home? What if he finds me
and tries to kill me. Tries to take me home with him? What if he tries to hurt
me and beat me and rape me and burn me and cut me like he did before? I've been
here five years. I can't risk being caught by Pete. I can't risk him finding me
So I write it down.
/No. I'm not moving. I can't./
"Hear me out, Patrick..." she sighs, "A new place, kids closer to your age.
It's going to be better there..."
Bitch, I already said no.
/No./
She bites her lip, gazing down at the words, "Think about it, Patrick. I've
already told Dr. Johnson, he's going to be at your side."
Dr. Johnson my ass. I don't like him. So I vocalize my thoughts... well...
write them down at least...
/I don't like him. I want a new counselor./
She frowns and looks to the door, subconsciously, "What do you mean?"
I bite my lip. I'm not supposed to be weak again but I can't help it... I've
already broken down my walls... it's so tempting to do it again. I just need to
be strong...
Later...
/He scares me./
She raises her eyebrows in surprise, the dark muscles disappearing behind her
bangs, "Why does he scare you?"
I'm close to tears writing all this down. Goddammit... I hate telling her about
this because it's so embarrassing and... just all around weird... He reminds me
of /him/. Every man reminds me of /him/. I hate men. I mean... I'm not saying
they've all done bad things I just don't... I don't like them... they make me
think of that boy in my dreams.
/I don't like men./
She nods softly and reaches out her hand to rub my shoulder.
I flinch away, my breathing hitches. There's a moment where we're just staring
at each other until, with a shake of my head, she realizes her mistake and she
takes it back. Followed by the words, "I'll get you a new counselor. Different
therapy group, maybe someone one-on-one, does that sound alright?"
I nod, putting my notebook down.
"Thanks for sharing that with me, Patrick, it really does help now, I have to
go and they're letting you out soon. I'll be back in a few days to check in on
you, otherwise, I have to go. So, see you around?"
I nod shyly and gaze at the floor while I wait for her to go to leave.
"And, Patrick?"
I look up, my eyes meeting hers, green against brown.
Mine don't stay long.
"If you ever need to talk, just ring me up."
I nod, lowering my gaze again as the door shuts with a click and I'm left alone
with my thoughts. My deadly, deadly thoughts. Like the shadow to my life. It is
the shadow to my life. It drags me down. Always.
No more tears. No more sounds. No more of him. No more complaining. No more
loving. No more weak thoughts. No more emotions. You're strong. It's okay.
You're okay.
My hands pull the blankets up further, up to my chest where I set my notebook
back on he bedside table and try to fall asleep again, desperate for some kind
of rest because I'm tired and... maybe he won't come back this time.
Maybe it'll be okay and I won't have to see him again. Maybe everything will be
okay again...
Maybe...
***
/April 27th, 2017/
/It's been two days since the hospital released me and I'm getting caught up
with my thoughts again. I don't like getting caught up with my thoughts because
I always end up thinking things that people shouldn't usually think./
/The hospital wasn't too bad. I relapsed a long three nights ago... Jones told
me I might have to move soon. I don't want to move. I'm scared I'm going to see
him and he's going to hurt me. I'm scared he's going to find me... I'm so
scared but I have to be strong. I can't let anyone know. I have to be strong.
If I'm not strong then... bad things might happen and I don't need them to. I
can be strong. I have to be strong. If I'm not, people will see right through
me and I could have two him's to deal with.../
/I guess I'm just afraid of people taking advantage of me.../
/I don't like this. I don't like being me. I just want to be someone else, is
that too much to ask?/
/I want a normal life where I could know my parents. Where I didn't grow up in
a stupid place like this and learn useless things. I wish I couldn't be taken
advantage of so easily I wish–/
My pencil snaps from the pressure and it takes a moment for me to process what
just happened, my eyes wide and my mouth agape just the slightest.
I open my bedside table, shuffling through the objects only to find a few
unsharpened pencils, a couple broken, an eraser and nine other notebooks which,
to my disliking, will have to be burned soon. I can't let anyone see them. I
can't let anyone know what was in them. What is in them. They can't know what
I'm weak to, what I'm afraid of...
I need to sharpen my pencil. Shit. That involves me going downstairs which
involves me getting out of bed, possibly socialize with people I don't like
socializing with, and leaving behind the warmth of the blankets.
But I need to write and get all this fear and emotion out. I can't let anyone
see it. I can't let anyone know this fear and this hate and this...
everything... I can't let them know how confused I am and how badly he really
affects me... I can't let them know about the lies...
The lies I've been telling Jones.
I'm out of bed, though, because I try my best not to be lazy when I don't have
to be. I don't like seeming weak in that way, either. I don't like seeming weak
in any way I could look weak. I don't like seeming like someone I'm not. I
don't like anyone getting underneath my skin and seeing who I really am. I'm
not weak. I'm not pathetic. I'm not a fucking pussy. I can stand up for myself.
I don't need a guardian. I don't need someone by my side 24/7 asking how I am,
if they can help. I don't
I just need to get downstairs and sharpen some pencils. I need to let this
out...
I grab a few pencils, the broken ones and an unsharpened one with dull, jagged,
and flat tips. Ticonderoga #2 pencils... y'know, the yellow ones with light
green metal at the end that holds the pink eraser. Those ones have always been
my favorite and, thankfully, Mrs. Love buys them for me without hesitation...
mostly without hesitation.
I do remember a couple times when she was reluctant to. They were stupid
reasons but she was stubborn about them...
Mrs. Love was standing in the kitchen. Her hands in the soapy dishes, working
away as hot water ran out of the silver faucet and into the opposite side of
the kitchen sink. The clear water ran down the white porcelain smoothly, steam
clinging to the window above the sink as it cleaned each dish that had been
used and dirtied...
Mrs. Love turned to me with that ridiculously big grin across her features. She
greets me in her light tone, "Good morning, Patrick, how did you sleep?"
I shook my head, too bothered to reply, instead I held up my notebook and made
the motion of drawing with a pencil because I forgot to write down the request
before the pencil broke. I had been planning on it but I just forgot, I guess.
"You out of pencils?" She questioned, I nodded and mouthed out a, "please."
Her short gray hair shimmered in the sunlight as she shook her head, my heart
dropping a level or two as she started rambling on, "I don't understand why you
can't just say these things, Hon. I mean, what happened? Why can't you tell me?
Why didn't Jones tell me? I know I said I'd be okay with not knowing but
sometimes it makes me wonder what could have possibly happened in that foster
home that made you... you...
"I don't know. I guess I'm just rambling on but I really want to help you,
Dear." She said, "I think you could learn a thing or two from talking again..."
I shook my head, glaring straight at her with my eyebrows furrowed and my arms
crossed, holding my third notebook to my chest. I'm not speaking. There's no
use in speaking but to scream his name in the dead of night with nobody around
to hear... nobody to comfort my cry for help... it's useless.
"I'm gonna have to learn someday–" or never, "–can't you just tell me now?"
I shook my head and made the pencil sign again. I just need something to write
with!
She sighed at how stubborn I was but eventually just nodded submissively,
"Okay. Fine, but you're going with Mr. Love. I'm busy washing dishes and
watching Justin, alright?" She asked.
My eyes widened at that. Mr. Love? Why Mr. Love? Mr. Love terrifies me. Mr.
Love scares me. Every man scares me. Why shouldn't they scare me? I'm afraid
they'll pull me aside and, while nobody's looking. I'm afraid they'll shove
their hand down my–
I nodded obediently, though, I didn't want to cause trouble. I just wanted some
pencils...
I just needed to keep my distance from him and I'd be okay... If I stay away
from him I'll be okay... everything will be okay again...
In the end, I had to go to the store with Mr. Love. I didn't say a word to him,
he didn't say a word to me, we kept it that way through the trip... it's... not
that I dislike him, I'm sure he's a nice guy (if, you know, humans could
actually be nice things) but /he's/ tainted everything for me. And /he/ isn't
even real. I'm afraid every man will hurt me now because of some stupid night
terrors. Just because some kid in my dreams keeps hurting me... I don't know
why I always have these dreams and nightmares. I don't know what happened to me
to make me have such horrible images but it must have been something pretty
goddamn bad....
I blink as I continue downstairs, my heel hitting each step gently as I finish
my descent and find myself walking through the living room, passing by Dylan
and Tanya who both give me weird looks; I try to ignore them. I don't blame
their bewildered expressions, though. I almost never leave my room besides to
go to the bathroom, run errands, go downstairs to learn whatever the fuck Ms.
Love wants me to learn, or eat food. Otherwise, I lock myself in my room and,
contrary to the once rumored belief that I masturbate 24/7 without lotion,
tissues, or porn, I sleep, write, and read. I usually just wonder about the
world and how we got here...
Jesus, maybe I am emo.
I make my way into our small office where Mr. Love meets me at the doorway,
almost leaving to meet the other caretaker.
My breathing hitches slightly, and my heart is pounding as my eyes dart around
warily. The hall is empty. Nobody would know what he could do to me. Nobody
would know it if he stuck his hand down my pants and shushed me. Nobody would
know if he kissed me and forced me into the closet where he'd do what he
pleased with me.
I'd be another man's plate, serving food for his pleasure.
He passes right by me, though, like he never saw me and he's off to the living
room in long, wordless steps.
I stare for a moment, letting the anxiety pass before I'm straightening myself
again and heading into the office. I pull a pencil from my pocket and, without
a sound, begin sharpening it, watching the sharp blade cut into the fine wood
with short, fast strokes as I rotate the knob over and over again.
"Hey, Patrick," I hear a small voice greet me. I don't reply. I don't give him
any attention. I shouldn't... so I ignore him best I can, continuing to sharpen
my pencil, "I wanted to say sorry about what happened... I didn't mean to make
you rele-lapse and... I'm really, really, really, really, really, really,
really, really sorry..."
I don't look at him no matter how much it crushes me inside. He's just a stupid
kid. Just a kid...
/Patrick, he's just a child, at least give him a thumbs up or show him it's
okay./
I swallow.
"Do you forgive me...?" Justin asks.
I don't do anything, just keep sharpening my pencil. I can't do anything. I
want to but I can't. I can't let anyone get to me. I have to be strong.
"Please...?"
/JESUS CHRIST, PATRICK./
Nothing.
I shake my head and signal him to go away. To just leave me alone. To just go
away and don't come back. I don't want anyone to get to me. Nobody can get to
me. I'm strong. I'm not weak. He can't know that I'm weak. He can't know I have
any soft spots. He has to know he doesn't bother me...
He's not even real...
"I'm sorry..." Justin whispers, weakly, his voice cracking right along with my
heart.
And he's gone, leaving the room with tears gathering at his now wet eyes.
And I'm left, continuing to sharpen my broken pencils.
Strong but still incredibly weak.
***** Dr. Williams *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Patrick, meet Dr. Williams, she'll be your new counselor."
My eyes dart up and down her figure: red-orange hair, red lipstick, bright
smile, brown eyes, white dress shirt, knee length black skirt, black leggings,
black high heels. It makes me want to puke. I don't know why. I guess it's
because she's a person and people make me want to puke. Humanity in general
makes me want to puke but this specific person especially makes me want to
puke. It might be because of her bright smile and how she seems so happy about
the world despite the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of people going
through some tough shit and she's here acting like everything will be okay.
But I guess it's better than Dr. Johnson.
/Thanks./
I write it down quickly, in small writing because I've nearly filled up my
tenth notebook with my writing and I want to squeeze at least seven more days
worth of entries before I ask Mrs. Love to buy another one.
Jones smiles at me with that same sickening smile that every adult has these
days and holds out her hand to shake mine. I deny it. I'll always deny anything
like that. I still hate Jones for putting me through this, much more because
she has a habit of "forgetting" that I shouldn't be touched in any way. I don't
like being touched, not after... after him...
"Hayley, this is Patrick." Jones concludes on a darker note with her eyes on
the orange haired girl before she turns to me, "Behave, understand? She may be
your new counselor, but I want you to treat her better than you did Dr.
Johnson, okay? You're gonna get better, promise."
I don't do anything, just look her up and down with dull eyes. Get better. I
don't need to get better. You're on crack, Jones. Eventually she gets boring
and I'm switching my gaze back to my notebook where I write down a small
message for the doctor to see.
/Are we going to start or what?/
She smiles at me kindly and it makes me feel sicker than before. I hate that so
much. I hate the smiles. I hate the faces. I hate the people. I hate everyone.
People never done a good thing.
"So, I'll leave you two to it. I'll be back at the station if you need me, just
call, alright?" Jones says to me then turns to my new therapist, "I'll see you
in a bit and we can talk more."
Talk about me. Talk about the lies you've told yourselves about five years ago.
Nothing happened. Just a few bad dreams. Before I can stop myself, I'm rolling
my eyes and walking away to go ahead into the room with my hands in my pockets,
leaving Jones and Dr. Williams to say their goodbyes.
She's going to be another failure. They don't understand. They can't fix me
because I'm not broken. There's nothing wrong with me in the first place. What
they're doing is pathetic. It makes me sick, honestly. I just wish they'd stop
and move on, accepting the fact that there's absolutely nothing wrong with me.
I just don't talk and I don't touch. Is that too much to ask? Or does even a
minor flaw have to be fixed? Do I have to be a flawless diamond inspected at
every edge? Analyzed, tested, cleaned at the kitchen sink? 
"Hey, Patrick." The red haired woman says gently as she shuts her door behind
herself and takes a seat at the chair at her dark oak desk. I avoid her gaze
stubbornly, holding my notebook to my chest even as she begins asking
questions, "How are you doing?"
Nothing. I'm not going to answer to her. Not until they all admit that this is
stupid and that I should just go home because there's nothing wrong with me.
They're looking for something they'll never find. They're trying to split my
mind open and look for a flaw that isn't there.
She sighs when I don't even attempt to write in my notebook. It's not really
frustrated just kind of a disappointed sigh. I don't care. She should be
disappointed. There isn't a problem she could find in me. There's nothing wrong
with me. Just a few night terrors. That's it. I have nightmares and insomnia
and they won't go away. Nobody can fix them. All I can do is try to up my
dosage on sleeping pills and sleep away the fear. He is not real. He can't be
real. He is just in my imagination. It's okay. I'm okay. Why won't she
understand that?
"Let's take a look at your file, hmm?" She suggests half to herself, half to me
but I think it was directed more towards me.
What really scares me about that statement is the fact that she's already
learning how to break me. In less than five minutes, she has me figured out to
a point where I'm trapped and there's no escape. No emergency exit. No
loophole. She's going to find out about the dreams, about everything.
I hear her shuffling through a drawer in her desk, through all the folders of
her patients—her victims and I can't help but to turn my gaze from the wall to
see what she's doing. My lip is trapped between my teeth as she goes, nervously
tugging at the skin. No, no, no. She pulls out a yellow-white folder from the
drawer and places it on the desk, my name on it.
Unknown (Patrick Stump)
Dr. Williams shuts the drawer agonizingly slow before she opens the folder and
turns to me in her seat, announcing the contents inside, "Name: Unknown.
Date of Birth: Unknown.
Eye color: Green.
Hair color: Blonde.
Age: Approximately seventeen years. Height: 5' 4". Um... Let's see..."
She scans the page looking for something more when she comes across something
she know will make me crack, "Here. Your birth record was lost–scratch
that–there is no birth record. Your parents, siblings, any sort of family are
unknown and you weren't even found on a doorstep. Do you know why that is?"
I blink because, no, actually. I don't.
/No./
She looks up from it with a neutral face and nods after a moment.
"Okay," she says simply as she sets the file back down on the desk and turns to
me as I eye it warily, "How are you today, Patrick?"
I was doing alright until–
No. you gotta stay on her good side. You don't want her to read through your
file again.
/I'm okay./
She reads it over, a notebook in her own hand to take notes about me. What I
tell her, what she knows from my file, everything about me. I've done this
enough to know how horrible therapists and counselors are.
"That's good," Pause, "So, Patrick, why do you think you're here?" She asks,
shifting in her seat. I write down the truth, careful to make it neat and
legible.
/Because Jones says there's something wrong with me./
"And do you believe there's something wrong with you?"
That's an odd question. Nobody's ever asked that before. Maybe they should
have. Maybe that's just how Dr. Williams works. I don't know but it makes her
one step closer to the truth than she was before. That scares me.
/No./
She turns for a moment, grabbing the file and I'm curious. Really curious. Why
don't they know anything about me? Why don't they know my parents or my
siblings? I've never really questioned it before today. I mean I always thought
it was because I was found on a doorstep but now apparently I wasn't? I'm not
sure, I've never actually thought about any of this stuff. She pulls out my
medical information this time and looks over it.
"It looks like Dr. Johnson put you on Lunesta for your insomnia and... Paxil
for your PTSD, is that correct?" She looks up at me but I'm avoiding her gaze,
instead writing down a small note.
/I don't have PTSD./
She purses her lips, "Okay. Before we get to that let's talk about your pills.
Have you still been taking them? For your insomnia and, though you don't think
you have it, your PTSD?"
/Yes./
No.
"Okay, good." She writes down some notes, silence filling the room for a moment
or two, "So, why don't you think you have PTSD?"
I sigh. Jesus Christ this woman is retarded.
/I just don't. Nothing happened. I started having nightmares five or so years
ago and now–/
No. No. No. She can't see that. She can't know everything. Quit giving in, she
can't know. I quickly scribble out the last sentence so it's left with: I just
don't. Nothing happened.
I show her the notebook, her eyebrows narrow at my words but slowly lighten up
afterwards. I watch as she purses her strawberry lips and scribbles down some
more notes. It might just be my imagination but I swear I can see the words,
lying to himself somewhere in there. Then again, I can't be too sure.
"Okay, and your last relapse was...?"
/Five days ago, April 25th/
She writes that down, too.
"Can you describe... what happened? What you saw, what you felt, what you did."
I swallow, fear flashing over my eyes but I can't let anyone see it. I'm not
afraid. I'm strong. I don't have any weak spots. I can answer this... I mean...
she's going to find out about him sooner or later anyways... Dr. Johnson did.
Dr. Williams will, too. I... I don't want to say what happened because I was
scared. No. I was terrified. I could hear him. I could feel him. I... I felt
like he was real and he was there. I was scared.
/I saw him and I felt him and I screamed and blacked out. I woke up in the
hospital after that./
Dr. Williams' eyes widen at that and she immediately scribbles down more notes.
"Who is he?"
I swallow. I shrug like it's no big deal. It really isn't. /He/ doesn't know
where I am. /He/ can't find me. /He/ isn't even real. /He's/ just from a
distant dream, a nightmare that's lulled to a faint memory. She keeps bringing
/him/ back.
She sighs and turns back around to look through my file making my breathing go
unsteady again. I just wish she wouldn't touch it. I wish she would just leave
it be or look at it in her free time.
"Patrick. I'm going to say something that might trigger you. If it does, I need
you to listen to me and follow my instructions, okay? It's going to be okay
because nobody is going to hurt you here. No abuse, no pain, nothing. Alright?
My heartbeat quickens and my breathing stops for just a moment before it comes
back.
/Okay./
She turns back around and lowers her eyes to my file like it's a spell book and
if she says the names just right, she could make me scream in terror. Her lips
part just slightly and she says a name.
"Is he Victor Fuentes?"
I frown. Victor Fuentes? Who is he?
/No/
"Michael Fuentes?"
/No/
"No? What about Tony Perry?"
/No/
"Jaime Preciado?"
/No/
"Alexander Gaskarth?"
/No/
"Jack Barakat?"
/No/
"Ashley Frangipane?"
/No/
And why the hell would it be a girl?
"Seriously?" She watches me confused, a frown on her once gentle features like
I'm a puzzle. She has to solve me to fix me but I'm already solved with maybe
one missing tile that a piece was never made for.
/Who are these people?/
As soon as she sees the message, she reads it over again. And again. Then she
gives up and turns back to my file like something is seriously wrong with me.
"What about Zachary Merrick?"
/No./
"Rian Dawson?"
/No./
She bites her lip and flips through my file, eventually letting the captive
flesh go and stopping somewhere in the mess of papers. Her lips part again and
she draws in a slow, shuddery breath. She doesn't know it, though. /He/ isn't
real and I need to tell her. So I do.
/He isn't real. You can't find him. He's just made up./
She shakes her head, "I have one more name, okay? That's it."
/Okay. It's not going to be right./
"You don't know until you try.
"Does Peter Wentz ring a bell?"
I frown. Peter Wentz? Peter Wentz. N-no. Peter Wentz isn't real. Peter is just
made up. How... How did she find his name? It must be made up. Maybe they got
that name from me screaming in the middle of the night. It... it can't be true.
My breathing is getting faster and I'm getting light headed.
"Is that him? Peter Wentz." She asks.
I open my mouth like I'm going to speak. Like I'm going to tell her. It can't
be true. They had to have gotten it from my screaming. They have to have. He
isn't real. He isn't real. He isn't real.
/Yes./
Dr. Williams puts the file down and watches me for a moment, sees the fear in
my eyes. I'm weak. I can't be weak. He's going to find me. He's going to know
what happened. He's going to find me.
He isn't real. He can't be real. I made him up. He's all in my mind. He's just
a part of my imagination.
Why am I panicking? Why is it getting harder to breath? I can't... stop it. No.
I can't relapse. I can't. Stop.
"Patrick." She says.
I look at her with empty eyes, I'm gone. I'm scared. I'm terrified. I can't.
Please. I-
"Hey, you're having a panic attack." She says gently like her voice alone can
cure me.
I'm not having a panic attack. He's going to find me. He's going to touch me.
He's going to rape me. He's going to beat me. He's going to find me and without
mercy, he's going to make me scream and beg and plead for him to let me go. He
is real and he is going to kill me.
"Patrick, here." Dr. Williams grabs a stress ball from her desk and hands it
over but I'm so out of it I can barely concentrate on what's happening. I feel
dizzy and my head is spinning and I. Can't. Get. Air. My hands are shaking, I
feel tears rising to my eyes because I'm scared. I'm terrified. I keep looking
around because I know he's going to find me. How do I have before he gets here?
"Focus on the ball. I want you to feel the texture. Look at the color. Notice
the shape. Take in every single detail about it, okay?" She says.
I hesitantly follow her directions, if only to get an ounce of oxygen in my
lungs because they feel like they're burning. On fire. Turning to ash.
The color. The color is black. It's black. Dark black. Not like gray. But like.
Just black. The texture, it's smooth. I run my thumb over it. It's like. It has
pores. Pores like, small holes on skin. But it's small holes in foam. Doesn't
all foam have holes, though? I turn it over, it rolls smoothly in my hand from
the palm to my fingertips and back to my palm.
Just like magic, it causes my breathing to return back to normal and my eyes
are wide as I try to take in the last five minutes calmly.
"Are you okay?" She asks gently and waits for my nod before she holds out her
hand for the stress ball. I hand over despite the fact that I kind of want to
hold it a little longer.
/Where did you get that name?/
My handwriting is shaky, less legible than it was when I first came here. It's
just a bit of a mess now. Just like me.
She swallows, "I think you know where I got that name. You're just trying to
forget."
I shake my head vigorously.
/I'm not trying to forget anything. Did you get that name from my old
caregivers? Or Mrs. Love?/
She gives me a look. A look of concern like... motherly concern. A look of
worry. A look of pity. A look of fear. A look of... of... I'm not sure how to
describe it. It doesn't look right. She thinks I'm insane. She thinks I'm
crazy. What did I say? Was it me? Where did she get that name? I want answers
but she won't give them to me... is it my fault? Is it him? Is it because she
knows what he does to me in my sleep? I want to know. I need to know. I need
answers. Anything!
/Is he real?/
She bites her lip.
And she nods.
***
"Patrick? Sweetie? Are you alright?"
No. I'm not alright. I'm okay but I'm not okay. I need to get out of here. I
need to get some fresh air but I can't because he is out there.
So instead I lay here, my hands tangled in the sheets of my bed and my eyes
blanking out as they gaze at the door where Mrs. Love stands, her arms crossed.
"No," I want to say, "I'm really not okay. I've never been okay. He is real and
he is going to find me. I'm scared because my childhood nightmares are coming
alive and I don't know how. I'm scared because the look Dr. Williams gave me is
still bothering me. I'm scared, Mrs. Love, I've never been more afraid of
anything in my life. I want more answers. Who is Victor Fuentes? Who is Alex
Gaskarth? Who are these people? What's happened to me...? Why am I so confused?
"Am I weak for being scared?"
But I can't say that. I could never say that to Mrs. Love because she would
probably send me off to see Jones or Dr. Williams again. I want to know the
answers, though, not let my requests be ignored until I break. I need to know
what happened. I need to know. I'm desperate...
I give her a thumbs up but she only sighs and comes over to my bed, sitting on
Justin's beside mine, "How was Dr. Williams? Is she better than Dr. Johnson?"
I shrug and sit up, pulling my notebook and pen from beside me.
/She's okay./
Mrs. Love smiles, "That's good. I really don't mean to bother you but would you
mind running to the store to pick up some bread and butter?"
I rub my face but nod, tiredly, moving out of bed.
"Thank you, Sweetie." She smiles before she's leaving and heading back
downstairs.
I flip her off as she goes, careful not to let her see because I really don't
want to run to the store but I know if I don't she'll get mad.
I grab my notebook and a pencil before I'm pulling my shoes back on and
standing up, stretching. I really shouldn't go out in public, especially
because he could be out there but... just once won't hurt... right?
Jesus, I'm scared.
The walk downstairs feels like an eternity long as I walk in slow, reluctant
steps to Mrs. Love to get some money for some simple bread and butter. Why
can't she just send Justin? He's getting older.
/He's five for crying out loud, Patrick. Just go. /He/ won't find you. He could
be living anywhere in this world./
Okay. It's going to be okay. Don't be afraid because he'll be stronger against
you that way. It's going to be okay...
I stop in the living room in front of Mrs. Love, once I've made the long
journey down the stairs, who's collecting a twenty to give to me.
"Just the normal bread and butter we always get, Honey. Don't get distracted."
She smiles at me and zips her purse back up. All I can do is take a deep breath
and move toward the door in long strides. I set my hand on the knob but before
I can turn it, I hear my name and my heart sinks.
"Patrick?"
I stop, swallowing and trying to control my temper as I turn around to see the
small blonde boy looking up at me. I watch him, waiting for him to continue
halfway patiently, teetering on the impatient side.
"I... uh... I know I said it before but I wanted to say I'm sorry again for
making you relapse. And I... um..." he blushes nervously before he reaches up,
a dandelion in his hand, "I got you a f-flower... Tanya said you might like it
b-but I didn't know..."
His hands are shaky as he hands me the plant, I can feel everyone's eyes on me
and I know if I don't just accept it, they'll scold me through yelling and
disappointed sighs. So, instead of doing what I want to do and walk away, I
reach down and take it from his hand.
I hold my hand to my mouth and move it forward in his direction.
Thank you.
He smiles, blushing slightly.
I think he's gay for me. Actually, I can confirm he's gay for me. He gave me a
fucking flower for crying out loud.
"D-Do you forgive me?" He asks, hope in his voice. Hope that will never be
filled. Hope that will be full with false joy because I have to lie to get out
of this situation. Do I forgive him? Do I really, truely for breaking one year
record of being clean? Without a flashback? Without a sound from my throat
besides my screams at night? Do I really forgive him?
Fuck no.
Do I care?
No.
Should I anyways?
Probably.
Is that because everyone is watching us?
Yes.
I nod with a small, fake smile making a grin cross his face and his arms to
open for a hug but I've backed away before he can touch me. Nobody touches me.
I don't care who it is or what they want and I don't care that Mrs. Love might
scold me. Nobody can touch me. They're just going to hurt me.
Instead, I turn away, opening the door and leaving without another word. It
slams shut behind me with a squeak and a clang but I don't care. I just want to
get out and get away from my nightmares as I stand on the porch for a few
moments, gazing at the dandelion.
He's only asking for me forgiveness and I'm greedy for saying no. I'm turning
into one of them... I mean, I am one of them but I try not to be like the rest
of the people in this fucked up world. People never done a good thing. Justin
is different, he just wants my forgiveness. He just wants me to be his friend
and I've denied him over and over and over through the years. Maybe... Maybe I
really do forgive him. It's not weak... I'm just forgiving a child. He can't
find anything wrong with that. I'm still strong against him. He can't find me.
I bite my lip and roll the white dandelion in my hand, it had just bloomed and
now the white blossoms are falling from it.
So I hold it to my lips, the seeds brushing against the soft flesh and I blow.
I'm not sure what I wish for, it could be Justin's forgiveness, it could be for
him to grow up unlike Mrs. Love, pure, selfless. It could be for answers about
Victor and Jack and Alex and him. I'm not sure. I did have a wish, though...
I place the stem of the dandelion in my pocket, deciding that I'll keep it. I
don't know why I want to keep it. I guess I just do. I mean... why not? I
should keep it to remember...
And then my eyes shut, trying to take my mind off of my thoughts and remind
myself that he can't find me. He will never find me. I am safe from him and
anything he can do to me.
Inhale, hold.
It's gonna be okay. You're okay.
I open my eyes again, allowing myself to take in the sight, yellow-green grass
in our yard, red tulips and roses in the planters beside the house, Mr. Bryar's
house on the other side of the street.
Exhale.
It'll be okay.
I finally take my first step down the stairs, off the porch and towards the
store, deciding that I've stayed there long enough and that I just need to get
this over with and try to forget for a bit.
The walk doesn't take long, my head down, my hands in my pockets, my pace fast
like it always is. Fast because I don't like wasting time. Fast because I have
to be strong. Fast because /he/ could find me. Fast because every car that
passes could stop and take me away. Fast because no matter how strong I think I
am, I'm still scared. I can't be scared but I am. I'm not supposed to be scared
because /he/ can have power over me if I'm scared. He knows he hurts me and I
can't let him know that. So I walk fast because I am afraid. I walk fast
because I can't control my fear. I walk fast.
I reach the Walmart in less than fifteen minutes and proceed to walk through
the automatic sliding glass door, my head still down and my hands in my pockets
as I pull up my hood. I don't want /him/ to see me. I don't want anyone to try
to talk to me because I don't talk, I don't listen. I keep to the empty aisles
where nobody passes by me and nobody can touch me.
I arrive at the bread aisle, passing by only a couple people who were standing
too close not to be lovers and I don't understand how they can do that. I don't
understand how they can just... be okay with physical contact. It's just...
weird... although, maybe that's me because I don't want him to find me. Maybe
I'm overreacting and it's okay. Maybe he isn't really real.
Who the hell am I kidding, he has to be real. Dr. Williams said he was and she
had his name. She had his picture for crying out loud. How would she have
gotten that? Black hair. Brown eyes. The same muscled arms that pinned me to
that bed and–
There I am again, cutting off my thoughts. I really need to stop letting them
get there. I need to stop thinking about that. I just... I don't know... I need
to stop thinking. I think too much and my dreams take too much of my sanity.
They torture me. I don't understand why they can't go to someone else. Why it
has to be me...
I grab the bread from the shelf and walk away, feeling worse than before. I
just want to leave. I just want to go home and scream but I can't. There is no
point in talking, speaking, screaming. I'll always feel worse. I'll never get
better. That tension will always stay. No matter what I do. It's–
I turn and there's a woman watching me. I don't know who she is. I don't know
why she's watching me. But she's there, at the end of the aisle, her dark brown
eyes looking me up and down with a toothpick between her lips and a judging
gaze. Her gloved hands are stuffed in the pockets of her overcoat and she just
keeps staring. She won't stop. She just keeps watching. Judging.
I blink but she doesn't disappear. This is just another hallucination, right?
I don't know why but, though this is getting weird for me, she seems unbothered
and I can't help but soak in her details as I wait for her to do something. Her
hair is aqua blue with streaks of darker blue and even some silver, her eyes
are a dark brown, like the last man I saw at this Walmart. 
She squints at me like she's trying to figure me out before she turns away with
a small smirk and I'm stuck in place, terrified. Who is she? Why was she
looking at me? Where is she from? What happened? Is there something wrong with
me?
Did /he/ send her...?
N-no. That's ridiculous. If he wanted me, he would come himself. He doesn't
work like that. She's just a creep.
Right?
I don't know what controls me as I take my pencil from my pocket and open my
notebook to write a small question for her. I don't know why I do it. I guess
it's because I want to know. I need to know. It's like a constant desire and it
won't go away.
I abandon the bread as I run through the aisles to stop her just as she's about
to leave. She turns, looking down at me with a gleam of revenge in her eye, and
she reads the question thrown in her face.
/Who are you?/
She takes my pencil from my hand and under it writes a three word answer, not a
sound coming from her besides the pencil on paper and the sound of ruffling
paper as she hands back the notebook and utensil.
/Your worst nightmare./
And just like that, she's gone.
Chapter End Notes
     Oops these updates are pretty frequent sorry. I promise they'll space
     out once they catch up with my writing (I'm like 22 chapters in right
     now :/)
     Anyways, hope you enjoyed and like always, don't forget to leave a
     comment or a kudos :)
***** Pencils on Paper *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
/May 7th, 2016/
/I haven't had a chance to write because I just... couldn't. I didn't have the
will and I just wanted to sleep. My insomnia kicked in and when I did finally
get to sleep after my pills, I had night terrors and Justin woke me up because
I was screaming. /
/I found out something scary, really, really scary./
/He is real. Dr. Williams, my new counselor, told me. She said his name and
told me he was real. I went into a panic attack where I had to squeeze and
examine a stress ball. It was black, foam. I don't know. It was kind of weird
but it worked./
/Now, I'm laying in bed. I can't sleep. I'm not tired. I just want to stay up
and write for a while. I haven't gotten very much sleep lately. He keeps me up.
Last night, he tied me down and raped me. I could feel everything. It hurt. It
hurt a lot. Afterwards, he called me a cunt and left... I felt... I don't know.
I just felt like shit. I tried not to scream. I tried not to let his words get
to me. I tried not to beg. I tried to stay strong but I broke that night. I
screamed, I cried, I begged, I did everything I could to try and make him stop
but he wouldn't. I broke again and I told myself I wouldn't. He can't know I'm
weak. I can't be weak. I'm not weak. I'm strong. He can't know he gets to me.
He can't get to me. He doesn't get to me./
/I'm recovering from the relapse fairly fast. Jones congratulated me last night
when she called Mrs. Love to ask how I'm doing. I held up signs for Love to
translate to Jones because I'm still not going to talk. I don't care how much
they want me to. They're crazy. There's no point in talking and besides, my
voice would probably take months to return to normal./
/I met a woman at Walmart on the 30th. She kept staring at me like the man from
a few days ago. She had this aqua blue hair and she was kind of cute but...
again. I don't think I could ever do anything sexual. It's just... weird. She
turned around after a while and I chased after her. I asked her who she is and
she wrote:/
/Your worst nightmare./
/And then she was gone. I know it's not a hallucination. The writing is still
there. I don't know who she is but I have a feeling she's related to him. I
don't know why. I guess it's because he is my worst nightmare but I can't be
sure. Sometimes I think I'm just being paranoid but... no I can't be. He is
real. He is real and I know what he does to me in my sleep. What if he finds
me? And hurts me like he does in my sleep?/
/I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore. I'm just trying to pass the time by
writing here. Trying to get rid of all of this fear because I can't have fear.
I'm stronger than that. He can find me if I'm scared./
/Vic Fuentes/
/Jack Baracat/
/Alex ???/
/Michael Fuentes/
/I can't remember the rest but Dr. Williams was listing them off yesterday when
she asked who he is. I think they're important but I'm not sure how so. It
scares me, though. She found them in my file. I wonder what else she found in
my file./
/She said something about how nobody knows my parents and I asked why. She
didn't reply. I still wonder. I wonder if they have information on Him in
there. How now I'm haunted with a man I've never even met. Black hair. Tanned
skin. Purple tattoos. Faded purple. There's this tattoo just at his waist that
I see a lot. It's like a bat heart skull I guess. It's the best way to describe
it. It makes me uncomfortable to think about. Like the tattoo itself will hurt
me somehow. Like it'll peel off his skin and attack me. Slit my wrists, stake
my heart. I'm afraid./
/Justin kept talking to me this past week. He asked what I always write about
and... I'm beginning to show him a little more gratitude. I've come to the
conclusion that he's innocent. That he really is. Nobody has gotten to him yet.
Made him greedy. Hurt him past repair. He is pure and I like that. He gave me a
dandelion the other day. It's pressed here. He gave it to me in the hopes I'd
forgive him for the relapse and I did. I think I really do forgive him. He
didn't mean it. It's okay. I think it's okay at least. I mean... it's not like
he wanted me to go through what I did.../
/I can still hear him sometimes... The way he pinned me down and.../
/Peter Wentz/
/That's his name. I want to see his file. I want to know who he is. How he came
into my dreams. If he really is as bad as my dreams say. I need to know him. I
need to know if he really is dangerous and if he wants to hurt me.../
/I can feel him again. His hands on my skin. His grunts in my ear. The way he
pants my name and calls me a slut and hits me and burns me with his cigarette
and cuts me open for the world to see. So the world can see my flaws. My fear.
My hatred. My past. My pain. How ugly I really am on the inside. How filthy I
am. A whore. a slut an accident. I should have never been born. my parents
never wanted me my mom left my dad left im alone and i cant take it and im
going insane/
"Patrick! It's time to go for your appointment!" Mrs. Love calls from
downstairs. Her voice bright. My eyes widen and my breathing returns to normal
as I realize how far I went. I need to stop. I need to burn these pages. I need
to burn these notebooks. Tonight. I'll burn them. Nobody will find them. Nobody
can know.
I have to go to my next appointment with Dr. Williams. I need to ask her about
him.
I shut my notebook softly, reluctantly, the pages fluttering. I don't really
want to leave but at the same time I do. I guess it's because I need to ask Dr.
Williams about Vic. I guess it's because there's something she isn't telling
me. I guess it's because I want to tell her about the woman at Walmart. I need
help. I need answers. I just need... some grasp on my life that isn't a lie...
I grab a sharpened yellow pencil from my bedside drawer and set it beside my
notebook before I'm slipping on my shoes and jacket and leaving the bedroom to
head downstairs, the book and utensil in hand. The steps creak under me with
each step I take. I sigh quietly and continue downstairs, the wood platforms
cold. Mrs. Love slowly comes into sight at the base of the stairs, shuffling
through her purse with Lacey by her side but what really gets my attention is
Justin who's looking up at me. His light blonde hair is messy on his head and
his baby blue eyes look curiously up at me. I only raise an eyebrow at him,
unsure of why he's waiting for me. Probably his homosexuality.
"Patrick?" He asks softly.
I continue to look at him, waiting for him to go on. He takes a deep breath and
with a pump of determination, he continues, "I know you have to go but I want
to ask you something really important. Um... Who is Pete?"
My knuckles turn white on the stair railing as I take a step back, my heart
thudding powerfully in my chest. Pete. Pete. Pete.
No. I will not relapse. Not again. Deep breaths.
In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Out, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
I open my notebook, writing out a quick reply to his question as soon as I've
calmed down. And... it's the truth...
/I don't know./
His eyebrows narrow as he tries to read the message which takes a few moments,
when he does, his brows relax.
"But, Patrick--"
"Justin, we have to go, please let Patrick through, Sweetheart." Mrs. Love says
gently from where she's getting ready to leave out the back door with me.
"No, wait–" Justin starts but Mrs. Love is already pressing him aside to let me
through and I take the first opportunity I get.
Until I feel his hand wrapped around my wrist.
My eyes widen and my heart skips a beat. His hands are warm on my skin. His
fingernails digging into the flesh.
/"Don't try to struggle against me, Slut."/
"Justin let go of him." Mrs. Love demands.
"I-I'm sorry!" I feel his hand leave my skin but it still burns. Burns like
Pete. Burns like fire. Like it'll never go away and it's all I can do to
stumble back, tripping over my own feet.
"Are you okay?" Love asks, kneeling down beside me. I'm not. I'm scared and as
her face gets close to mine, I immediately pull away, with my knees to my chest
and tears rising to my eyes.
/She's going to hurt you. She's going to hurt you just like he did./
All I can do is sob and shake my head, the images of Pete flashing before my
eyes.
/"You know you deserve this." Pete growls into my ear as he shoves me against
the wall, his warm breaths putting droplets of moisture in my scalp. He turns
me around and slams my face hard into the wall, watching as a stream of blood
begins to leave my nose and drips down to my lips, my tears mixing in the red,
"Don't you?"/
/I can't answer, my eyes are wide with tears and fear and pain./
/"Don't you!" He screams making me jump and sob harder./
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. The dining room is back. Mrs. Love is there in
front of me with a phone handy but it doesn't look like they've called 9-1-
1 yet.
"Are you okay? Do you need water?" She asks but I only flinch away from her,
shaking violently.
Leave me alone I mouth to her, desperate to just be left. Just to be. I don't
want to be hurt again. I don't want anyone to touch me. I don't want anyone to
talk to me. I just want solitude. I just want him to go away.
/"You want me gone? You want me to leave you alone?" He growls in my ear as he
continually slams my face against the wall, making me cry out with each impact,
"You. Think. You. Can. Control. Me? You. Think. I'll. Just. Leave? You are so
stupid. So pathetic."/
"Patrick, do you want us to call 9-1-1?" Mrs. Love asks gently.
I shake my head, my fingers uncontrollable and my knees weak as I take my
notebook and pencil from the floor.
/Leave me alone./
/"Leave you alone?" Pete throws me down on the bed, I quickly pull away, my
breathing fast and unsteady and I think I'm going to puke out of fear and
stress, "Leave you alone, you little slut, you think anyone will just leave you
alone? You're pathetic. Nobody will ever just leave you alone. This isn't a
perfect fucking world where everything will get better. You see the scars under
your shirt? Across your stomach and chest? You did that to yourself. Attention
whore. You're just using me as an excuse to be special."/
"Patrick, Sweetie, we can't just leave you alone we need to know you're okay."
/He pins me down on the bed, I can feel him through his pants and it only makes
me sob harder./
/Please, stop./
/Pete chuckles at my panicking, only continuing to unbutton my jeans to which I
kick at him and struggle away./
/"Oh, 'Trick, I don't think you want to do that." He growls as he yanks me back
into place and pins me down with a knee on my chest, "Are you going to stop
struggling or do I have to hold you down?"/
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" I whisper out, my voice hoarse from the lack of
use and pure fear in my eyes as my vision flashes between Pete and Mrs. Love,
"Please, stop it."
"Patrick, stay with me, I'm going to call up Dr. Williams, okay? Just stay with
me."
I nod softly, swallowing.
She grabs the phone from the table, everyone crowded around us, Lacey, Tanya,
Justin, Mr. Love... I can't... focus...
/Pete throws off his shirt and forces me on my stomach where he pins my face
into the mattress just so I can't breathe and pulls off my pants in a swift
movement. I kick at him, struggling against his grip and sobbing in fear. I
just want him to stop. I don't want this to happen again. I don't want to go
through this. I just want it to stop. I want to be left alone. I want to just
be... I just want to be.../
/"Patrick." He says. I continue to kick against him, tears leaving my eyes as
he flips me back over and I finally take a deep breath with my lungs screaming
and burning in pain. My chest is heaving, desperate to get away, to not be a
captive but he has my hands above my head and I'm in just my underwear and a
shirt and I'm panicking and I think I might follow my lungs in screaming./
/His dark eyes gaze down into mine, caring, gentle, and it only makes me shrink
as he cups my jaw gently, wiping the tears away before his lips rest on mine.
And all I can do is lay limp in his arms, not kissing back because I'm afraid
of what he will do if I fight./
/Just let it happen. Don't let him know you're scared. He'll only make it
worse./
/I relax my muscles, still shaking as he pulls away, licking off his lips, "You
gonna calm down now?"/
/I don't do anything, just stare off to the side, avoiding his once again sharp
chestnut eyes. Sharp. Dangerous. Dominant. Strong. Overpowering./
/He grunts in reply as I focus on keeping a neutral face although it's hard to
keep it when he's breathing down my chest like this. He gives me a wicked,
toothy grin before his gaze leaves mine and his hands leave my wrists to begin
unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and I have to look away because I always
hate this part. I hate how he forces his hand over my mouth while he pounds
into me and calls me a slut. I hate how his voice deepens the words and makes
it sound like I killed someone. Like I'm the rapist. Like I'm not a victim at
all and this whole dream is my fantasy./
/Like I'm a monster./
"Patrick, hey."
/"They're trying to take you out of here." Pete says above me with a small
grimace, "I think we can squeeze something in here before they do."/
/I still don't say a word, I just silently pray that I'll wake up. That they'll
save me and this can end. I just want to wake up and never come back to this
place again. I want to forget this ever happened. I want to be okay. I want to
be okay./
"Patrick, can you hear me?"
/"Please, please, please," I whisper out despite the fact that Pete's yanking
down my underwear and forcing my legs around his waist again, "Please, please,
please," I'm crying again, I want it to end. I don't want to go through this
again./
/"Shh," Pete whispers as he lines himself up./
/"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Please! Stop! Please! I can't... I can't..."/
"Patrick!"
I blink as tears roll down my cheeks, wet and salty on the dry skin but it
doesn't bother me as much as it should. I'm shaking violently with my chest
heaving in panic because I'm afraid. I'm terrified that he's going to come
back. I think I'm going to puke. I can barely focus on the fact that Dr.
Williams in in front of me shining a flashlight in my eyes because I'm so dazed
and scared.
Be strong. Don't let it show.
"Patrick, are you here?" She asks in a quiet voice as she continues looking
into my empty eyes, the flashlight now off.
Here. Here. Here. Am I here? Am I in reality? Or am I still living a nightmare?
Is the world still breathing around me? Or has the world gone gray and dead to
me? Am I ever really here? Or am I somewhere else? Am I trapped? Am I a
prisoner to my mind? To a man I've never even met? I'm out of it. I don't know
what is reality anymore. What if this is a dream and he is reality? What if I'm
dreaming because I can't accept the truth?
What if I made this up?
"Patrick?" Dr. Williams asks as she sits in front of me. The dining table has
been pushed back so she can work and I think everyone else is outside because
they're gone. It's just her and I and that scares me almost as much as he does.
"Nod if you can hear me." She says quietly, looking across my face for any kind
of response.
I don't know if I should. If I should trust her enough not to touch me if I
nod. I don't know if she'll hurt me if I do nod or not. I can't be sure. I can
never be sure. I can't trust anyone at this point. Not if there's a chance that
they'll end up like him. But... at the same time, Dr. Williams wouldn't have a
reason to hurt me. She's here to help me just like Jones said... Even though I
don't like Jones but... still. Jones wouldn't lie to me and I don't think I
have a reason not to trust her. She hasn't done anything against me yet. What
if it really is okay?
The thing that really gives me the energy to nod is the fact that I'm shaking
so much that I can't breathe and I need to breathe. I need to do whatever she
does to help me breathe. She can help with that like last time. I just need to
calm down because I'm panicking. I'm afraid. I feel vulnerable and I need to
feel strong again. Like he can't hurt me.
I nod softly, my head bobbing and moving a few stray hairs. My eyes are focused
again. Gazing up into her soft brown eyes with my own, teary and weak. Almost
as soon as I give a response, her worried look is broken and instead looks calm
and soft and warm and it hurts. It hurts that she can just fake something like
that so easily. That she actually has to fake it for me. Dr. Williams clears
her throat as she watches me struggle, my hands shaking, sweat accumulating on
my skin, my breaths weak and fast and she finally begins to help me, keeping
her hands to herself respectfully.
"Good, now," She lets her eyes trail over my face and make me shrink back just
like I did him, "I want you to name five things you can see," Pause, "And write
them down in your notebook," She says gently as she gestures to my book with
her eyes.
I look to my side to see it myself, leather cover, simple pencil and shakily
pick up the utensil, opening to a blank page to follow her instructions in the
hopes I'll be able to breathe again because he is still on my mind and I can't
get the image of him away. The bat heart skull just above his crotch. His dark
hair. His sharp eyes. The brown edges and the black pupils, dilating as they
look over me. Vulnerable. Weak. Shaking under him because he knows it's no use
for me to fight back. There's no use for me to struggle against him. He'll
always overpower me no matter how strong I try to be. He'll always be above me.
Five things I can see. Five things I can see. As I gaze at my notebook, I
immediately find two and struggle to fight through the pit of my mind in order
to write down what I need to. And get my breath back.
/pencil
notebook/
My writing is shaky, I notice, as I scribble down the words, pressing down on
the lead hard enough to break it but it stays strong surprisingly enough.
Unlike me. As soon as two things are written, I look up, letting my unfocused
eyes try to focus on something and eventually, I come up with three more things
to finish her list.
/table
light
you/
Dr. Williams nods softly, "Now breathe in, count to ten."
I comply quickly, looking up into her gentle eyes with my own, fearful, scared,
paranoid as I feel my chest rise to her count, "One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven," My chest feels like it'll burst, I need to exhale, "Eight, nine,
ten.
"And out." I release the pent up energy into the space around us, "Ten, nine,
eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."
My breathing returns to its fast pace, just slightly slower than before as she
smiles across at me, "I want you to name four things you can feel. Write it
down just like before."
I swallow, my throat dry as I clench my fingers around the pencil even though
my skin feels slightly numb and it's hard to concentrate on just one thing.
/pencil
carpet
notebook/
I swallow, stumped with my list because I'm not sure what else I feel.
And then I know.
/him/
I look back up to Dr. Williams.
"Breathe."
In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, hold, out, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, hold.
"Now three things you can hear."
Three things I can hear.
/you
the light buzzing
fast breaths/
"Breathe."
In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, out, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
"And two things you can smell."
This one is a little harder, I quickly realize as I position the lead on the
paper because my nose is stuffed from crying.
/tears/
And... and... I look around with my eyes wild, still hard to concentrate but
it's getting better.
/candles/
Dr. Williams smiles at me, "Breathe, you're almost there."
In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, out, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
I notice it's getting easier to breathe, there is no more pressure on my chest.
Only the soft flow of air.
"Now, name one thing that makes you happy."
What?
One thing that makes me happy?
I... I don't know if there is anything that makes me happy. I don't know what
to write. I'm stuck again and I don't know what to write. Happy? Me? I don't
think that's even possible. Happiness is an illusion, isn't it? Happiness isn't
real. Still, it should be an illusion to me so shouldn't I feel it too?
Shouldn't I experience happiness? Maybe... Maybe there isn't much that makes me
happy. I wouldn't say my notebook makes me happy, it satisfies me and keeps me
in check. Justin kind of annoys me but I guess sometimes he does put a smile on
my face. Mrs. Love doesn't make me happy. He doesn't make me happy. Right? Dr.
Johnson scares me. Jones just keeps me in check. Mr. Love scares me. Mia pisses
me off. Dr. Williams. She satisfies me...
Maybe Justin does make me happy. Justin and my notebook. Maybe that's all that
really matters to me.
Justin doesn't matter to you. He can't. No soft spots, remember?
No soft spots. I don't want him to know I have any sort of weakness at all.
/notebook/
Dr. Williams nods at my answer as if she understands why my notebook is so
important. As if she could begin to grasp why I absolutely need a notebook with
me at all times. As if—
"Are you okay now?" She asks softly as she takes a notepad from her pocket and
a pen from behind her ear. It's silver with a black handle, I notice, almost
like one of the pens on Mr. Love's desk.
I nod in reply, the shaking gone like magic as I pull my jacket closer around
myself, suddenly feeling kind of cold.
"Do you know what triggered it?" She asks and when she sees my reluctant
expression, she quickly adds, "So I can try to understand. I'll help him go
away."
That's reasonable.
I pick up my pencil again and write down another message.
/Justin touched me./
Dr. Williams quickly writes that down while spitting out another, "How did he
touch you? Did he grab you? Or was it softer?"
I bite my lip. It's not that I don't want to tell her, I just don't want to
think about it because I'm scared it'll start another episode.
/He grabbed my wrist when I had to pass by him to leave./
Her eyes flicker over the writing as fast as the crack of fire destroying wood
and as soon as she finishes reading my small writing, she scribbles down
something else and asks another question, "And what did you see when you had
the episode?"
I purse my lips, do I really want to tell her? Will I sound crazy if I tell
her? Will she put me on more medication? Hurt me? Snap? What if she thinks I'm
lying?
"Patrick." She hums gently almost as if she can read my mind, "It's okay. You
don't have to be scared. I won't tell anyone, your secret is safe. I promise."
I grip the pencil and I don't know what it is about her. Maybe it's the fact
that she's a woman and the idea that women won't hurt me has been drilled into
my mind. Maybe it's her warm smile. Maybe it's the fact that she hasn't
disrespected my trust yet and I have no reason to not trust her but I want to
tell her everything. I want to tell her what he does. I want to tell her
exactly what happened. I don't want to hide behind lies anymore. I just want to
tell her who he is and how he treats me. Like his own personal slut. Whore.
Toy. Pet. I can't tell her all of that, though. I have no reason to trust her.
I've only been to one appointment and I doubt she can fix me. Nobody can fix
me. Nobody knows what happens.
I... I'll tell her what I can. I'll tell her what she can know and if she asks
more questions, I can answer those however I want...
/He was there./
She sighs, almost in disappointment. It makes my heart sink. It makes me back
up into the wall again, afraid that she'll hurt me like he does.
"What did he do to you?"
I can only shake my head in reply, tears forming at my eyes again.
/"Leave you alone? Leave you alone, you little slut, you think anyone will just
leave you alone? You're pathetic. Nobody will ever just leave you alone. This
isn't a perfect fucking world where everything will get better. You see the
scars under your shirt? Across your stomach and chest? You did that to
yourself. Attention whore. You're just using me as an excuse to be special."/
I can't. I can't tell her. She can't know. Nobody can know. They'll hurt me.
They'll use me like he uses me. He doesn't use me in good ways. I'm just afraid
I'll be raped. Slapped. Beaten. Abused. Hurt. Maybe even killed. I don't want
to die. I mean... if it's my time, it's my time. I'll accept death with open
arms but I want to avoid it if I have to. I just... I want to be left alone. I
want to live normally like everyone else. I don't want insomnia. I don't want
him in my life. I don't want anyone in my life except maybe Justin. Otherwise,
I just want me, myself, and I. I don't want anyone else.
"Patrick, you have to tell me. Did he hurt you?" She asks.
I freeze up. How does she know? Did I tell her? Maybe she guessed? Maybe Jones
told her that. Maybe I'm overreacting and it was just a small assumption.
Maybe I should tell the truth...
/Yes./
I stare at the word for what feels like an eternity, unsure if I'm really going
to show her. Unsure if this is really the best choice but something inside me
says yes. Something says I need to show her even if I don't want to. Something
inside me says, "show her. She can help."
And... And I do...
I show her the one word answer and her expression goes from worry to pursed
lips and more notes and that alone makes my heart sink to my stomach.
"I'm not going to ask any more questions because I can see you're upset.
Scared. Confused maybe?" She says gently, "Is there anything you'd like to tell
me?"
I swallow and nod vigorously because yes, actually, I do thank you very much. I
quickly scribble out a statement, asking permission because it seems kind of
respectful and I might want to get on her good side for this.
/Can I ask a question?/
She reads it over and nods, "Of course."
/Who is he?/
As soon as she processes it she bites her lip, "I don't know if I can give out
that information..."
I frown.
/Please. I need to know. It's scaring me. I'm afraid he's going to find me./
She sighs again, "Okay. Hold on."
I watch eagerly as she flips through her notepad and stops at a certain page,
"His name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third." Just his name making me
clench my notebook and pencil tighter, "He's an orphan, just like you, his age
is unknown, just like you..." She glances up, "Does any of this ring a bell?"
Just like me. He's just like me? How? How could that be possible? It doesn't
make sense. None of it makes sense...
Maybe it's not supposed to... Maybe there's something she's still hiding from
me...
Maybe...
Chapter End Notes
     This is really shitty I'm sorry :/
***** Masks *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It's been ten days since Justin touched me. May 15th. I don't know if it's just
me or if he's been avoiding me lately. Whenever we're in the same room, he'll
always keep his head down and even go as far as to leave. Whenever we're
eating, he'll always sit as far away from me as possible. Usually by Lacey or
Tanya. When we're sleeping and I lay awake at night, he tosses and turns and he
hides under his blanket when he goes to bed. I have a feeling it's my fault. I
scared him off. I shouldn't have freaked out over him touching me but, of
course, he had to come back.
I've been having less and less dreams about /him/ lately and it's comforting. I
still have to take my sleeping pills (Dr. Williams told me I have to take them
nightly now, even when I probably can get to sleep) so I'm getting more sleep
in. I had one dream a couple nights ago but he didn't even hurt me. He just sat
beside me against a wall as we stared at the ground awkwardly. He didn't once
try to touch me but I know he will soon. It'll get worse. It always gets worse.
Mrs. Love doesn't talk to me much anymore either. She always just gives me
short nods now and then and when she does talk to me, it's to get me out of the
house. I wonder if she all of a sudden respects me or something because I had
an episode in front of her. I wonder if she thought I was faking it all before
this. She probably did. She acted like it anyways always a, "You know, you
should start talking again soon," Or a, "It's unhealthy to be cooped up in your
room for so long." Or, "What could have happened that was so bad that caused
you to go mute?"
No, now she just gives me a sad, sympathetic smile every time I pass by her and
it's really starting to piss me off. I kind of wish she would just treat me
like she used to. It would be a hell of a lot less annoying. She would stop
feeling bad for me 24/7 and she might actually talk to me again. Despite the
fact that they annoy me, most of the people at this stupid home keep me
somewhat sane and it would be useful if they would start helping me with that.
But I have to keep myself in check, too. I've noticed I'm turning into one of
them more and more often. I mean... I am human but I've become more human and
it's scaring me. I can't be greedy. I can't be afraid. I can't be weak. I can't
be like them. I can't be cruel. I can't complain. I can't do anything else they
would do. I can't. I don't want to be like them. I want to be better than that
but... That within itself is a little greedy to say.
I blink, realizing that I'm dozing off and I quickly look back up to Mrs. Love
to see her laughing softly to herself and looking at me, a happy, loving laugh
like a mother to a son. It makes me blush in embarrassment as I readjust my
notes in my lap and look at the sheet she has in hand.
9x3=3, 3x3=9, 9/3=3, 9/3=3.
I blink and quickly scribble the equation down, copying the numbers in my neat
handwriting and writing a large title at the top: FACT FAMILIES.
"Did you get that down, Patrick?" She asks gently, I nod back, looking away
from my paper and hearing Lacey giggle softly beside me but she soon shuts up
as soon as my glare is directed toward her.
"The whole set: three, three, and nine is a fact family. No matter how you
multiply or divide them, you'll always end up with another number from the
family. Then, there is addition and subtraction fact families." She writes down
on a whiteboard beside her, "The fact family for this set with addition and
subtraction would be three, six, and nine."
I write that down, too, not even paying a lot of attention to the lesson and
more to the fact that I should be writing every one of these words down so I
can remember them for the quiz this Friday.
I sigh silently as I finish that up and look to the time, still a little lost
from my short nap. 2:53 PM. That means there should only be a couple more
minutes left before we get to stop and I can go back up to my room and write
for a bit. I kind of want to stay down here, though, which is a definite change
in mood from last night when all I wanted to do was write. I wrote about how
confused I was. About the man and the woman at Walmart, about who he is, about
Vic Fuentes and Alex and Jack and Tony and whoever else Dr. Williams mentioned,
about why Dr. Williams asked if I was lying to myself.
I'm not lying to myself... am I?
I can't be. That's stupid. I couldn't lie to myself. I would know if I'm lying
to myself. I mean... there are times when I wonder if there is something I've
forgotten... All these strange incidents, people, things. They have to be
connected in one way or another. They have to...
"Okay, I think that's it for today." Mrs. Love says, setting the whiteboard
down and I almost immediately get up and make my way upstairs one step at a
time, not hesitating on getting the fuck out of there because I don't like
going through homeschooling. I don't like the way I feel restrained to sit
hours on end waiting for lunch and then going through three more hours just to
go back up to my bedroom and study more. It just feels wrong. I'm supposed to
be enjoying life, aren't I? Then why am I held up like this for so long? It
doesn't make sense.
Maybe I'm just overthinking everything and it's okay. Maybe I shouldn't be
worrying so much. I don't know. It's only 18 years of this and then I can leave
and get my own life. Away from Mrs. Love. Away from Justin. Away from Tanya and
Lacey. Away from Mr. Love and this.
But I can't be greedy either and I know this is for the best. I just wish I
could get out of here sooner. I know I'll have to stay a few years over,
though... I'm still at a fifth grade level in school when I should be a
sophomore in high school, that's a five year difference. Although I know I'll
get there eventually...
Only another twenty years in this hell and you'll be all caught up.
I groan without a sound and collapse in bed, feeling ultimately exhausted and I
don't know why. I guess it's just me... I don't know... I just want to sleep
for a while. Is that an option? Eh, who gives a shit. I'm tired...
***
When I wake up, the clock beside my bed reads 5:27 PM and when I realize I just
took a two hour nap on accident, my eyes open wide and my heart starts pounding
in my chest. I bang my head softly against my mattress, trying to clear my mind
and wake up a little more. I don't know how I managed that. With my insomnia
and I didn't even have to take a sleeping pill. Maybe I am getting better.
"Patrick! Wake up!" Mrs. Love calls from downstairs making my eyes widen even
more and my body to jerk up, "Dinner's ready!"
As soon as those words reach my ears, I don't hesitate to grab my notebook and
pencil and make my way back downstairs with messy hair and dark circles under
my blue-green eyes (Although, it's been a while since I've seen myself in the
mirror). The walk feels like a mile and I don't know how all this lost sleep is
catching up to me just now. I'm guessing it's all from the insomnia but also
because I'm taking the sleeping pills regularly now and I'm getting better,
slowly but surely.
As soon as I'm downstairs, the scent of pasta trailing up to my nostrils, I
wake up a little more. My eyes widen, my back straightens, and I blink away
sleep like it's just a raindrop in my eye.
"Hey, Sweetie," Mrs. Love smiles, "Did you sleep well?"
I nod, not bothering to write down anything because I'm kind of hungry, too and
I just want to eat. The food smells really good (a big difference from Mr.
Love's usual crappy cooking), almost too good but fuck it. I want some. I
glance around the dark brown table at the other people who are seated, all
looking at me like I just came up from the ground. Do I really look that bad? I
don't question it. Maybe it's just the lighting making them look more surprised
than they really are. Maybe it's all just my imagination. It's okay. It's
nothing.
I pull my seat out, the farthest from anyone else in case they accidentally
touch me which would not be good. I proved that just ten days ago...
Dylan passes me the pasta, careful not to let our fingers touch as I take it
gratefully, placing a little on my plate and passing it on to Jess. In all
honesty, I never talk to Dylan or Jess. They're usually off in Jess' room doing
god knows what. All I know is that Mrs. Love put me between the two lovebirds
to separate them otherwise Dylan would almost always make his way under Jess'
skirt under the table and cause a random squeak in the middle of a meal. I
remember the first time it happened and Mrs. Love had a long talk with Jess
afterwards about sexual abuse.
I take a small bite of my pasta, keeping my head down and my hands to myself
because to this day, I still feel as vulnerable and weak as I felt so many
years ago. Like meals take off that mask of strength that I keep on myself. I
wonder if anyone else has a mask sometimes. If they're softer on the inside
than they seem. Maybe /he/ has a mask and he doesn't show anyone what's under
it. Maybe in real life he has one. The him in my dreams can't have one. He's
strong on the inside and outside. I know that for sure. He would have broken
from guilt by now I think. I'm pretty sure at least.
I don't know. I'm getting off-track again. I need to stop with that. I think
it's unhealthy.
I take another bite of my pasta and by the time dinner is over, I've already
finished with my eyes hooded as I put my dishes in the sink. Jess and Dylan
return to Jess' room where they stay for a while and, even though I kind of
want to go upstairs and sleep for a while, I also king of want to stay
downstairs, too. I want to see how everyone else is doing (even though I really
don't care) and see what they really do when I'm not down here with them. Maybe
I'm just bored of staying in my room so much, that's probably what's really
happening here. But it's okay, with my notebook and pencil in hand, I go to the
living room and lay back on the couch and watch as Mr. Love turns up the volume
on the TV.
The news is on. A woman in a black suit, gazing up at scripted lines with her
hands folded in front of her and another man beside her, older.
The woman has dark brown eyes and chapped lips with chestnut brown hair hanging
over her shoulders, blonde highlights weaved throughout the thick strands and
it looks soft, fashioned straight down. Not a wave or a curl in sight except
the way it folds as she moves her head. Her dark suit shines in the warm lights
and I can tell she's a lot more masculine than most women usually would be.
Mrs. Love has to be near the feminine side of whatever that spectrum is.
The man on the right, however, has dark gray hair. He's not too old, but enough
to show through his soft wrinkles engraved into his face and the crinkling of
his bright eyes as he looks to the woman (I think her name is Stephanie, the
man's name is Donald).
"In other news," Stephanie says as she looks down at the papers laid out in
front of her on the desk, "A plane crash near Spokane, Washington today left
two dead and ten injured. Officials have yet to say what the cause was but a
survivor of the crash would like to share a few words."
The screen switches to show a tall, dark man in a brown suit and brown eyes
speaking in a foreign accent into the microphone, "There was a lot of... bumps.
The plane wouldn't stop going up and down and shaking and the uh... the plane
attendants said there would be some turbulence but not like this."
The screen switches again to a very confused Stephanie but she quickly shrugs
it off as Donald continues with his story, "Looks like we're having some
technical difficulties right now. But meanwhile, in breaking news today, a
jailbreak from the King County Adult Detention. Five men, all around the ages
of thirty years old managed to escape a prison with the help of followers
outside of the prison. Their names are: Victor Fuentes, Michael Fuentes, Tony
Perry, Zack Merrick, and Rian Dawson."
I drop my notebook as my eyes widen. Their pictures on the screen. Dr.
Williams. Victor Fuentes. Michael Fuentes. Oh my god. She told me. She told me
about them. Who are they? Why were they in prison? What happened? What?
"Three of these five are convicted pedophiles, drug dealers, and have also been
charged with child abuse. If these men are found anywhere, contact 9-1-
1 immediately and find shelter as soon as possible. These men are extremely
dangerous and officials are on high lookout."
I watch as five pictures show up on the screen. One of a man with long, dark
brown hair, stubble, brown eyes, and a grimace on his face: Victor Fuentes. One
of a man with shorter brown hair and a strong resemblance to the first alone
with arms covered in tattoos: Michael Fuentes. One of a man with tattoos up to
his neck and black gages in his ears with dark brown eyes: Tony Perry. One with
layered, brown hair and dark brown eyes along with very pale skin but no
tattoos: Zack Merrick. A man with a thicker jawline and a little more weight
than the other four, much less muscled but with stubble across his chin and
light brown eyes: Rian Dawson.
I take shuddery breaths and blink.
I'm overreacting. Maybe this is just a coincidence. Maybe this is just another
Victor Fuentes and another Michael Fuentes and a different Tony Perry and a
different Zack Merrick and a different...
Yeah, right.
I need to talk to Jones or Dr. Williams. Are they after me? What if they are?
What will I do? What if they find me? Who are they? Drug dealers? Rapists? Did
they... Did they do what he does to me...? Is there really something I've
forgotten? Or maybe Dr. Williams accidentally went through the wrong file.
Maybe I really am okay. Maybe this has nothing to do with me. What if I'm just
overreacting? I must me. If it really was that bad, Dr. Williams would have
called me... although I think Jones would help with that before Dr. Williams
would.
I'm scared.
That's all I can say as I watch the TV screen switch back to Stephanie and
Donald with bright faces and I don't understand out they can act like that.
Like everything is perfectly okay and nothing could go wrong. I don't
understand how they can be so oblivious to what is happening. That jailbreak
could kill me or hurt me.
I do have to admit, something about those pictures look familiar. I don't think
I've ever seen those men before but something about them make me think I have.
I don't know from where. I don't know why. Maybe it's just my imagination. I'm
sure I've never seen them before. Where are they from, though? Have I seen
them? Does Dr. Williams know them? What about the other four or so people she
mentioned? Where are they?
What did they do to me?
I rise from my seat, grabbing my notebook from the floor and begin to write
down a message as I head towards the office to Ms. Love. She's sitting at the
computer, typing up something, I think it's an email to Jones but I can't be
too sure. It was only a small glance but it leads me to wonder why. Maybe she
does that a lot with Jones. Talks about me, asks how to fix this or that.
Wonders how I came to be so mentally disturbed and scarred from just a few
dreams. Maybe she asks who did this to me. Who he is. Why I freaked out a
couple Friday's ago.
"Hey, Patrick." She says gently.
/I need to talk to Jones./
She frowns but doesn't question it much to my relief. Instead, she just picks
up the phone and dials Jones' number while I jot down what I want to ask the
woman. I wonder if this will be a dead end or if she'll really know who Victor
Fuentes is. I wonder if she really doesn't know and Dr. Williams does. I
wonder...
"Hello? Jones?" Mrs. Love greets into the phone.
I can hear Jones' end, muffled but it's audible, "Good evening, Juliet."
"Hey, Patrick here wanted me to call you. Is that alright? Or do you need me to
wait?"
"Patrick? Of course." Jones replies.
I don't hesitate to raise up my message for Mrs. Love to read into the phone.
"Who is Victor Fuentes?"
The question hangs in the air and that alone makes my heart sink. What if she
won't tell me? What if I'm not supposed to know? What if she tells me I can't
understand? What if he's out to get me and she just doesn't want me to worry
when I should be well into Mexico? What if I should be gone? Protected? I'm so
confused. I'm so fucking confused and I just want answers. Please...
"Tell him we need to talk. In private. I'll be over." Jones replies and then I
hear the long beep that signals the call over.
"She'll be over." Love says softly before she swallows and gives me a concerned
look.
I'm scared.
***
There's a knock at the door. Jones' knock and that's the only thing that takes
me from my stressed state of mind. I've been pacing my room all evening waiting
for her to get here and now she's finally here and I don't know if I want to do
this. What if I want to be blind to Victor? What if I don't want to do this? Is
that okay? Or would that make me weak?
Almost as soon as I've reached the middle floor of the house, Jones looks to me
and signals me to follow her into an empty room. I feel nervous. What is so
private that we need to take the conversation to a room where nobody can hear?
Is he really that bad?
As soon as the door is shut, Jones turns to me with a glare and growls, "Where
did you get that name?"
My fingers are shaking when I realize this is extremely serious and I should
probably answer right away. I have to be strong. I can't let her see how scared
I am of this.
/Dr. Williams had it in my file./
Jones clenches her fist, "And why were you reading through your file?"
/She read it to me when she was asking who /he/ was/
The detective's eyes lower and she begins rubbing her temples, "Why are you
asking, then? That man is private. What he did to you... Patrick..."
/He was on the news. Jailbreak./
She blinks, then asks, "King County Adult Detention?"
I nod, my hands shaky.
/What did he do to me/
Jones bites her lip and I think I can see a few tears rising to her eyes as she
looks over the message.
"You don't remember." She whispers, "You don't remember anything. Tell me. What
has happened in your life? From start to end. Where did you grow up? Who have
you been with?"
I frown. She knows exactly what's happened. Why is she asking me? Is there
something wrong?
/My parents dropped me off at a foster home when I was a baby and when that
home didn't work out for me, you brought me here five years ago. You brought me
because that foster home bothered me for some reason and it gave me these night
terrors and insomnia./
She reads over the writing, her eyes getting more and more teary by the second
and eventually, she can't take it and she begins pacing the room, stressed,
sad, maybe a little angry with me? Herself? I can't tell. Something is wrong,
though, and I need to know. I'm tired of all the lies. I'm tired of them always
trying to safety proof everything they say so I don't get upset. I just want to
know what happened. I need to know what happened.
/What happened/
"Patrick, I don't think I should do that. I'm not the one. Dr. Williams is
better with this I—"
I stand up and point a finger at her. It's just about as far as I can go
because I can't touch her and I can't speak. I need to know. I can't just be
lost cause. I have to know who Victor is. I have to know what he did. No more
secrets. No more hiding.
She takes a deep breath and finally sits down, patting the space beside her,
motioning for me to join her.
"I'm sorry." She whispers as she turns to me, "I'm sorry for hiding this for so
long. You deserve to know. I should have," Her voice cracks, tight like guitar
strings that are gonna snap at any moment, "I should have told you a long time
ago and... I know you probably won't believe me at first but you just have to
try, alright?"
I nod eagerly, relieved to finally get an answer out of her.
"Victor Fuentes, his brother Michael Fuentes, Tony Perry, Jaime Preciado, Alex
Gaskarth, Jack Barakat, Zack Merrick, Rian Dawson, and Ashley Frangipane are
all criminals. Drug dealers from down by Burien, a town about halfway between
here and Seattle. They worked and lived at a drughouse that... wasn't the best
of places to live... We don't know how long they were there before you came
along...
"We're guessing your biological parents dropped you off at that doorstep but we
don't know where they are now. You were left with nothing. Not even a birth
certificate and... Well... you lived at the drughouse for eleven years. That
foster home you mentioned, wasn't a foster home. It was that drughouse." She
pauses to let that sink in but I don't know if it can. The fuck is this
nonsense?
"We don't know about anything that happened while you were there until a woman
called 9-1-1. One of their clients. She said she saw you and another child, too
skinny to be healthy, covered in bruises and cuts and they just couldn't hide
the two of you fast enough.
"She called 9-1-1, the police came and they took you and the other child
away... And that's when you met me. I was one of the agents on the case and...
I... I brought you here because I knew it would be for the best..."
I clench my jaw, trying to process that but... it doesn't. I can't. That's not
the truth. I grew up in a foster home for 11 years. I remember it. I
remember...
I think...
I'm losing it, aren't I?
Oh god...
/None of that happened./
Jones reads it over and shakes her head before she stands up, squeezing her
scalp like she has a headache, "If you need to talk. Or want to talk about
anything... just let me know. I should really get going..."
I shake my head, frustrated half with myself and half with her but I don't look
up at all as she leaves, shutting the door gently and then out the front door.
None of that happened.
None of it.
It's all a lie... Just a lie...
Chapter End Notes
     Heck.
***** Notes *****
I'm scared, terrified.
First, I relapse, next, he is real, and now apparently I grew up in a drug
house. I don't believe it. I can't believe it. They're trying to mess with my
mind and drive me askew. They're trying to make me believe something I
shouldn't believe because it's wrong. They're stuffing fake information into my
mind to try to change what I think and it's working. I'm paranoid. Everywhere I
go, I'm scared I'll see one of them and I still haven't figured out how /he/
fits into this mess of my screwed up "past". I'm afraid I'll see him. Those
dark eyes. The black hair. The muscled arms. Everything. I'm scared of him. Of
this. Of life. Of continuing. I'm afraid of Jones and Dr. Williams. I'm afraid
they're trying to use me and that's why they're feeding me so many lies. I'm
afraid that Mrs. Love knows, too. Hell, I'm afraid Justin will turn on me, too.
I hate this. I hate being afraid. I can't be afraid. I'm not afraid. If I'm
afraid, I'm weak. He'll surely find me if I'm weak. He'll beat me. Slap me. Use
me. Burn me. Cut me. Rape me. Anything to make me scream in pain and beg for an
end to it. I'm afraid the druggies will do the same.
Victor Fuentes
Michael Fuentes
They must be brothers. Vic's face is still fresh in my head and I can't get
those dark brown eyes out of my mind. They remind me of /his/. Of the way he
glares into my eyes while he chuckles above me and uses me like a whore. Those
dark brown eyes remind me of all the times I've cried and screamed and begged
for him to stop. I remember laying there helpless as he used me. Controlled me.
Like all those dreams were real... And now I dream of Victor, too.
Sometimes it's just Victor there instead of him and he uses me just like he
did. I'm afraid of both of them and I can't sleep again. I skip my sleeping
pills and my pills for whatever else they think I have. Sometimes, I lay away
all night. Sometimes, I see Vic at the end of my bed with a nasty grin on his
lips, holding a knife. Sometimes, I'll feel him choking me, squeezing. Forcing
the air out of my throat and lungs until they're screaming for air and I'm
struggling and trying to scream but it's only when my sight goes dark around
the edges does he let go.
Tony Perry
I can't really remember what he looks like. I think he had the tattoos up to
his neck and the gages in his ears but I can't be sure. They all scared me.
Zack Merrick
Rian Dawson
I don't remember them as much either, but I know they had a much lighter
complexion from the other three men.
I'm afraid. I've never been more scared in my life and I shouldn't be scared.
Fear is weak. Fear is human. Under my mask, I am always scared. I am weak but
nobody can know. My mask stays on always. My mask never comes off. I am strong.
He can find me if I don't have a mask.
I'm always out of it. I failed the quiz on Friday, I never act like anyone is
around me. I just stay in my own world. I don't reply to any of Mrs. Love's
questions anymore. Justin is the only person I sign to and that's just to say
please or thank you.
Sometimes, when I'm minding my own business, I see one of them gazing at me out
of the corner of my eye but it's just my imagination. It might be the
hallucinations coming back to get me, though. I don't know. I want to run away.
I want to disappear and forget about all of this. I want to leave and be with
people who just might understand what I'm going through and will stop trying to
make up lies.
I have an appointment with Dr. Williams today but I don't want to go. I just
want to forget about all of this. I just want my insomnia to go away. I want
Vic, Michael, Jaime, Rian, Zack... I want them to all go back to jail. I want
Alex to go back to jail, too, and Jack and Tony and Ashley. I want them all to
leave and I'm scared. I'm so scared of what they might do if they find me.
If what Jones said is true: She found me covered in cuts and bruises, too
skinny to be healthy. If they really are pedophiles like the news suggested...
If they really are rapists... If they really put me through this much abuse. If
they really did what I think they did, I could be going through a lot more than
I've bargained for. I don't want to go through it. I...
What am I talking about? I can't trust Jones. What has she ever done for me
besides shove pills in my face and say, "It's for your own good." I want the
truth. I want to just...
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to talk. I want to be free. I would do
anything to just forget about this. To start all over again. I want to be
blind. I want to forget. I want to get rid of these scars. I want to get rid of
this insomnia. I want to forget about him. I want to forget about Jones. I want
to forget about Justin. I want to not have to rely on a notebook to stay sane.
I want to scream into the sky about how unfair this world is. I want to scream.
I want to cry. I want to let go of all control and just let my anger take over.
I don't want to be cooped up anymore. I want to leave this city and find a
small town and live on my own. I want to forget. I want to forget. I want to
forget.
I need to get out of the house. I need to leave for just a little bit. I just
want some fresh air and I don't care that he might find me. I just want someone
to hold me and tell me it's going to be okay but nobody can touch me or he will
come back.
Him. Him. Him. I'm sick of saying him. His name is...
His name is—
His name is Pete.
I can't do this. I can't do this anymore. I feel like I need to puke and scream
and get all of this tension out of my body. I feel so energetic and hyperactive
and paranoid and anxious and jittery. My teeth are chattering. My fingers feel
numb. I need. I need. I need.
I need out. I need to get away. I need to forget. I need to forget about all of
this and I will. I'll forget any of this ever happened...
I can forget...
I tug on my hair harshly as I sit up from bed, my notebook flying out of my lap
but I don't care. I can barely pay attention to it as I slip on my shoes and
jacket and begin to make my way downstairs, past Justin who immediately shrinks
down, away from me. I'm sick of people looking at me like I'm a monster, too.
I'm sick of being a monster. I just want to forget about all of this. I want to
be innocent like Justin. I want to live a perfectly good life. I want. I want.
I want. I need. I need a way out. I need to scream and cry and let it out. I
need to take off my mask. I need to show the world how weak its made me. I need
to get out of here. I'm going insane. I think I think something's wrong with
me. What's happening to me? I'm breaking and I'm not supposed to. What am I
going through? Why am I so afraid?
"Patrick?" Mrs. Love calls from the kitchen but I'm too distracted to focus on
it, I don't even hear it as I continue through the living room and out the
front door into the warm May air. I feel like I'm gonna explode and at any
moment I'll blow. I'm a time bomb and any moment now I could scream. If this is
really what it's like. If this is really what I went through: the drug house,
The abuse, the pain, the trauma, everything is a lie is a lie. I don't know
it's happening to me anymore. They lied to me, they all lied to me and I don't
know what to think about this I don't know what I'm supposed to think. I think
I'm going insane, that's all I know.
No that's wrong. I lied to myself. I'll I was blind to the truth. Why did I lie
to myself? When did I go wrong? When did I start lying? Where did the foster
home come from? Why am I even believing Jones? Different than any other human
on this planet. She's still greedy. She's still selfish. She still lies to
people. Everybody lies to everybody. People never done a good thing.
I turn. I don't know where I'm going. I think there's a park not far from here
where I can sit for a bit and get some fresh air. Despite the fact that I feel
like I'm getting too much air. I'm still watching my back, paranoid and utterly
pathetic. I shouldn't worry about it 24/7 like I do but I do and I can barely
focus on anything because of it. I need to... I can't...
I begin sprinting, tears streaming from my eyes as I feel my heart and my soul
crumble. I'm breaking and with every step I take, I feel a bubbling rising in
my throat and the scream is right there. I keep running, sprinting away like I
can outrun life somehow but there is no way to outrun life. Life can outrun you
but it's never the other way around. The only way to beat God at his own game
is through a way I don't like to consider. And I don't. Death hasn't asked yet.
My feet are stumbling like I've been shot but that's the adrenaline kicking in
and soon enough, I'm running faster than I've ever run in my life because I'm
so determined to get away. Just for a moment. Just to forget about him and
everyone else whose been disturbing my nightmares. I just need to run away. I
just need to escape. I need. I need. I need. Greed. Greed. Greed. I can't
focus. The tears are streaming down my cheeks fast now and I can't stop them
anymore. I don't even try. Already breaking down. So why try? I need to cry. I
need to scream. I need to... I just... I...
I've reached the park and I'm barely holding on. One moment, I'm on my feet,
the next I'm on my knees. The tears are rivers. My hair is the oars but they
keep slipping and no matter how hard I grip it and tug it and pull it, I still
feel the boat going out from under me and soon enough I'm going to drop down
that waterfall and I won't be able to stop as I plummet to the bottom.
The mask is leaving. My eyes are soaked. My mouth is wide. My throat is
bubbling. My head is sore from the tugging and I can't take it anymore as I
hunch over the grass.
Tensions built up for so long. I don't know how much longer I can stand it. I'm
about shatter. Like glass and I will never be put back together. Could I?
Should I? It's too much... I can't take it anymore... I'm going to scream.
But no screams leave. My stomach contracts painfully and the next thing I know,
I'm puking up breakfast and lunch into the green blades.
asIt doesn't matter anymore because I've fallen over the edge of the cliff now.
I feel my hands shaking violently but I don't really feel it because my hands
are numb. My arms are numb. I am numb. Everything is so numb and I don't
realize I've collapsed to the side until all I can feel is cold. Numb. I'm
numb. Oh my god I'm numb and it's scaring me. I can't feel anything. I can't
breathe. I can't speak. I can't scream and I wonder if Dr. Williams would be
disappointed in me right now.
The grass feels so cold. Everything feels so cold. I can't breathe and
everything is spinning around me. The world. The sky. I feel so useless.
Pathetic. Like a slut. Like a whore. I can't... Everything is spinning and he
is going to find me but that's okay. I deserve to be used. I let my mask off.
My mask is still off, I realize as tears stream out of the corner of my eyes
and hard sobs leave my throat. I feel myself crumbling down on myself.
Is it normal? What I'm going through? Is it normal to just completely break
down like this? To completely break, shatter? Burn up like paper in a flame? Is
it normal? Is it normal to want to disappear? Is it normal to want to start all
over again without a drug house? In a place where your whole life isn't a lie?
Is it normal to want to forget about the world for a long time? Is it okay to
feel the way I feel about things? Like sex?
I'm so confused and I think I'm going into another episode but I can't tell. I
can never really know because my head is spinning so much that I can't think
straight and I'm left, shivering in the grass with glassy eyes and shaky
fingers. I'm numb. I feel so numb I can't move. I can't think. I can't speak. I
can't scream. I would do anything to scream again, though. I would do anything
to get rid of this fear, to get my mask back on my features, to cover this side
of me again. This side of me that nobody will ever see again. It will never
come out again. I will make sure of that.
I don't know how long I'm outside. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. I'm guessing the
latter because when I finally come around, I realize the sun has moved across
the sky and it's just beginning to set in the distance. I think it's the stench
of the vomit in the grass that makes me finally sit up and take a few deep
breaths. Maybe it's something else, though. Maybe it's the fact that I'm ready
to try again without breaking down. Without hurting anyone. Without hurting
myself. Without freaking out like I usually do. Maybe I can try again and not
mess up.
Tomorrow is a new day. A new opportunity. I shouldn't waste it... I...
I hear the crunching of grass behind me. Slow, smooth, like they're trying to
sneak up on me and they're failing. That alone pulls me up, off of the ground,
spinning around like a top on a table to see a man. No. The man. The one I had
seen at Walmart an eternity ago. The man who gazed at me with his smoker mouth,
a small, nasty raising of the edges of his lips. Those deep brown eyes, the
layered dark brown hair.
That one. He has a piece of paper in hand and just like a snap of my fingers, I
find myself calming. I don't know. It's okay. It's going to be okay. He won't
hurt me. It's just a message.
Your worst nightmare.
The man comes closer and holds the paper out to me, a message in small letters
imprinted at the top. I should probably run. I should get away from here before
something bad happens but there's something holding me back. There's something
unsaid that forces me to stay like he's not hostile. Yet.
He doesn't speak with his hooded eyes gazing up into mine. He only holds it
out, waiting.
And I take it.
It's so fast that I don't even realize it's over until he's turned away and
he's leaving. His steps fast and his hands in his pockets once his dark hood is
thrown up over his head.
I swear I've seen him more than just at Walmart. He just seems familiar. He
seemed familiar at Walmart. Why can't I place him? Why can't I place that face?
It's frustrating me. Where have I seen him before?
It's like a forbidden dream that I traveled forever ago.
Where have I seen him before?
Screw it. What does the goddamn paper say?
I can't help but gaze at the disappearing figure for a couple more moments. But
eventually I know that I have to look at the paper. His note to me. What does
he have to say?
I bite my lip and let my eyes gaze down curiously. I unfold the small piece and
read across the writing, my eyes flickering from one side to the other. My
hands shaky as they hold the sheet. I swear I'm breaking into a sweat. The
tension is coming back. It's not as strong, though.
We are coming.
My heart drops. The tension doesn't come back but I can feel the adrenaline
beginning to rush through my veins. We are coming. We are coming. We are
coming. They are going to kill me. Was Jones right? Did I really grew up in a
drug house? This can't really be true. She's lying to me. I'm not like that.
I'm not insane. Never grew up in a drug house. I grew up in a foster home. With
people that took care of me. Nightmares that kept me awake at night only
nightmares. There was no way they could be real. There's no way he can be real.
There's only one solution when you've hit a dead end. There's only one way to
go. There's only one escape. And that's to run away. I need to leave before
they find me. I need to get out of this town. I need to find somewhere safe.
Somewhere where I won't be chased down and caught like an animal. Somewhere
where they can't find me. I need to be free. Free from him. Free from them.
Free from everything.
I need to know the truth. I need to know if this is really happening first. But
the note is enough.
My eyes gaze over it again: We are coming.
It's all real. I can't be a coincidence. Vic is real. Jack is real. Alex is
real. They're all coming to get me. Mike. Ashley. Tony. Zach. Rian.
They're coming to get me. I need to run before... Before they get to me. I need
to run before he finds me. I know he's real, I know he's working for them. He
has to be. Why would he keep on showing up in my dreams? In my nightmares? Why
would he always be the bad guy? How do I even know him? I need to let Ms. Love
know that it's not safe for me anymore. I need to get away from that foster
home. I need to find Jones. I need to run. I can't focus here. I can't... Even
think of anything. My mind is going blank out of fear and terror.
Is this really what I'm going through? Please tell me this is a dream. A
nightmare. Just another one of those nights with him. I'll wake up eventually.
And I'll have my own family. I'll know my mom and my dad. They would raise me.
I'll wake up and I'll have a sister or brother. I'll have a real brother or
real sister. Somebody related by blood. Somebody I can trust late at night when
the only thing I can think about is the world. And someone I can talk to. In a
world where I even could talk.
"Patrick, are you okay?"
My eyes leave the paper. We are coming. We are coming...
They are a met with the sight of Mr. Love. Dark hair in his worried blue eyes.
Furrowed eyebrows. But an overall worried gaze in his futures. I wonder if he
understands. I wonder if he works for them. I wonder if he could be Alex or
Jack or Vic. I wonder if you could ever do something like that to me? What are
you? What he beat me and starve me like they did? What are you rape me
maybe...? What if he really is like fun. What if he's one of them?
I don't say a word to him. Why would I? I don't speak, there is no reason for
me to speak. I'm mute. Although, I've kind of broken that rule in the past
month or so. I just hope that I'll find a purpose to speak soon. Because
there's a lot for me to say right now. Sure, I could talk anytime. But there
are times when I just feel like it would be better if I didn't. They would
worry about me. They would find out too much. About him. About them. About
everything. The things I see at night, the things I see at day, even.
Sometimes, I wonder if this world really needs me in it. Sometimes, I wonder if
the sights are really worth it. Worth living for. Worth seeing. Sometimes I
wonder if anyone really cares about me. Well... I know nobody cares about me.
But, I wonder if I should care enough to keep living.
If I would be better off dead.
I find my arm is lifting myself up off the ground. His eyes keep trained on me
and I feel a little vulnerable from it. What if he really is working for them?
Should I run?
"Are you okay, Patrick? Everyone's been worried about you. We couldn't find you
for a while. Why did you come here?" He says, rushing out each word like it's
the last will ever say. Like he's actually worried about me.
I still don't reply, why would I? Instead, I shake my head. I'm okay. I've
always been okay. Why wouldn't I be okay? I'm okay... I really am. I've just
been... Off. More tense. Stressed maybe?
I just want to rest. I want to forget. I want to forget about the note. The man
that found me. The man with the piercing blue eyes, and the messy brown hair.
One of them.
I just want to forget about everything. I want to be able to live a day of my
life where I don't have to worry about anything. I want to day at rest where I
have a family. A family that actually loves me. I just want to day where I
can... Speak. And actually have a reason to speak.
Although, again it probably wouldn't work out. There can't be a day without
him. Without them. I grew up in a drug house, didn't I? Or is Jones just
getting to me?
I'm so confused and afraid.
"Do you want to come back to the house?" Mr. Love suggests. He sounds worried.
But why would he be worried about me? We never talk. And I'm terrified of men.
He already he knows this.
But no. I don't want to go home. I'd rather just sit here and live the rest my
life in a park. Numb to the world. Some to school. Numb to Ms. Love. I just
want to forget. Is it that hard to understand?
Either way, I know I have to go home eventually. I need to get out of here. We
are coming. I need to let Mrs. Love know about what is happening. I need to get
out of the foster home. I need to let Jones know. I need to let someone know.
Someone who would actually understand. They're coming for me. It's only a
matter of time before they find me.
And God knows what they'll do after that. The same thing that they did at the
drug house? Worse? And why me? I wasn't the one that called 911. There was
someone else that did. So why would they want to come after me?
Unless they don't know that.
I look up at Mr. Love expectantly, my hands in my pockets.
He sighs and with a roll of his eyes, he leads me away from the park back
towards the house. All I can think about is how I need to let Ms. Love know
about the note. Although, I'll probably tell Jones first. I trust her. Well...
Not really. But she is the most trustworthy person at the moment.
"What were you doing?" Mr. Love asks, a hint of roughness in his already deep
voice. What was I doing? Breaking down. Puking and shuddering and crying and
trying not to scream. What was I doing? Trying not to worry about Vic and
Ashley and Jack and Alex and Tony and Rian. Trying not to stress about what
they'll do to me once they find me.
So in reply to the stupidest question Mr. Love could ask, I shrug my shoulders
and continue walking, my eyes lowered reluctantly. I just need to talk to
Jones. She can always all this kind of stuff. She talks my counselor, Ms. Love,
and the police if necessary. Although, she's never had to talk to the latter.
She just talks to the other two. I wonder if she ever has called the latter.
Anyways, it doesn't matter. I'm in a lot of trouble right now. I can't focus on
anything else right now. I'll probably die soon and the only person who could
actually help me would be Jones. I just need to get home as soon as possible. I
need to call her.
"So what happened?" Mr. Love asks, "what were you doing out there?"
Do you really think I'm going to tell you?
I still don't reply as we approach the house. In fact, I only run into the
house. Rushed by the fear in my veins. The fear of them. And wherever they are,
I know he is coming soon after. I don't know how they're connected yet, but I
know that he's going to be there if they catch me. Dr. Williams read off his
name when she also read off Vic's and Jamie's and Mike's and Jack's... When she
read off all their names, she read of his. They're connected I don't know how,
though.
I throw open the front door, and with quick movements make my way upstairs to
grab my notebook. I left it there. Once I have reached my bedroom, I notice
another note on the bed and my heart sinks in my chest.
I hesitantly walk forward, my hands trembling by my side. Oh God, they came.
They were here. He was here. No, no, no. This couldn't have happened. They
really are coming. My pocket feels heavy with the note that I've already
received.
I continue on and with the slow movement, pick up the notes on the bed besides
the notebook.
Jones can't save you now.
No.
I quickly grab my notebook and pen and without a second thought head back
downstairs.
Ms. Love is standing at the kitchen door. Her eyes tired and bloodshot.
"Where the hell were you?" She demands, a hostile tone in her voice. I also
notice Justin in the same room, watching us.
I don't mind either of them, I just open up my notebook and quickly jot down a
note. A beg. A plead.
/I need to talk to Jones./
She looks across the note. Her eyes growing even more frustrated by the moment.
I'm afraid that she won't let me. I'm afraid...
"No! You don't have to talk to her 24/7. What were you doing? Just answer me.
We were worried sick. We thought you died or something. You shouldn't run out
like that again. What happened? Is something wrong?"
Of course, something's wrong with if I'm trying to get a hold of Jones. But you
obviously don't understand that, huh? I just need to talk to Jones! Is it
really that hard to understand? Do I need to write it out for you? Oh, wait! I
already have!
/I just need to talk to Jones. Please. It's an emergency./
She swallows, looking across the words. As if it's an odd puzzle she has to
figure out. All the puzzle pieces are right there can't you just read it and
let me through? I need to talk to Jones. They're coming for me. He's coming for
me.
"It's not an emergency, can't you wait?" She asks, "You're fine, Mr. Love
didn't see anything. What happened?"
With furrowed eyebrows, I scribble down a giant NO. I can't wait. I need to
talk to her now.
Ms. Love rolls her eyes, "Upstairs. Now."
No, no, no.
You don't understand!
"You can talk to Jones in the morning. You're okay."
A look of pure despair crosses my face. This can't be happening. I'm going to
die. Doesn't she understand? He's coming for me. They're coming for me. Vic,
Jamie, Mike, Tony. Jack, Alex, Zach, Rian. Ashley. Him.
No.
"Now."
He's at her for a moment more, a look of terror across my face. But after a
moment, I think I kind of give up. I walk upstairs and slam my door shut.
***** Help *****
Chapter Notes
     Oops. 99% filler.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I don't leave my room until Mrs. Love has called me back down, her voice stern
but somehow still in that gentle, curious nanny-like tone. I don't understand
her sometimes. She gets so... complicated and there are times when I wonder if
maybe she has mental issues. It gets really strange. One moment she's pissed as
hell, and the next she feels bad, and back to the former. I guess that's just
normal human behavior, though. Endless cycles.
It feels like the world is collapsing down on me more often than not these
days. I used to be happier with myself. With everything. I used to just accept
the fact that I'm mute and that something bad happened to me and now, I have
these nightmares that keep me awake at night. But now, I'm not so sure if I can
keep on coping.
Now, with the extra stress of the drughouse people, I can't sleep at all and my
eyelids are just begging to close without the tainted thoughts of them. And I'm
still trying to figure out how /he/ fits in with this. Is /he/ one of them? No,
can't be. Jones told me he's put somewhere in there but she never mentioned
that name while telling me herself.
I guess I probably need to get my head out of the clouds and head downstairs,
though, huh?
When I reach the bottom step, Ms. Love has her arms crossed in front of her
chest, looking me up and down like she's judging me. It makes me squirm a
little. Like it's /his/ eyes on my body.
"Hey, Sweetie," She says after a moment, her gentle tone opposing her dark
demeanor. It just makes me want to run away more.
I press my lips together and grab my notebook from my side, opening up the
cover to reveal words from a long time ago, words I don't need anymore, but
words I keep anyway. I flip to the near back, about five pages from the back
cover where I've tried to fit everything I can before I get a new notebook. I
guess it's a little pointless to do that so much, but I kind of like it. My
life in the pages of notebooks. If someone read it all over, they'd be telling
a story. My story.
/I need to talk to Jones./
I circle it expectantly, looking up at Ms. Love with a halfway frustrated
expression on my face. Doesn't she know how important this is? How much danger
I'm going through? If she lets this all go, she could potentially kill me. They
could get to me even though I just barely believe in them. /He/ could find me
and /he/ is my worst fear despite the fact I can't let it show. /He/ scares me
beyond belief. They all do. But /he/ scares me the most. He'll always terrify
me.
Love sighs and shuts her eyes, soon after opening them again, "Fine."
She hands over her phone and I smile in greatfullness as I take it. I unlock it
with the code 0322 and quickly dial Jones number before Ms. Love can decide
against it. Once it begins ringing, Love grabs it from me and looks at me as I
write down what I want her to say to Jones.
Love puts her on speaker phone and we listen for a moment, /ring, ring,
ring/... /ring, ring, ring/...
I bite my lip, afraid, nervous she won't pick up or they've already got her or
/he/ found her. Something. I'm terrified that she's busy. I'm in trouble. Plea-
-
"Hey, it's Agent Margaret Jones. I'm sorry if I didn't get to you, if you need
to talk, feel free to schedule an appointment with my number," She states her
number but my heart has already fallen through my chest, "Please leave your
name and number and I'll get to you as soon as possible. Thank you."
I feel tears rising at my eyes but I blink them away before they can leave
them.
Deep breath. In. Out.
"We'll have to call another time." Ms. Love says, standing up straight as if it
never mattered in the first place, "Would you mind doing your chores, Patrick?
We're having company tonight and I don't want them to see the place in a mess."
Deep breath. In. Out. Try not to kill her.
/Yeah, sure./ I write in response, /thank you./
"No problem, Honey." She smiles back. I take another deep breath to stop myself
from punching her in the face because no, she sure as hell /didn't/ help me.
It just feels like the world keeps collapsing in on me. Further and further
each day. Each little inconvenience just sets me off more and more to the point
where it feels like I'm breaking again. I shouldn't feel that way. I'm just
getting better. Just recovering from yesterday. From what I went through. The
note. The man.
He's one of them. He's one of them. He's one of them.
It's still running through my mind. What the note said. It sets me all off
kilter and even now I'm feeling a little nauseous with the fear of it. Is he
really going to find me? Kill me? Hurt me?
/We don't know about anything that happened while you were there until a woman
called 9-1-1. One of their clients. She said she saw you and another child, too
skinny to be healthy, covered in bruises and cuts and they just couldn't hide
the two of you fast enough./
Another kid. Who was that other kid? How are we related? Is he my brother or
did we just show up like that together? Maybe he's the kid of one of the
drugpeople. Maybe he's Vic's son or Ashley's nephew. Either way, I can't help
but wonder if they're after him, too. Looking for his location in a fancy
computer in the back of a big, black, cliche van. A van where they'll come for
me soon.
Either way, my life is absolute hell right now. Plagued with them and /him/ and
Jones (but apparently her name is Margaret). I'm afraid of what's to come.
Afraid of how they'll find me. If they'll find me.
Afraid that nobody will be there to save me.
***
Love invited Ms. Jackson. Some babysitter friend who goes to the monthly Craft
Club up by Sullivan and Vane. I've never really understood what makes crafting
so /fun/ for people. You make things that will eventually be destroyed whether
it be by trash compactor, fire, or your kids greasy fingers. It's a little
pathetic to think about it like that. About all the work put into one thing
that will just soon be destroyed. Sent to the trash or to the fire or
something. It's all going to waste.
Needless to say, I didn't stay long before I was back upstairs in my room with
my notebook. Writing about the day's events.
/May 18th, 2017/
/Not much happened today besides chores and cleaning. Ms. Love had me clean out
the fridge two times over to make sure I got absolutely everything out. Then my
room (because apparently we're eating dinner in my room), then take out all the
trash in the house and scrub the floors and everyone else did the rest. Thank
God I didn't have to do the bathroom. It just makes me want to gag from the
thought./
/Anyways, I've been nervous about them and /him./ I'm afraid they're going to
find me. The note came just yesterday. What if they really do show up? What if
Vic is at my doorstep tomorrow with a knife, rope, and a gag? What am I
supposed to do, just go with? Fight back? I'm terrified of what they'd do. If
Jones isn't lying to me, that is./
/I kind of think she is lying about this all. I mean, what if it really isn't
that bad? What if I really did grow up in another foster home? What if /he/
really isn't real and it's all in my imagination? What if I really am okay and
they've been lying to me all this time. About /him./ about Vic and Mike and
Ashley. What if it's all okay? What if nothing is wrong and I'm just a paranoid
insomniac?/
/I'm still afraid, though. I can't help it. I get to thinking and I completely
freeze up. It's going to all go terribly wrong, isn't it? I'm going to break
down again and it'll all be my fault. My fault for not trying harder. My fault
for not going to Jones. My fault for not figuring out who /he/ is in time. It's
all going to backfire on me and I won't be able to do anything to stop it. What
if this really is a big issue? One that I should worry about?/
/No, it'll be fine. It has to be. There's no such thing as Vic and Mike and
Ashley and Jack and Alex. They're all part of Jones' delusional stories. All
part of something that won't come back. I'm just overreacting. It's going to be
okay. Everything is okay. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it'll be true.
My logic is fucked./
"Patrick! Come downstairs please!"
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
/I have to go. Love is calling for me. I'll be back later. Promise./
The book closes in my hands and I run my fingers through my hair, desperate to
relieve some of this stress. I just want to fall asleep. Deep, undisturbed
sleep. I just want to be okay again. I want people to know that I'm normal. I /
am/ normal. I'm not like Mia and Devon and whoever else was in that hell we
call group counseling. I'm sure it's fine. Everything is just fine. I'm okay
and there's not reason to get worked up about it.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Just like Dr. Williams taught me.
I take my notebook and pencil and head downstairs, my footsteps a quiet, soft,
sound. It kind of soothes my growing nerves.
"Patrick?" Love calls again.
I sigh and stop at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Ms. Love with an
expectant look in my eye.
She sighs at my obvious irritability but continues, "Can you come all the way
down? Miss Jackson wants to say goodbye before you leave. She says she's never
met you before and she wants to at least see you before she goes."
Miss Jackson? Why the hell would she want to talk to me? I mean, yeah, I've
never met her before. This is the first time but /seriously?/ Does it even
matter? I don't understand why Love would mention me in the first place. But I
guess a lot of things don't make sense anymore. Sometimes I get so caught up in
my fear of them and /him/ that I don't realize that there's a completely
different world outside of my fear. It's fine. Really. I just wish it would all
make more sense.
I raise my eyes to the lady in the living room, an expression of obvious hate
that turns to one of obvious terror. I feel my breath hitch and the world just
kind of stops. I feel my heart picking up its pace inside my chest, my pupils
becoming smaller, my hand gripping for something to steady me.
Ashley.
/Your worst nightmare./
Ashley.
/Victor Fuentes, his brother Michael Fuentes, Tony Perry, Jaime Preciado, Alex
Gaskarth, Jack Barakat, Zack Merrick, Rian Dawson, and Ashley Frangipane are
all criminals./
Ashley.
The lady with aqua blue hair smiles, her hands in her pockets and a look of
false joy on her face. Well, it might not be false. But it sure as hell looks
like she's happier than normal to see me. Maybe she's just excited to kill me.
Alex sent her. Someone sent her to set me off, make me feel vulnerable.
/No, that can't be. It's just a coincidence. They aren't real. They're not
related to you in any way. Jones is lying. The note isn't... It just doesn't
have anything to do with this./
I just look to Ms. Love with that expression of fear on my face, making her
glare at me with a disapproving look. It's not like she understands anyways.
So, instead, I realize I have to do this by myself. Nobody else knows besides
Jones but she isn't here. It's just me, myself, and I fighting through this.
I take my notebook from my side and flip through the pages, finding the page
I'm currently writing on and penciling out a /Hello/ for Ash--I mean, Miss
Jackson.
Once she sees it and waves back, Love clears her throat to end the awkward
encounter and turns to "Miss Jackson." with an empty smile, "Well, it's
probably best you get leaving. I have to put the kids to bed. Justin's just
been begging me to get him to bed, so I might as well. I hope you have a good
day, Honey."
She nods gently and turns with one last wicked look at me. It sends shivers up
my spine. Like it's a blizzard out to kill me. It's horrible.
As soon as the door shuts, I let out a long, drawn out sigh of relief, shutting
my eyes and resting my head against the wall. Why was she here? Is there
something going on? It feels like it's been decades since I last saw those
strawberry lips but I could recognize that face from anywhere. It feels so
frighteningly familiar, so terrifyingly nostalgic but I've never seen it before
in my life besides from the store.
"Well, then." Love sighs, "I'll uhm, talk to you later. Sleep well, Darling."
I nod, grabbing my notebook from the table with a swift movement and a gentle
sigh, shutting my eyes in exhaustion as I head back upstairs to my room.
If she really did come for me, like the man at the park had warned me, I need
to know when they're coming. How I can protect myself. I need to call the cops.
Something. I'm terrified of what they'd do. Of how they'd treat me. 
I sometimes wonder if they will come for me and they'll take me in the middle
of the night. When I'm deep in long awaited sleep. Or wide awake with /him/
dancing in my thoughts. Grinning wickedly and pinning me down with--
I know that there isn't much I can do now besides wait and try to get into
contact with Jones. I've begun to calm down a little since yesterday,
thankfully. I'm still jumpy and scared and it's still on my thoughts but I'm
less afraid that they'll come for me. They had a perfect opportunity last
night, so why didn't they? Maybe it won't really happen. Maybe I'm okay and
they're being hunted down by the police now. Maybe this will all be okay in the
end and I'm really not in danger.
I take a deep breath as I let myself relax into my bed, my eyes shut and soft,
used air escaping my lips as my muscles go limp and my eyes drift shut.
It'll be okay. It won't help anything to worry. It's best to just call Jones
when I get a chance and try to figure something out. Tell her what happened.
Maybe they've been caught already and I just don't know it yet.
I softly unbutton my plaid overshirt and slip it off of my arms but I don't
dare take off my shirt. I only do that once a day, in the mornings. When nobody
can see what I look like under all this clothing. When I'm just a normal person
to everyone.
I slip off my jeans as well, because I'm less self-conscious about my legs, so
I'm left in my boxers.
And with that, I slip under my covers and grab my notebook from my bedside
table along with a long, sharp pencil. I write, then I'll sleep... Or try to
sleep at least. It's hard to do when all I can focus on is the need to sleep,
the need to forget about my nightmares and instead focus on getting a
goodnight's rest. It gets hard. When I'm trying to sleep and not just falling
asleep. I think that's a big difference between me and most other people.
Because I'm an insomniac and my mind works the night shift. Because there are
images on the insides of my eyelids that keep me awake instesad of soothing me
to sleep. Because /he/ is always there. Because /he/ occupies my thoughts and
in all honesty, /he's/ not something you want to fall asleep thinking about.
But here I am again, thinking more about /him/ and trying to sleep instead of
actually sleeping or working on it at least.
So, I look down at my notebook and with a small sigh, I finally give in and
begin to write.
/Ms. Love invited Miss Jackson over today. I've never met Miss Jackson before
because she's never really come over before. But she's the woman that was from
the store forever ago. The one that gave me the message that said, "Your worst
nightmare." when I asked her, "Who are you?" It might just be a coincidence.
Maybe they just look really similar. But something is off and it scares me. I
don't know who she is. I don't know why she would look exactly like a prison
escapee. I don't understand. I'm afraid of what she'll do to me. Afraid that
she'll hurt me just like the man in the park promised me./
/Maybe I'm just overreacting and this isn't just one big problem. Maybe it's
partly me being paranoid and partly Jones lying. Maybe /he/ really isn't real
and the first man at the store just happened to pass by me that day and maybe
it's all okay./
/I've been thinking too much. I can't help it, though. I get so afraid of
what'll happen if it goes wrong. I just think and think and think and worry and
worry and worry and it just gets to me. It keeps building up and up and up./
/I'm just rambling on now. I'll write tomorrow if I get a chance. I'm hoping to
be able to talk to Jones soon but I feel like it's alljust one big issue that
isn't one big issue. MAybe I should stop thinking aobut it./
/I'll write again soon/
/Patrick/
I guess it's kind of weird to write to it as if it was a friend, but sometimes
that's kind of what I want... A friend. Someone who is actually my age. Someone
who can listen and understand. Someone who I can hug and not... freak out on.
I just need someone to pour my guts out to. Someone who will actually be
shocked by what they hear and not just jot down in a notepad to resort to
later.
I feel so lonely sometimes...
But it doesn't help to mope about it. I'm sure it'll be okay someday. I'll have
someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't understand but someone who could learn
to. Someone who might be able to deal with me. With who I really am.
The boy behind the mask.
***
It's been three days since Miss Jackson showed up. It wasn't the same girl. I
know it wasn't. Now, as I think of it, she had gray hair and blue eyes. I think
I was just messing things up at the time. It's nothing to worry about.
I haven't talked to Jones because, well, I don't think it's necessary. I'm
doing okay right now and I haven't freaked out about it at all. Come to think
of it, the man at the park really wasn't that big of a deal. /We are coming./
It's nothing. I'm sure it's nothing. It was just a coincidence.
I don't know why I overreacted so badly. It was nothing to worry about. It was
all just a dream.
So when I wake up on Wednesday (because I didn't have any dreams about /him./
) I'm not surprised about the small smile on my lips. It's okay. They didn't
come for me in the middle of the night. They're not even an issue. I bet you
they're not even real and I just dreamt up all the news articles and what Jones
said to me. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm in no danger whatsoever. I mean, who would
think that? I'm just fine. Just a normal kid. Why does anyone think me any
differently?
I don't know why people always overreact so much. I mean, I do it sometimes, I
will confess, but it's just so weird.
Anyways, I wake up that morning with a smile on my lips, opening my eyes softly
to welcome the gentle feeling of the sun on my skin and the soft breeze flowing
through my window. I can see Justin across the room in his own bed, sleeping
gentle with his chest rising and falling ever so softly. Blonde hair with
streaks of brown messily covering his scalp and forehead. Small, light strands
that glow in the light of the window.
I don't appreciate him enough. I guess I should, I mean, he basically worships
the ground I walk on. Even after the incident where he touched me. We're going
okay. I'm still his role model.
After a few minutes of laying there, watching the boy sleep with Dylan a bunk
away from him, I finally realize I should get up for my day of learning about
mathematic equations with the greatest teacher in the whole, wide world: Ms.
Love! (Note the sarcasm.)
I sit up in bed, stretching out a little and yawning before I slip out of the
covers quietly and grab some clothes from my dresser: A shirt, a jacket,
boxers, a pair of jeans, and socks. Whatever it takes to get me through the
day. I guess I really don't need the socks but I'm sure Ms. Love will probably
make me go to the store at some point to go grab a carton of milk or take
Justin to go get new shoes.
I head to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me before I'm
slipping off my boxers and dressing myself with a new pair, avoiding the sight
of myself in the mirror.
Once I've dressed, shutting my eyes while my shirt is off, I brush my teeth and
use my deodorant, then make my way downstairs to go eat in silence.
I really don't like eating with the others because I don't like the others. I
just like being alone. Me, myself, and I. It's always been that way and it
always will be that way. I mean, it is only about five in the morning. Everyone
else usually wakes up at eight or nine despite the fact that Ms. Love had said
class begins at about 9 AM everyday with a thirty minute break at 12 for lunch.
But we tend to start it at 10 AM ish and end it at 2 or 3 in the afternoon.
Which, according to some research, is actually shorter than the average public
school day, but we're all fast learners.
I, honestly, can't stand people who wake up late. I like people who go to sleep
early and wake up early. I guess that's because I do that but I still don't
really like people who do it in any other way. It just annoys me. Especially
when I'm already awake and I'm left waiting forever and ever and ever for them
to just wake up. I mean, the morning silence isn't that bad. I like being
alone, but that also means I have my thoughts to keep me company and that's
never that great of a thing. Especially with... with /him/...
I finish up breakfast in a matter of minutes and, well, the rest of the day is
fairly mellow. It'll all practice for the end of year tests and then school is
out for about three months or so. It's over about halfway through June and
begins again at the end of August which pisses me off a ton. It's like their
way of just trimming off the days little by little until we're left with a
short 80 days of vacation. Maybe less. That's only 80 out of 365 days. Greedy.
People never done a good thing.
I guess that makes me greedy, too, though. So I should just accept it. There's
no use in complaining. It's not like it'll get me anywhere anyways.
So, as the day passes, I feel as normal as I usually do. I hate everyone and I
avoid them as best as I can, but they're still there, so it's not super
effective.
Anyways, it's a good day. I eat lunch at 12, a sandwich and an apple, continue
with English, and then go on to History. By 3:30, the day is over and I
immediately go to my room to sleep for a while, cuddled up in my blankets. It
feels cold in my room and I'm not sure why. I mean, I shut the window this
morning once everyone woke up.
But as I glance over at it, I notice it's open.
I frown in confusion. I swear I closed it. I always do. And nobody's opening it
back up before... Maybe I did forget. Or Justin decided that I needed my room
to be /extra/ cold today. So, I shut it and make sure it's latched this time. I
know I shut it.
Soon after, when I'm back in bed with the covers up to my neck, I feel myself
drifting off to sleep. I don't usually sleep during the day if I got a
goodnight's sleep the night before, but I just feel kind of tired. The rest of
this week wasn't that great sleep-wise and I know I should just take my
medication but I don't really like to. It makes me feel even more batshit crazy
than I already am. It makes me feel like a patient in a mental hospital. Like
my insomnia is a weakness.
I can't have any weaknesses.
I've established this and I need to reestablish it. I'm not crazy. I'm not
weak. I'm not afraid. My mask will ensure that...
I just need to sleep.
Sleep...
***
I wake up at dinner at my normal time, and it's quiet. Ms. Love doesn't say a
word, Justin is beside me again, chattering away with Lacey and I can hear
Dylan on the other side of me just as quiet as me with Jess at his side, taking
small sips of her soup. I wonder if maybe he thinks as much as I do. About all
of these stupid theories that really need to just stop...
Maybe not. I'm not sure.
"Hey, uh, Patrick." Ms. Love calls quietly, a little nervous.
I look up at her expectantly and let her contine, "So, Jones talked to me
today. About uh... getting ahold of you. She said she wants to know what's
wrong. She's kind of worried and she suggested scheduling an appointment to
talk about what happened tomorrow? Would you be okay with that?"
No, I really don't want to. It was nothing. I'm sure it never even happened.
It's kind of pointless to talk about something that never happened. But, I
guess it's necessary if Jones wants to continue this whole, "You're batshit
crazy," act. Because I'm not crazy. I'm not mentally ill. Nothing. I'm just
fine the way I am.
I only nod in reply, becasue what else am I supposed to say? Just deny the
appointment and have Jones keep bugging me about it? No. It's fine.
Love nods back in reply, and we finish dinner in silence. As Love calls Jones
and schedules an appointment, I begin to feel a little vulnerable and make my
way upstairs. Passing the empty hall that /he/ could easily hurt me in. It's a
little pathetic how I always think about that when I pass that dark, empty room
but I can't help it. He's always a threat to me.
I finally make it to my room, my head down and my shoulders hunched as I fall
down in bed and pull my covers up around myself. I don't feel like writing
tonight. I kind of just want to sleep. I'm tired and I need to just rest for a
while, but then again, I'm always tired. I don't know why I'm so tired today of
all days...
Not to mention it's really cold. Again. I know I closed the window, so why
would it be this cold?
I turn in bed with a small frown on my face to see that, no. The window isn't
closed.
I blink, afraid I'm just imagining things, but it's still there. and I know I
shut it earlier. Maybe Ms. Love came up and opened it. I'm sure it's just that.
Yeah. Nothing wrong.
So with a small sigh, I shut the window again, not even bothering with the
latch, before I'm shutting my eyes, turning back over in bed. It's okay. Just
me being forgetful and Love being a nanny.
It's okay.
I just need to sleep.
***
"Shh, he's still sleeping. Just be careful."
Fumbling. I can barely make it out but someone is in my room and from the sound
of their deep, familiar voices, it's not one of my adoptive brothers or
sisters. Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong and I'm in trouble. I
just can't find the will to let them know I'm awake. What if they hurt me?
"Sedative?"
"Here."
Something is exchanged between the two and I realize, /shit,/ something is
wrong.
Them.
It's them. It's them. They've come for me. They're taking me away. I can't do
this.
My eyes open wide and I nearly scream at the sight of them. I can see two men,
one is on the side of my bed near the window and the other is on the side of my
bed near Justin.
I jerk up as soon as I see the figures, faces covered in ski masks and bodies
covered in black clothing and I swear that alone is going to leave me with
nightmares for a month.
Before I can do anything, the man to my left has jammed a needle in my neck and
my eyes go wide at the pinprick. My mouth opening and a tiny, tiny whine
escaping my throat but no matter what, nobody can hear me. I try screaming,
begging for help. Something. Anything to get Justin to hear me but he's fast
asleep. I can't move. I can't... think... It's... all going black... I can't...
quite...
"You're okay now." One man says, so familiar, but so far, "Vic will have his
way with you soon enough."
And it all goes to black.
Chapter End Notes
     Heck I love cliffhangers
***** Him *****
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys extremely triggering content here including mentions of
     pedophilia, violence, and like... idk. It's triggering, make sure to
     double check the tags guys
When I wake up, I can't move.
My arms are behind my back, numb and restrained with what feels like a rough
rope tying them firmly together. I can tell I'm on the floor, my legs sprawled
out uncomfortably and my cheek pressed against the cold concrete. It's all so
uncomfortable but I find that I don't even question it. It's just a dream and /
he/ is coming to hurt me soon. That terrifies me, but I just have to keep
convincing myself that it's just another night terror. I'll wake up eventually.
It's all okay. It's not like it's going to leave any permanent damage.
I lay for a little while longer, my eyes shut and my breathing steady, mentally
readying myself for the pain that is soon to come to me. For the sharp, jagged
thrusts and the knives down my back. The bruises that always seem to leave once
I wake but the memories that never brush away.
It's all just /his/ little game. Making me feel like a rabbit in a field of
trees. In a forest where I can easily escape and hide. But as soon as he, the
fox, comes, I know there is no escape.
Finally, I realize he isn't coming anytime soon. It's been at least twenty
minutes (but that's just instinct) and he still hasn't shown up. Will he show?
Or is he just going to leave me like this forever?
My eyes open and I'm surrounded by more concrete, cold, cold concrete floor and
walls hanging with cobwebs and spider nests. It makes my skin crawl at just the
thought. But, still nothing. I hear nothing, feel nothing, taste nothing.
Then the creak of a boot.
And that boot is slamming into the back of my head.
My eyes go wide and I have to hold back a yelp of pain, gritting my teeth
instead and whimpering ever so slightly.
"Pathetic little shit, eh?" The man above me chuckles. But it's not /him/.
This isn't a dream. This isn't a dream. This is reality. I would never be able
to feel that so intensely. My eyes widen at the sudden realization but I still
don't make a sound, instead just listen to the man's unsteady breaths. Two of
them.
"I guess." The other says, his voice gruff and as familiar as the first. I
recognize them and I don't know from where. It just touches on a distant
memory. Such a gentle touch I could miss it easily. Like a feather on skin, but
it's still there somewhere. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of my
voice, so I don't say a word and instead just keep quiet.
The man pulls me up roughly by my jacket and snaps me back so I'm resting on my
knees in front of him, my head down. I don't want to show him my face. My fear,
but I soon realize that this is only showing more of it, and I raise my eyes,
looking up at him.
Jaime and Tony.
Them. They came. They came for me just as I had thought they would. They
weren't supposed to. No, no, no.
"You got a voice, Kid?" Jaime asks, a cigarette hanging out of his pale-pink
lips and a pistol in his hand.
I only glare at him and spit. Right on his shoe.
Who am I kidding, I'm not giving them the satisfaction. They're not getting
shit from me. I don't care how much they hurt me, I've been through enough with
/him./
Jaime slams his pistol into the side of my head, sending me collapsing on my
side with my head throbbing and a small gasp escaping my lips.
"Tony, how long 'til boss is here?" Jaime asks, turning to talk to the other
druggie.
"Jack, Ash, and him are gonna be here in about ten minutes. Apparently his son
was putting up a fight. Go figure, though. I probably would if my dad was the
head of a drughouse. Not the best job to have for take your kid to work day."
Tony replies, a small chuckle in his voice.
Other kid? Vic has a son? It must have been who Jones was talking about. The
other boy. Will I recognize him as I did Tony and Jaime?
"We should probably get him upstairs, then." The man sighs, "Talk to Rian. He's
the guy organizing all this shit."
I hear Jaime taking something from his pocket and after the click of a button,
he speaks into what I believe is a walkie-talkie, "Dawson, we're taking Trick
upstairs. That good?"
There's a moment of silence in which Jaime pulls me up by the back of my
jacket, thank god, and then the other man--Rian--replies, "Yeah, Vic is pulling
in now."
Jaime sighs, setting his radio away and grabbing me roughly, this time by my
arms.
I try not to freak out, keeping my breathing steady and my eyes shut. As long
as it's not skin on skin I think I'm okay, I hope I'm okay. This is a lot for
me. I can feel his fingers on me and... It makes me feel dirty...
No, no, no. I'm strong. I'll make it through this. Jones will find me soon
enough. I'll survive. I just need to make my way through this. I just need to
be independant. I can do that.
The walk upstairs is brief, Jaime and Tony dragging me up each step to a point
where my feet barely touch the ground, they're lifting me so high. But I think
that's just because I'm kind of short. It's never really been much of an issue
until now becuase basically everyone in the foster home is shorter than me.
Even Ms. Love. But, like I said forever ago, she's Ms. Umbridge without the
kitten fetish.
As Jaime opens the door from the basement to the kitchen, I feel myself growing
more and more nervous. What does Vic look like? Will I recognize him, too? What
will he do to me? Will he hurt me? Touch me...? Jones said there were bruises.
My ribcage was easily seen. I know they're going to neglect me. Abuse me all
over again, but this time. I'll remember it. I'll remember it well.
Maybe worse than they treated me before.
I see Alex in pacing around in the living room with that smoker mouth I saw so
very long ago in the Walmart. When this whole mess started. It feels like it's
been years since I last saw him and now, he's here again. He's come back. He's
going to hurt me this time, though. Hurt me bad.
"Alex." Tony greets from my side, alerting the brunette to our presence.
I watch as those blue eyes move from the window that shows the driveway to me.
Piercing and sharp with a glare that makes me cower back, intimidated. At least
much more than I was for my two original captors.
"Set him down on the floor. Vic needs to make sure we got the right kid before
we do anything." The man says.
"And if he's not?"
"Then we kill him." He replies simply as I'm lowered back to my knees on the
carpeted ground. The fact that I might not be the one hadn't even occured to me
until just now. And, I mean, I'm not afraid of death but that thought is still
a little unsettling. I know I am the one, who else was Jones supposed to find?
But the thought of ending my life now, this young makes my blood rush and my
heart pound in fear. The thought that I might be killed here. This is the
month, the week, maybe the day that I'll die. Jones might not find me in time.
I might not go home and get better. /He/ might really find me.
"I know you're it, though," Alex says, nearing me and kneeling down to look me
straight in the eye, "I know that pretty little face from anywhere."
/Pretty little face./
When I don't reply, he only chuckles and stands back up, "You don't talk much,
do you, Kid?"
I don't reply again, I refuse to. It's no longer a battle of having no reason
to talk, but one of stubborness and just the satisfaction of annoying my
kidnappers that motivates me to do it. It's just really nice to know that I can
get to them in some way. Knowing that I have a strength against them and it's
not all weaknesses.
/Clunk./
The sound of a car door slamming shut. Vic. Jack. Ashley. Vic's son.
"That's the boss. Make sure the slut behaves. Filthy whore is gonna wish he was
dead if he doesn't," Alex growls, pulling the cigarette from his lips and
setting it in the dish on the table.
There's a minute or so of anticipation, I can hear shouts outside and I do my
best to just shut my eyes and pretend this isn't happening. That Vic isn't
coming for me and that it's all okay and that this is just a sick dream. I just
have to focus on the room around me and not who is with me. The dark brown
couch on the tan carpet. The couch Vic once raped me on.
Vic once raped me on? What? I didn't... No... These aren't my memories. How am
I remembering this?
The door swings open once it's unlocked and my eyes dart up to see who it is.
Ashley and Jack coming in first with a boy I can't see between their arms. He's
struggling and something seems dangerously familiar about him. I can't quite
place it, though, not until I know what he really looks like.
Out of his struggling, I see his shirt ride up and--
Oh my god.
This isn't happening. No, no, no. That boy. That man.
He thrashes around just enough that I can see his face and my face pales. My
eyes widen. My breathing completely stops and I find myself screaming at the
top of my lungs, begging to get away.
It's /him./ /He/ is Vic's son. /He/ raped me.
Vic's son is Pete.
"No! Stop!" I scream, backing away against the wall. I'm blinded completely by
my fear, the pure terror coursing through my veins. /He's/ going to hurt me. /
He's/ going to rape me. Beat me. Pin me down on the bed just like my nightmares
had proven, "GET HIM AWAY FROM ME! GET HIM AWAY! PLEASE, NO! STOP! STOP! STOP!"
My screams fill the room and I feel Jaime pushing me to the ground so I'm
sprawled out and struggling, my eyes glued to the boy who has now stopped
struggling and is instead staring at me with a rather confused look. Dark,
menacing, brown eyes.
Not so menacing in real life but I still know what he's going to do to me. I
know how he's going to hurt me. Pin me against the wall. Fuck me until I'm
begging and screaming for him to stop. My world is falling apart around me.
I've lost all control and now with /him/ here, I don't know how much longer I
can last.
"Shut the hell up!" Jack growls, pulling my head back roughly by my hair as he
ties a cloth around my mouth as a gag, forcing my screams to quiet against the
barrier.
I'm crying now.
I haven't cried in at least a week and I'm breaking down again, terror and sobs
racking my body as I look at the rapist, the abuser. Even if he looks
completely oblivious to why I'm panicking.
The door shuts and I can hear footsteps coming near me, then a boot slamming
into my face, a disgusting crack sounding across the room and the feeling of
numbness, then intense pain racking through my nose. It's definitely broken,
but it's just enough to snap me from my state of fear, blinking away the tears
and instead shutting my eyes sharply.
"Sorry, Sir." I hear Jack mumble.
After a moment of silence, the boots leave my vision, but Jaime is still on my
back, pressing me down.
"Let him up."
Familiar. I know that voice. I know that voice too well.
Jaime's foot leave my back and I immediately take a deep breath to calm myself,
lifting my front from the ground.
"Patrick, unknown last name. Age: Approximately seventeen. Parents: Unknown.
Family: Unknown." Vic growls above me, "I took you in when you were just a
baby, now, I couldn't just send you off to an adoption facility, I'd be
tracked. So, the only choice was to give you away. But you know what? I decided
that maybe I didn't want to. You might be useful. So what if you're a kid? You
can still be put to work, and if you're not working, you can be used. Do you
remember any of that? Any of what happened?"
I don't reply, too afraid to. My mouth is open and my eyes are wide, tears
still dripping from them and blood streaming from my nose as I pant from the
pain.
"Answer me, Slut!" He barks.
"No." I reply, squeezing my eyes shut. I don't like Vic. Vic is scary and I
honestly don't even know what he looks like.
"No?" He whispers, then after a moment he chuckles darkly and yanks my hair
back so I'm forced to look at him.
Familiar again. But this one hits the hardest. I know I've heard it before from
somewhere I'm just not sure where. Well, no, that's a lie, I know exactly where
I've seen this face before, I just don't want to believe that it's really him
and that I was really raped by him and not Pete. I don't want to believe that
it was this man who hurt me over and over and over with beatings and drugs and
whatever else he used.
"You don't remember any of it?" He asks quietly.
I grit my teeth, "No, Sir." I don't know why I add the sir. Proabbly because
I'm afraid of him and my smugness is just beginning to disapparate.
"What do you remember, then, huh? Obviously, Pete has some significance here."
Vic says, glaring across me with such a wicked gaze that it sends more chills
up my spine than Ashley ever has.
"I was--ngh--at a foster home for five years. A-and something bad happened and
I..." I take another deep breath, "I started having nightmares about /him,/ P-
Pete."
The name tastes like venom, but Vic's tastes worse.
"Jesus, they really did fuck with you, didn't they?" Vic whispers, "Or you did
this to yourself. What kinds of nightmares?"
I open my mouth to reply, and after a moment of embarassment, I finally reply,
quiet, "He hurt me."
I don't know why I'm telling him this. I think it's because I want to know the
truth. What really happened for those five years that my memory was jogged. If
what Jones said was true, but from what Vic's said, they're both pretty damn
set on this idea that I was beaten and raped by people of this drughouse.
"No, Patrick, that's nowhere near what happened." Vic whispers, eyeing Pete who
has gone completely limp, just listening to the two of us talk, "Pete was my
son. Youngest. Always a disappointment. He never had any interest in the family
business so I beat some sense into him. And the way he repays me is calling 9-
1-1. Both of you did."
"Jones told me it was one of your clients!" I bark, but I'm only met with Tony
slamming his gun into my head again for the second time today.
"Bullshit!" Vic barks, "It was you and Pete. How the hell would you even know?
You're fucked up inside. So fucked up. Your brain doesn't even work right
anymore. It's fucked with your memory so fucking much. You have no clue,
Patrick."
I look around, my eyebrows lifted in confusion. My memory? My memory is fucked?
I don't... What?
"I'll make you remember. Trigger something int that goddamn brain of yours. As
for you," Vic turns to Pete whose dark eyes were previously on me, "I don't
care what happens to you. As long as you're out of my sight and hurting, I
don't care. So, I'll have Rian deal with you. It's not like you're good for
much else than taking cock."
I feel a pang of sympathy for the kid and from the look on his face of pure
disownment, I can tell he never wanted this in the first place. I know it
wasn't us who called 9-1-1. It was the client. The one who saved us. I think
it's kind of ironic how the person to save us was the same person to get us
into deeper shit than we were already in.
Jaime and Tony pull me up from the ground and look to Vic who gives me one
glance then turns to Ashley and Zack, "Take them both to the spare bedroom,
I'll deal with them later, okay?"
Jaime nods from my left and I can see Ashley do the same on Pete's right just
before we're dragged away again, this time to a bedroom through a hall that
connects from the living room to the bathroom and to a bedroom.
As soon as we're in the room and it's ensured that we won't be able to leave,
our guards leave us, shutting and locking the door tight.
Leaving me with /him./
I mean, it doesn't seem like he's gonna hurt me. If anything, he's in the same
situation as I am. Afraid, vulnerable, with a hint of resistance. But he really
isn't that bad. I just don't really understand why I thought so badly of him in
my nightmares. I'm sure he's a good person. One that might understand me better
than anyone else in this house. He might be able to help me through this if he
so chose. I could help him. Something. We could have a mutual relationship
through this. I just need to figure out how to get over my fear of him...
somehow...
There's silence for a bit. Nothing besides him sitting on the floor and staring
at the wall and me in a little bit of a daze with my head and nose throbbing.
"You really don't remember anything, do you?" Pete asks quietly, his voice
shaking. He really is scared. All smugness is gone. He's terrified.
I bite my lip, deciding whether or not to talk. He certainly doesn't seem like
danger but I can't be too sure. I want to make sure he really isn't going to
hurt me before I reveal anything that he could use to hurt me.
He sighs when I don't reply, "We were friends, Patrick. We made it through this
together. I would comfort you when you needed it and you would comfort me when
I needed it. You don't remember any of that shit?" He even looks a little mad,
"What happened? You just decided to make /me/ the bad guy? Say I'm my dad? I
don't want shit to do with Vic. I can barely call him my own dad. I don't care
anymore. I'm so fucking done with this place and him..."
He's crying again and all I can do is stare with a pitiful look on my eyes.
"I-I'm sorry..." I whisper after a moment, finally trusting him enough to speak
to him. I don't want him to excluded from me. I... I really want to help him.
If I'll have nobody else to turn to while I'm here. I just don't know how long
it'll take until I truly trust him. Until it's all better between the two of
us.
"Sorry... Sorry doesn't fix rape, Patrick. Sorry doesn't fix scars. But in all
honesty, I kind of forgive you, because something happened to you during all
those years you were gone. You're just... different... I don't really
understand it myself. But I mean... I don't know..." He whispers, looking over
at me, "Were you diagnosed with anything?"
He crawls over to me and my first instinct is to run, to get away. He's going
to rape me. Hurt me. Beat me.
But he doesn't even touch me, he just sits in front of me with a sympathetic
expression on his face. Sad, brown eyes, no longer hostile and piercing.
I open my mouth to speak and after a moment, I manage to make a word come out,
"PTSD, but I don't believe it. I've never had flashbacks unless..."
There's silence for a moment as I trail off, until Pete urges me to continue,
"Unless?"
"U-Unless someone touched me. I-I mean just brushed my arm. I-I would go into a
full on panic attack and I'd see you hurting me. I didn't know where you came
from, I'm sorry I just... you scared me. You still do and I know it's not what
happened. I'm trying to convince myself that... I... I don't know."
"What else?"
"Insomnia for the nightmares. And that's all I know of..."
Pete sighs, shaking his head, "I read somewhere that after especially traumatic
experiencing, memories tend to shift to something happier or... less intense.
Obviously, this drughouse took its toll on both of us, but I think something
like that happened to you. You didn't want to believe that you'd lost your
parents and you were basically a sex slave going through child labor and rape
and abuse daily. And after you left, you gradually uh... well you changed the
memories and decided to believe that instead. Except this time, it was only a
dream and a different foster home. And it was me instead of about nine other
people."
My eyes widen as I try to process that. I faked it? No, that doesn't sound
right. I remember it clearly. The first foster home... With... I don't really
remember the first foster home, but I was twelve! I'm seventeen now that's
normal not to remember... right?
Pete sighs, "I just hope you'll remember soon, 'Trick... I really don't want to
be lost again..."
Tears rise to his eyes again and he huddles into a ball at the thought of that,
his hands hugging his knees to his chest and his eyes off to the side, gazing
at the wall with a false fascination in his chestnut eyes. He just wants to
forget. I guess I should be happy with what I got. With forgetting. But I want
to remember... for Pete...
"What were you diagnosed with?"
His breathing hitches at the suggestion, but after a moment, he just sighs and
nods, "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder,
Depression, Anxiety, Insomnia. It just got worse and worse as I tried to heal.
H-He would keep coming back. Vic and Jack. I-I don't think I deserved it but
sometimes I feel like I do a-and..."
He looks over at me and once he sees the worried look, he quickly shuts his
eyes and takes a deep breath.
"What's Borderline Personality Disorder?" I whisper, curiousity getting the
best of me despite the fact that I'm /never/ really been that curious before. I
just want to know why he's acting so off at the mention of it.
"It's like..." He stops after a moment, then tries again, "Everyone reacts
differently to rape or disownment or anything really. Obviously, we both got
the PTSD from the rape and abuse, you got the nightmares with that. But I had
the feeling of my own dad leaving me and treating me like shit and I really
used to respect him before I knew what he was doing. I... BPD is a lot like
PTSD. Just without the flashbacks and nightmares. It... makes me impulsive and
I-I'm afraid of being left. I hate the way I am because of it. The way it
shapes me and I hate how people just label me as crazy when I'm /not./"
He's crying again now and I'm realizing that he's really less stable than I
originally thought. Something is wrong with him.
But he's not crazy.
I stare at him for a moment longer and finally just give him a soft smile when
he's stopped shaking, "We'll get out of here. I swear on my life. We're gonna
make it out of her and I won't leave you again."
He looks into my eyes, as if he doesn't believe it, but when my expression
remains unchanged, he smiles a little and whispers, "Thank you. It means a
lot."
I nod, "I-I would pinkie promise or something but I really don't want to touch
you. 'm sorry."
"No, it's okay," He replies, "I understand."
I smile softly because he really is a nice guy. I don't understand why I
decided to make /him/ of all people the bad guy in my dreams. He's good and I
just hope the thinks the same way as I do. That humans are greedy and just sick
in general. I think Vic is where I got that concept from. How he would rape me
just to relieve some stress.
/How am I remembering this?/
I blink, lowering my smile a little and frowning as I look around. This room is
familiar. It's all familiar, I just can't grasp the memory. Bits and pieces
here and there that make no sense.
"Do you remember this place at all?" I ask quietly.
Pete sighs, "I remember it better than I should."
"I... I think I kind of remember it." I say, earning myself a glance from Pete,
"I mean... bits and pieces. I don't remember what it felt like but I remember
Vic... uh..." I bite my lip, and decide to settle for something a little better
than I had orginally planned, "I remember what they did to me. Not all of it.
Just small things here and there. And it seems really familiar, I just don't
know from where. Or it's just not connecting."
Pete gives me a sad look, "I really wish I could hug you."
"Yeah... Me, too..."
There's a little more silence, just silence, then Pete is standing and going to
the windows which are blocked off with iron bars that looked to be welded to
the frame.
"Goddamnit," He whispers, looking the bars up and down. I watch silently as he
yanks at the metal, but no matter what, it won't budge.
I can only stare as he kicks at it, desperate to just tear it down and escape.
He looks around the room for something, anything, but there's nothing. No
furniture, nothing. Just an empty closet and a door. We're stuck waiting until
someone comes through that door with a gun and a cigarette. Ordering one of us
to get up.
"Do you think people are evil, Pete?" I ask quietly, looking up and down his
muscled, tan arms covered by nothing but a black metallica tank top.
Pete sighs, still looking away from me as he grips the bars, "No. I don't. I
think some people can be worse than others and I think some people can be nicer
than others."
I frown softly at that. What's that supposed to mean? I've never met a nice
person in my life. At least not one who doesn't know any better.
"And you think the same. Or at least that's what you said when you were eleven
or so. You said I was nice, and that was from choice. I could've chosen to just
ignore you and not help to make you feel cleaner, but I was a friend and you
respected me for that. I helped you forget about Vic for a while and where we
were. You liked that about me. And I liked that about you." Pete said, looking
around the room, "I remember hugging you close when Vic and Ash fought or when
Jack was talking about how he really needed to get off while Alex was telling
him to just wait until the clients left. I remember it all.
"You were special, 'Trick. Damaged, but special. And you've changed a bit, but
I don't mind. It's probably best that you forgot anyways..."
"You helped me feel cleaner?" I ask, my eyebrows furrowed.
Pete sighs, shaking his head, "It doesn't matter. It was kind of a... I don't
know... friends with benefits I guess."
My eyes widen and I crawl away a little as Pete sits down in front of me,
"Friends with benefits? W-we...?"
He smiles softly, that pained look still in his eyes, "Yeah. But it wasn't
unconsentual... It was... I don't know. You felt dirty, so you asked for a
friend's lips instead of a rapist's and I would make you feel a little cleaner
even if you didn't enjoy it a whole lot."
I frown, still extremely confused. If I didn't enjoy it, why would I go through
it?
"You were asexual." He sighs as if he can read my mind.
I raise my eyebrows, blinking away the confusion.
That would explain why sex never did it for me.
Pete sighs and looks at the rising sun outside, looking a little sad about the
fact that he's back and there's no escape.
"We should probably get some sleep before they come back." He says. He blinks
and looks over at me, "Huh?"
"Uh sure." I reply awkwardly, looking around and realizing there aren't and
blankets (Though, I'm not too surprised.)
"So uh... Sleep well I guess." He says, laying on his side and hugging his tank
top close.
"Yeah," I reply, doing the same for my plaid jacket. We lay for a bit, my mind
buzzing with all the new information and the fear that seemsto constantly cling
to me now. I'm back. To the place I can't remember. The place Jones warned me
about. I thought that prison break wouldn't hurt me. Funny how things can
change so fast in just one night.
But I realize it would be best to just sleep, so I do. My eyes shutting and my
mind eventually going...
Blank.
***** Abused *****
Chapter Notes
     More abuse: sexual, emotional, verbal. This chapter is basically full
     of abuse, pedophilia, rape. Sorry guys
"Get up."
I don't want to. Just a little longer, Love. I'm tired. This is the first time
I've slept well in a while. It's been a good week, please...
I sigh, pulling my plaid jacket up over myself and groaning softly.
Then there's a boot in my side and my eyes are opening wide. Just like that, it
all comes back. The drug dealers. The kidnapping. The boots. Pete.
"Get up, whore." Mike barks above me, his voice hostile in any way possible,
"Vic told me to have some fun with you. To get you warmed up I guess, but I
don't do warm ups."
He yanks me up on my feet before he's slamming me into the wall and handcuffing
my wrists together to replace the rope they'd untied last night, "So you know
what I'm gonna do to you, slut? You know what I really missed about you?"
My breathing hitches because I already know what's going to happen. How he's
going to undress me. Touch me. Hurt me. I'm afraid of what's going to happen.
Of how he's going to abuse me. Penetrate me. There's no use in fighting back, I
know this now, but I can't help it. It's like it might somehow help me. Like he
might show me some mercy if I scream loud enough.
"Let go of me, stop!"
But I'm dragged out of the room before even Pete can protest.
Mike drags me from one spare room to the bedroom where he swings me in the room
and slams the door shut, locking it soon after from the inside. I'm thrown
against the footboard of the bed, my hands still restrained behind my back. I
don't have time to recover before he's pulling me up, his hand wrapped around
my neck making my mouth open and a scream leave my throat.
But the only images that fill my mind are the ones in reality.
There are no flashbacks.
Mike throws me down on the bed and I watch in fear as he uncuffs one of my
hands, instead cuffing it to the bed and flipping me over so I'm on my stomach.
I can't do anything. I've never been in this situation before besides in my
nightmares and those weren't real. This is very real. This is my life now. His
hands yanking down my jeans to the ground so I'm more exposed than I think I've
ever been before and soon after continuing with my boxers.
"Stop, please, please you don't have to do this. I didn't... I didn't do it.
Neither of us did, Please, I-I swear," I whisper, seeing him grab a condom from
the bedside drawer out of the corner of my eye because the rest of my face is
buried in the pillow. My heart is pounding in my chest, each thump sending
blood circulating through my veins. It reminds me that I'm alive. That this is
what my life has come to. It makes me remember that this is no dream and that
I'm really about to feel something I haven't felt in at least five years.
The unbuckling of a belt, the unzipping of a zipper, clothing sliding off of
his body, and soon enough his hands on my hips, pulling me closer.
"Please, Mike, please. I swear it wasn't me. It was your client. It was your
client, please."
"Shut the fuck up or you won't be able to breathe either, Slut." He whispers in
my ear.
I feel his tip right /there./ A forbidden place. Somewhere I haven't ever
allowed anyone to go except Pete if everything he said really did happen.
And then he's pushing in.
/Vic./
/Vic is the first thing I see, above me. His hands are in my hair and he's
pounding into my small body. My eight year old body. This is me. Nine years
ago. The same walls. The same bed. The same screams. And in the next room, I
know Pete sits, sobbing to have his dearest friend back. But his friend isn't
coming back anytime soon./
/Vic never finishes soon./
I'm back. Reality, a loud gasp leaving my throat as I stare with wide eyes at
the wall. A terrible burning sensation encompassing my lower region as Mike
continues to thrust above me.
It really did happen.
***
When I'm brought back to the spare room, I can't stop shaking. Hell, I can
barely walk. My ass hurts horribly and Mike has that disgusting smirk on his
lips. His cap is crooked on his head as he throws me to the floor like a piece
of trash and shuts the door, leaving me shaking horribly on the ground.
Each shudder comes in waves. Coming and going just like the flashbacks had. My
hands shake violently, back and forth in front of my eyes, eventually stopping,
and then starting up again.
"You okay?" Pete asks softly, nearing me.
"Don't touch me!" I shout, tears streaming from my eyes, "Don't touch me ever
again. Please. I... P-please. I... I can't..."
The sobs come next, shaking my whole body and contracting my stomach tightly.
"I don't... I can't.... I'm so sorry... M-My fault... I'm so sorry... Shouldn't
have... I'm sorry... I..." I break down into more sobs, clawing emptily at the
carpet and crying out desperately for the pain to end and the hickeys sucked
into the back of my neck to just leave.
"Come here." Pete whispers, reaching for me.
"Stop it!" I scream again, this time jumping away and staring at him with wide,
terrified eyes. I can't... Never again. I can't go through that again. All the
flashbacks that came with it and all the grunts that came from him. It hurts. I
hurt. I just want... I want it to end. I just want to forget that I ever
existed I...
I want to die.
Pete finally just forces me into his body, pulling me against his chest and
holding me still. I scream and struggle but no matter how much I fight, he
overpowers me. It scares me a little how weak I am. How I couldn't fight of
Mike and now I can't even fight off a boy of my own age.
"Shh, deep breaths." He whispers, rocking me back and forth ever so slightly. I
sob harder, screaming louder and begging to get out of his grasp but he still
won't move a muscle. Finally, finally, after what feels like an eternity,
though, this gentle rocks and the hushes from his lips make my heart beat
slower and my screaming to fall instead to small whimpers.
Pete sighs softly, shutting his eyes and whispering gentle words into my ear
saying, "It'll be okay," and, "You're just fine," and, "Take a deep breath. I
know it hurts."
I'm still shaking in his arms, my sobs now pressed into his chest and my choked
throat opening up slightly. I feel happier in his arms. Happier than I think
I've ever been in anyone else's arms. He makes me feel better. He makes me feel
calm. Like I'm actually worth something to the world. The way he treats me like
a baby. The way he hugs me so close that I feel like I'm choking, but it's
safe. Reassuring.
"I don't want to go through... I can't, Pete, I /can't./ It hurts so much, I'm
so sorry. I c-an't..."
My voice is cracking and I'm so afraid. It's much more than the physical pain.
It's the emotional pain. The pain of feeling used. Of feeling unwanted and
worthless. It's a mood I can't put into words because it hurts so much. And
what hurts impossibly more is the thought that it's going to happen again. The
rape. The breakdown. Pete pulling me close and letting me cry until I feel
okay. Until I've stopped shaking.
"Shh, you're okay. I'm right here. Right here for you. Shh, it'll be okay.
"Right here, Love. I won't leave anytime soon."
***
One month.
One month of beatings. One month of rape. One month of the constant torture of
living here with monsters. Monsters I once called false. One month of being
torn apart mentally, physically, emotionally. I no longer /feel/ human. I feel
like a toy. A toy with its insides ripped out and instead replaced with a new
material. One that keeps me stronger. One that numbs me from what I'm going
through. But the old cotton? Oh, it was thrown away. I don't think anyone's
gonna find it anytime soon and even if they do manage to put it back in me, I
don't know if they'd be able to.
My body feels used and hurt. I am used and hurt and with each strike that is
left on my body. Each hickey. Each bruise. Each droplet of sweat. I feel closer
to breaking. My blood and tears have drained from me and I no longer feel. I'm
just... numb. The only thing that somehow keeps my mind intact is Pete and even
he is beginning to wear off. He goes into episodes (I think it's from his BPD)
where he'll scream and cry and go absolutely insane. Scratching the walls and
tugging at the bars while I lay limp on the carpet.
He feels neglected just like I do. He feels used. Empty. He's being put through
just as much pain as me. If not, more. But somehow, he's still there for me.
When I cry for him, he's always there. He always seems to snap out of his
episodes when I ask him to. He always seems to calm down when I'm next to him.
But there are days when Jack or Alex or Jaime or Vic brings me back and he's
bloodied his fingers scratching at the walls, begging for a way out.
There are the flashbacks, too.
I've seen things from the past and I've learned how different everything was
five or six or seven years ago. I've learned that Pete and I... well we had a
relationship. I've learned from the way Vic had panted over me, whispering out
how, "My son doesn't deserve a filthy whore like you," and, "I've heard you and
Pete together. Kissing. Fucking. You are /mine/ do you understand? And the next
time I catch you two, I'll overdose you on heroine, you fucking understand?"
I've learned that it was more... And I find myself thinking of him as more. The
way he cares for me and protects me like his life depends on it. It makes me
feel safe and cared for and... I haven't mentioned it to him. I've been too
afraid that he'd only kick me out. And I don't think I could go through that.
Being abandoned by the only man who has ever loved me.
I'm sitting on the floor now, my back against the wall my eyes unfocused
against the white coloring and my knees pulled up to my chest tightly. My knees
are only pulled up because I feel vulnerable. I feel like they could come and
take me away any minute now and there's nothing I could do to stop it. I'm
weak. I'm not in control anymore and that scares me. I need to be in control. I
need to be able to say no or stop and let it really be the end.
But I know that I won't be able to get my control back for a long time. Maybe
not ever again. Maybe I'll die without any control over my pathetic life. Maybe
they'll kill me trying to rape me.
I haven't moved a muscle in what feels like hours. Why should I? What good
would it do? I can't escape. I can't get out of here except through death. And
I don't know if that'll ever come. I want it to. I want them to just kill me so
I don't have to go through everything they put me through.
The only reason I'm here is so I can see the world. So I can take advantage of
it while I have it. But I know the world is a cruel place. And when it all goes
to hell, they'll regret what they did. Everyone. This is just a glimpse of
what's happening. I'm looking through a keyhole of hate, cruelty, greed. This
is the reason why I always said it. This is why I've always hated being human.
Being a person.
People never done a good thing.
The door swings open and finally, /finally,/ my attention is brought from the
wall to Pete. One of his eyes are black, his nose is bleeding, there are
bruises all across this arms and I'm guessing even more on his torso. Vic is
the one who brought him here, after all.
"Eres una desgracia para esta familia. Nunca más le permitiré ser llamado uno
de nosotros. Su patética perra!" Vic screams at him.
Translation: You are a disgrace to this family. I will never allow you to be
called one of us again. You pathetic bitch!
Pete cries on the ground and after a moment, he looks up, red, swollen eyes,
bloodied lip, "Papá, por favor, no me dejes. Por favor. Te amo, te amo. Por
favor perdoname. Perdóname!"
Translation: Dad, please don't leave me. Please. I love you I love you. Please
forgive me. Forgive me
Vic spits at him, landing right on his cheek, "Nunca perdonaré a un muchacho
tan vergonzoso como tú. Hijo mío o no, mereces la muerte."
Translation: I will never forgive a boy as shameful as you. My son or not, you
deserve death.
"Papá, no. Por favor... Por favor!"
Translation: Dad, no. Please... please!
But Vic's already left. Gone.
Pete is left a crying, shuddering mess on the floor, every ounce of fiber in
him is trying to stay strong, but he's already broken and hurt. Already dead
inside. His own father broke him because he chose friends over family. Pete
told me that everyone in his family was beaten growing up. It was to make them,
"stronger." But I guess Pete never lived up to their expectations, especially
when he supposedly chose friends over family in calling 9-1-1 with me even
though we weren't the ones. We were never the ones to do it. I feel bad for
him. For everything he was put through. The beatings. The rape. Everything.
Nobody should be treated like that.
"Papa, Papa, Papa..." Pete whispers, probably in shock from everything that
just happened to him. I don't really understand that feeling, though. I've
never had family. Nobody to disown me. I was never a disgrace to my parents, to
my brothers, my sisters. My aunts and uncles. I don't even know if I had aunts
and uncles. I'm afraid that I may never know.
"Pete..." I coo gently, "Pete, hey."
His gaze leaves the door and those dark brown eyes land on me, one shaded by
his dark hair which has grown long in the amount of time we've been here.
"P-Patrick, I-I... P-Please." He whispers, desperate to get the words out but
afraid of what might happen if he does.
I hum gently and come near. After a moment of hesitation, I rest my hand on his
upper arm, the muscle tensing under my skin but soon enough relaxing. Trusting
me. I still can't believe I could get this close to a person in the small
amount of time we've been together. But it makes me kind of happy in a way. To
know that I can actually trust someone.
"I..." I take a deep breath, summoning all my courage to say what I want to say
to him. I don't really know if this will help or not, and I'm still afraid to
admit to him that I know all the things we'd do to comfort each other, but I
want this to mean something. I want him to know that I really am here for him,
even if it's not through... sex... "You and me have been through a lot. I told
you about how I'm remembering so much, right?"
He nods, thinking back to just yesterday when I was going through flashbacks of
once when Vic had hurt me so bad that I nearly bled out. Pete said he'd managed
to save me, though. He kind of completes each memory, so I don't only know the
darkness of it.
"I really think we're gonna get out of here. And I really think we'll make it
through this. I'm sure of it. We'll be okay someday... I promise."
His shaky hand reaches mine and he holds it in his firm grasp, soon after
adding his other hand.
"P-Promise me you'll never leave me. I couldn't care less about everything they
put me through, Patrick. Just promise me that you won't leave me. I can't... I
couldn't go through that. Please, I just... You're my best friend, a-and I'm
terrified. I-I'm so fucking terrified of b-being alone, por favor, por favor."
I hold both of his hands with mine, "I'll never leave you. I promise."
He smiles at me gentle, tears still lacing his soft brown eyes, "Gracias...
Gracias..."
I laugh softly, tears reaching my own eyes, "You're welcome."
He wipes his tears and after a moment, wraps his arms around me and pulls me
close against his chest. My eyes widen at the feeling of... well the feeling of
him, skin on skin. It makes me tense up and my heart race, but a few moments
pass and I feel myself begin to relax in his arms.
***
One kick to the stomach, a sickening crack echoing through the room, pain
pulling at my mind. Numb. Numb. Numb. I need to be--
A hand at my hair, a voice whispering in my ear. Ashley. I can't make it out.
My ears are ringing too loud and my head is throbbing. Maybe this is the end.
Maybe I really will die. Maybe it really will come to an end like I've been
wishing for the past... I don't know how long. A long time, though. But I
can't. I have to stay here for Pete. I promised.
Ashley sighs and shoves me against the wall before grabbing something from her
pocket. The next thing I know, there's blood on my arm and a sharp stinging is
going through my skin there.
I look over to see that she cut me. With a knife. I can barely focus on that
though. I'm dizzy. My vision is flickering here and there. I just want to
sleep. She seems to give up because the next thing I know, she's shoving me
into the room with Pete and shutting and locking the door again.
"Patrick? Are you okay?"
No, Pete... I just... I'm so cold... so... cold...
"Patrick!"
Something is being wrapped around my arm and he's holding me across his own,
pulling me close to his chest and rocking me back and forth until my eyelids
grow so heavy I can barely keep them open.
So... dizzy... Pete...
***
"Patrick, hey."
My eyes open after a moment and I see Pete, shirtless. He's staring at me
worriedly with his brown eyes full of tears. It breaks my heart a little to see
him like that but I try not to let it get to me. His bartskull tattoo is
shining prominent, and somewhat faded from my dreams, in the light of the room
and out of the corner of my eye, I can see food. /Food!/
"They hurt your arm, do you feel okay? You were losing a lot of blood. I was
afraid of something happening. I was afraid you'd die..."
His voice is so depressed and afraid. It's really is a terrible thing. But I
know it'll get better. He'll get better. We'll all heal eventually.
"Hurts, but I'm okay..." I manage to say despite the obvious struggle in my
voice, "Did we get food?"
Pete looks confused for a moment, but it quickly disappears, "Yeah. They
finally decided to get us some, thank God. I thought we were gonna starve."
I hum with a small smile as I shift to sit up, looking over at the paper plate.
It's been a couple weeks since we got food, but they've been giving us water a
lot. I guess they don't want us to die of dehydration. There's a pile of nine
or so pizza rolls (the microwavable kind) with an apple on the side and a
bottle of water laying on its side on the floor, half empty, so I guess the
first half went to Pete.
"They're really generous, huh?" I ask, pulling it onto my lap and immediately
digging in, trying to limit myself at the same time, though, so I don't get
sick. I'd read about that somewhere that if you're starving and you get food
for the first time, you shouldn't just eat it all in one. You need to take your
time in it.
"Yeah." Pete replies, pulling his knees up to his chest, "I already ate mine
and I don't feel entirely full, but I'm sure it's enough to get me through the
next few days. Or I hope so at least."
I nod, taking a second pizza roll in my mouth and chewing as slowly as I can,
the cheese melted just right.
"But really, Patrick, you don't feel super dizzy? You're okay?"
"Yeah." I reply, then look up at him, seeing him still worried as hell,
"Really, Pete. I'm okay, I swear."
He sighs, shaking his head, "Sorry, I just worry."
"I know. Everything with the BPD..." I reply quietly, "Y'know... I used to
think I didn't have PTSD. That they were all lying to me... I never really
thought that... any of this could have ever happened to me. I... I thought I
was normal. That they had the wrong guy and I just had weird nightmares. That's
all...
"And then I came here, and... it all just kind of changed. I just..." I shake
my head, avoiding his gaze, "But I'm kind of happy to be here, too... Cause I
met you. And I.. I never really had any friends at my foster home."
Pete hums, "Me, too... My adoptive parents were always just so /proud/ of me.
But they always faked it. They were just afraid of me going into an episode or
having a panic attack or attempting suicide. I tried once or twice, y'know...
It was scary. My parents were always just trying to be there for me but I... I
don't think I could have ever let them get close to me. They were doing it for
the checks they got from the government. They don't love me. They love the
money they get for caring about me."
"That was Ms. Love, too. She would always have her hands full with the other
kids, but she never believed me. She always said, 'just stop being mute,' and,
'why do you always act like a five year old? You need to grow up.' It was
really stupid and I get real tired of her shit," I chuckle fondly, "Only when
someone actually touched me did she believe me. Justin had grabbed my wrist
because of... something. And he apologized and shit but I ended up going into a
panic attack and... well my PTSD was still fucked up because I was still seeing
you... but... Ms. Williams had to come and talk me out of it..."
I look away, my thoughts darker, "I don't know how I would have gotten through
it. Without all this happening. You used to scare the shit out of me and now...
We're basically friends."
Pete swallows and after a moment, he gets closer to me, watching as I set the
plate down, the pizza rolls finished and the apple still sitting alone,
untouched. But it looks like Pete wants me to focus on him, so I do.
"I want you to remember everything that happened before... before they took us
away from each other. I really do. It... It was just so... I don't know..." He
blushes and looks away, "This is gonna sound weird as fuck, and... I-I mean you
don't have to if you don't want to, b-but uh... I want you to remember and I...
Do you think kissing would be too intimate?"
My cheeks go a bright red. Kissing? Is he asking me to kiss him? The guy who
basically fucked up my sleep for five years straight? I-I mean he really didn't
mean to do it but still. He just expects me to trust him? I... I remember the
relationship we had. Or... what Vic thought of it anyways... Does Pete want me
to remember exactly what we did? How it felt? Oh god, this is so weird.
"I..." My breathing hitches, and when he tries to lean closer, I immediately
crawl away as fast as I can, "N-No, please."
Pete stops immediately and puts his hands in the air in surrender.
"Sorry, sorry." He quickly says, "Sorry. I'm... Nevermind, forget it. I'm being
stupid. Sorry."
I bite my lip and when I'm absolutely sure he's not gonna try again, I begin to
make my way back, the apple at my side again, "I can't... I... I don't know
it's just... weird. I-I don't even know if I can feel love and I just... I'm
sorry. With all the nightmares, too. I-It's hard and--"
"You're okay." Pete says gently, "You're fine."
I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, running my fingers through my hair, "I'm
sorry. I know you want me to remember, I-I'm just scared."
Pete sighs, "It's okay... But I know you can feel love, by the way."
I blush at that, looking away to avoid his gaze. I don't want to talk about
this right now. I just want to forget. I want to forget. I want to forget. I
want to forget the drughouse and Vic. I want to forget the nightmares with
Pete. I want to forget Ashley. I want to be okay. I want to be normal. Why me?
We sit in silence for a bit, I'm nibbling on my apple and Pete's gazing at the
floor as if he wants to fuck it.
About fifteen minutes later, I finish my apple and some of the water (deciding
to save the rest for later) and crawl over to Pete who still looks really kind
of depressed. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can't help but flinch, but
after a moment, I finally press my hand to his leg and lean forward, turning
his head just slightly.
My lips land on his cheek.
I don't know why I do it. I guess because I'm feeling brave, playing with fire.
I know I'm gonna get burned but I don't care. I don't think Pete is as bad as
my dreams made him out to be. He's a good person. I don't think I could let him
go. He means too much to me already. I think he's my best friend. Even better
than my journal.
"Thank you." He whispers.
"Mhmm." I hum, then gently pull him into a hug. Neither of us say a work as he
hugs me back and we lay on the floor together in each other's arms. We just
enjoy it while we can before one of us is taken away again.
Before more hurt comes.
Through this past week or so, I've learned more about the world than I did in
five years. I've learned about how greedy and disgusting some people can be.
How they hurt and rape just for the fun of it. How they punish the innocent
without thinking twice. I've learned just how much pain you could be put
through, how the breaking point of a man is farther than I had originally
thought and the drughouse has brought an entirely new definition to, "people
never done a good thing." I've learned just how dirty it can make you feel.
Rape. Being forced into something you don't want to do. How no matter how much
you fight, there's always something out there stronger than you.
But I've learned about more than just that.
I've learned about friends. And family. And love. And how people can be there
in your darkest hours no matter what. There's always someone who cares for you.
You just have to look past the masks. You have to find who they really are
inside and not who they appear to be on the outside. I've learned just how
sensitive the human touch is. How strong bonds can turn out to be.
I've learned how it feels to share something with someone. How good it feels to
have someone there for you who cares about you as much as you care about them.
I've learned how good it feels to actually /care/ about someone in the first
place. I've learned more about the world in the time I've been in this
goddamned drughouse than I spend in a foster home for five years straight.
I don't know if I'm in love yet. I don't know if I can even /be/ in love. But I
do know what it's like to care for someone. To want to make them happy no
matter what happens. I've learned about just how amazing it feels. About how
friends aren't bad and how I might not be able to get through this alone. It
feels so horrible. Being a victim, and I can't imagine how much worse it would
be to do this alone.
But I think I'm happier. Maybe that's just the flashbacks telling me what to
think. Vic telling me what's going on between the two of us that makes me feel
this way, but Pete is good. I really like him. Good and beautiful and I
shouldn't think this way about a friend, but maybe he could be much more.
Maybe we really could make our way through this. Together.
As friends. Or more.
***** Found *****
Chapter Notes
     Comments are appreciated!!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"I don't think we can get out of here." Pete whispers, wrapping his arms around
his knees as he stares at the empty plate in the corner of the room. When we
realized they weren't going to start giving us food regularly, we immediately
began to save it and spread it amongst the days. The plates are already empty,
though, and the bottle of water has only droplets left.
I don't reply to Pete, instead just gaze off into the distance. Into nothing.
I'm lost in my thoughts. My ass hurts. There are bruises up my arms and legs
and the cut Ash put in my arm has only gotten worse. I think it's getting
infected.
Pete runs his fingers through my hair softly before he presses his lips to my
temple. A tear drips down with it.
It's been seven sleeps since I first kissed Pete's cheek and almost bled out
and it feels like life couldn't get much worse. I can only hope they'll come
soon. Jones and Love and Dr. Williams in a cop car. Everyone who pretends to
care for me when the only person who really does is the man beside me who is
just as close to death as I. But I do think Jones did care about me. She had
to. I'm sure of it.
"What do you remember of it?"
He frowns at my question, confused about what I'm implying, "Of what?"
"Of us."
His breathing hitches, he strokes my arm gently and he sighs, looking up at the
door.
"You were afraid of pretty much everything. You flinched whenever anyone got
close to you. But if it was one of them, you would just go still and let them
do whatever they wanted to you. You accepted yourself as a slave and that's
pretty much what you were. They even considered selling you once or twice, but
Vic always said no. That you were his property and you would never belong to
anyone else. He thought of you as his property and... you accepted yourself as
that...
"You were terrified of them. Of what they did and you believed you deserved it.
You believed that you were a slave and you would close yourself off from
everyone. Even me at times. But you always managed to make your way through it.
"I tried to help you as much as I could, but it never worked out as well as I
may have hoped. We were in the same boat, you and I. Both slaves to Vic. Both
abused sexually and mentally and physically and emotionally. We thought
everyone was treated that way. We'd never seen the outside world.
"As the years went by, we got closer. We would talk about everything. About how
we thought it was outside of our barred off windows and how you thought maybe
everything was like that. I thought that we were being protected from
something. We never really knew the truth. But we wanted to leave. We saw all
the people on bikes passing by and the trees and the animals, how could we not?
"As for our relationship we... Well, we began to do things that uh... we'd
learned from the others. We kissed each other because it made us feel safe. You
always liked the feeling of my lips and I loved how you would always hug my
neck. We would cuddle together when storms went by because I was deathly afraid
of storms. You would always hold me and kiss me and tell me it would be okay
even though neither of us thought it would be okay.
"But as we got older, around nine or ten or eleven, they put us through...
worse things... rape mostly. And sexual abuse. I guess they didn't want to wait
any longer and whenever one of them was stressed, they would just take us away
and do... it..."
Pete's about to cry now, more tears gathering at his eyes than before as he
continues to talk about what happened. I feel my heart aching for him. And even
worse, it feels like I have amnesia. I've forgotten who I am and Pete's telling
it all back. Everything that meant the world to him and the most I'll ever get
is a glimpse thorough a crack in the wall.
"We both began to feel disgusted with ourselves and, though neither Vic nor
Mike did anything to me, we were both being used in one way or another. I told
you one night that I wanted to feel clean and you were the one to suggest that
we try it. It's... /god/ it's all so fucked up. We were underage, they're /
pedophiles/ and we didn't know anything. We were doing things eleven year olds
just /don't/ do. It was so... wrong but it made us feel okay..."
"We're so fucked up." I whisper, "I'm so sorry."
He chokes and replies after a moment, "But you loved me. It couldn't have been
anything else. We really were in love and it's just... Most of the people who
investigated the case were just... disgusted. They knew we didn't know any
better but they all just had this horrible look on their face. And when they
took you away... I..."
I sit up and pull him close, hushing him gently as he chokes and sobs into my
shoulder, "That was when you developed the BPD, huh?
"Kinda... It was mostly the abuse and the neglect but ever since then, I was
absolutely terrified of losing you. I just... I tried to move on and I
eventually did, but it still hurt worse than anything I'd ever been through
before. It just... I don't know..."
I take a deep breath, hugging him closer and burying my face in the crook of my
neck, "I... I would kiss you if I could but I-I'm afraid..."
"It's okay," he whispers, tears staining my neck, "So am I..."
We sit there for a while longer, listening to each other's soft breaths and the
breeze moving through the room despite the fact that it's the middle of May, or
the end of May... I don't know. I've lost track of how long I've been here. It
just all blends together in sleep and being awake and being asleep just brings
on more nightmares. Nightmares of Vic or Mike or Alex or Rian. It's just a blur
of fear and hurt and hate. Of little bits of affection here and there, but
mostly filled with pain. I feel disgusting, but I know it's my fault. If only
I'd tried harder to get Jones. If only I'd tried to tell Love what was really
happening instead of being a little shit and keeping it all in. If only I'd
paid attention to everything that's happening around me instead of just
focusing on myself.
But I know if I had gotten Jones. If I had told Love. If I hadn't just paid
attention to myself, I would have never met Pete. And learned about my past.
About my true past about how the, "other boy," was Pete Wentz... or Fuentes...
I think he took his adoptive parents' last name. To get rid of his past. They
assigned me with Love until they could find my real parents... but I guess they
just gave up on that endless dream. Even if they did manage to, why would they
want me to find them? They dropped me off at a /drughouse/ where I was raped
and beaten and used. Treated like a slave. Like who I really was.
But again, it all goes back to never meeting Pete. If they'd never dropped me
off I wouldn't have found him. So I guess I'm a little grateful. Even if it put
me through years of trauma.
"Do you believe in fate?"
I think for a moment, and as if it all just kind of dawns on me, my eyes widen.
Fate. I'd never really believed in those fairytales of children or the stupid
beliefs people pressured on their kids, or just the basic fate and destiny and
karma and luck. But I think I'm beginning to.
"I think so."
"Me, too."
Silence.
"You know, I... I've never really had that bad of anxiety, but depression is
horrible... The hardest thing about depression is that it's addictive. It
begins to feel uncomfortable not to be depressed. You feel guilty for feeling
happy... and it just sucks..."
I hum in response, not really listening, but still kind of. I've never had
depression. I hope I never do. Depression sounds really shitty. Even worse when
Pete talks about it in that way. Like it's a constant downer. I guess it would
be, though. That's the simple way of putting it.
"I used to write down things. Lyrics I guess. They were poems that just kind of
distracted me from everything. Especially when I was feeling suicidal."
"You were suicidal?"
"I am."
"Oh."
"It's... I don't know. There were times where I just hated it all so much.
Especially after an episode where I would just break down and ask, 'what's the
point?' I've never attempted, though. I guess I was just always hoping that you
would come for me someday. That you might be able to fix...this... That as soon
as I saw you, it would be okay..."
"Quit talking."
"What?"
"Quit talking." I reply, staring at the wall.
"S-sorry--"
"No, don't say that just shut up." I whisper, "Listen."
We sit in silence for a while, and not a sound echoes through the room. The
hall. The house.
"It's quiet."
I smile, "Exactly."
He still looks confused, but after a moment it dawns on him, "We could break
out."
"Shh, yeah. There might be maybe /one/ person here to keep an eye on us, but
it's quiet. Everyone is /gone/."
His eyes widen even more and we stand up, him in front of me staring at the
door, and then looking back at me, "We might be able to ram it down."
"You think it'll work?" I ask, in need of a little reassurance because I really
don't want to get caught. I don't want to go through anything else. I don't
want to have to relive another nightmare. Another flashback. I don't wnat to
risk it but I know this might be our only chance. If Jones and Williams and
Love won't come for us, then we'll have to come for them.
"It's gotta." Pete whispers, then he walks up to the door and puts his shoulder
to it, feeling how stable it is and if both of us could go at once, "Back to
back. On the count of three we run straight into it, okay? No hesitation. A
broken arm isn't worse than a broken prostate."
I frown a little, "I don't think you can break a prostate."
"Don't question my logic." He replies, softly, then meets my back about five
feet away from the door, "On the count of three, we ram our shoulders to the
door and try to break the lock, ready?"
I take a deep breath, then reply, my voice a little sore from the days before,
"Ready."
"One." He starts, I tense my legs, balancing my weight on one ankle. A million
thoughts running through my mind. I feel light headed from it all, actually,
but I feel okay. Stable. The ground under my left shoe holding me steady and
supporting my weight as stiff as a block of wood. Even if it is a block of
wood.
"Two." I glare straight at the door, readying myself mentally. This will work.
Straight through. The pain doesn't matter. I'll get through it quickly. We need
to do this. If we don't, we might not survive. This is our only chance. We
could die and we might die if we fail.
"Three." We charge straight at the door and the collision hurts my shoulder
horribly, making me yelp in pain but it's not enough strength to stop us. We go
right through the wooden doorway, the door breaking out of its lock and
flinging open to slam into the adjacent wall. I let out a small "oof" as we
make it to the other side and land on the floor but Pete takes my hand before I
even have time to recover. I know my shoulder is going to bruise and I wouldn't
be surprised if it's broken, but it'll be worth it. I'm sure of it.
"Up, we need to go." He whispers, "Now."
I wince as he takes my arm, but stay strong, following him down the hall. But
that's right when there are hands on my shoulders.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Jamie.
Before I even process what's happened, Pete's punched him hard in the face and
send him stumbling backwards against the wall, his hands off of me (thank god).
But what really surprises me is how strong the black haired boy is. I've /
never/ seen Pete like this (maybe because we've only been locked in a room for
all of our time together) but I kind of like it. He's much braver than I know I
ever could be. I just don't understand how he summons the courage.
Before Jamie can recover, Pete's showing no mercy and he's shoved his knee
between the man's legs. I cringe a little at the sight, even more at the
screech that emits from his mouth and I can't help but feel an ounce of
sympathy for the poor man's genitals.
"Let's go," Pete growls to me urgently. I'm in shock, /let's go?/ Are we really
making our way out of here? Could we really make it? And /holy hell./ Where did
Pete learn how to fight?
"O-Okay," I whisper out, following him hastily out of the doorway and into the
living room.
Nobody. We're free. Oh god, we're /free./ We can really make it. The door is
right there. Freedom is outside. Our lives. Everything.
Pete leads me there.
We run to the door, Pete quickly unlocking it with fast movements and then
opening it.
But why should I even have hope in the first place?
Thee next thing I know, Jack already has me pinned to the floor and Pete is
right beside me. Dread engulfs me in a fury and I don't think I've ever hated
someone so much in my life. I think they have a word for that. It's not hate
either. It's... It's anathema. He's an anathema. They're all anathemas. It's
like a passion. I hate them with every part of my body, soul, and mind. I don't
think I've ever hated someone so goddamn much. Not even Ms. Love.
There's a boot in my face and I grunt at the feeling of it. I'd never admit it
but it fucking /hurts./ Especially when the blood comes trickling down the
blonde hairs above my upper lip and just irritates my nose until it's all just
pain and hate and oh god, have I mentioned I hate them?
"Sluts thought you could get away from us?" Vic chuckles above us, his Mexican
accent shining through his high pitched voice, "You really are pathetic, puta."
I grunt as a one of them--Ashley--digs her nails into my head, forcing me to
look up at Vic who has kneeled down in front of me, his brown hair covering
part of one of his eyes and his beanie hanging loosely on his head.
"You are mine, esclavo. /Mine./ You used to be so obedient," He strokes my jaw
softly, almost lovingly and I want to puke, "What happened, puta?"
"I will never be your slave." I growl, hostility eminent in my voice. I hate
him. I really, really do. I don't think I've ever hated anyone so much before.
I really can't say it enough.
Vic hums, and stands to his feet, looking up at Jack and Alex. They never mean
good. Alex is always the worst, making me do so much more than just bend over.
Sometimes I wonder if maybe he is a sadist. You know what? Fuck it, they're all
sadists, but I sure as hell am not a masochist.
"Romperlo. Quiero que se presente al amanecer, entiendes? Quiero que el viejo
esclavo vuelva. No me importa lo que hagas, siempre y cuando esté vivo al final
de la noche." Vic orders, I don't understand a word of it, but by the soft nods
produced by the two, I know it can't be good. It could never be. Jack even
gives me a nasty smirk and I find my insides twisting in fear.
Vic turns to Pete and I watch as Mike lets the boy raise his head at his
father, a glare of pure hatred in his eyes, but I know he does love his father.
Late night talks and his soft sobs after being beaten have taught me that. He
wants to be accepted by his father but he knows what his father does is
intolerable and just... cruel. Being accepted into a family because you can
take a beating and sell drugs... It's not the life to live or the family to be
in. He just has to sit by and watch as his father turns into a man of hatred
and corruption. And I wish I could help.
"En cuanto a ti, perra. Ni siquiera sé por qué te mantengo vivo. Mereces morir.
Así que ... Tony, Rian. Vamos a matar esta noche." Vic says, again it doesn't
sound good.
And then Pete's eyes go wide.
He opens his mouth to speak, to say something... anything...
But nothing comes out. He's speechless. His shock, it's pure and untainted and
I /need/ to know what Vic said. What he meant. What he said. Even Mike looks a
little shocked at the request.
"Papá, no. No puedes... no puedes..." Pete whispers, aboslutely mortified, "You
don't mean it... You don't want to."
"Vic, estás realmente seguro de esto? No lo sé ... Es inocente. No ha hecho
nada." Mike argues.
"Cállate, es mi hijo. Es mi elección si muere o vive!" Vic barks. I find myself
jumping at the sudden noise and gasping slightly, wincing.
Pete lowers his head and looks to his right, straight at me. But he isn't. He
is looking past me. At the ghost behind me. Searching for hope.
I know that look. The look of complete devastation. His heart thundering in his
chest, his eyes wetting with tears that he's desperately holding back. It's the
look of pure emptiness, of depression. Of worthlessness. I just wish I could
show him he really does mean something to this world. That he means something
to me.
"Put them in the basement. No food. It's not like they'll need any tonight."
Vic growls.
Not like we'll need any? What is he doing? What did he say to Pete?
"Papa..." Pete whispers one last time, but he's dragged to his feet and pulled
away by Mike before he can protest. I'm brought to my feet as well, Ashley
pulling her sharp nails from my skull and taking me from my stop to follow
Michael and his nephew. The blue haired girl behind me pulls me downstairs, to
the cold, cold basement where I first woke up. Pete coming in front of me. As
soon as we're down the stairs, Ashley looks to Mike and then to Pete, a hint of
regret in her features. Of guilt.
"What is it?" I ask, hoping desperately that they may be sympathetic enough to
tell me. So I can know just what Vic has planned. I look up at both of them
desperately, all three of them. No reply. Pete just looks empty, devastated.
Like Vic really has gotten to him this time. Deep under his skin and to the
bone.
"What is it?" I ask again, a little more desperately, "Please, what did he say?
I need to know"
Mike looks at me, an empty expression in his eyes, "I... He..."
"He wants to kill me." Pete cuts in a whisper, so quiet I can barely hear him.
But I do, and my heart nearly stop "My own dad... I..."
Ashley gazes up at Mike and shakes her head, "We have to go."
At first I think she's talking about Pete and I and my spirits lift for just a
moment, but it's not long before I realize she's speaking to Mike. They can't
let us go, /they/ have to go. Not us.
Ashley glares at Mike who looks close to protesting, "We have to go. Really,
look, please. He'd kill us if we... If..."
Mike finally just sighs and looks away, "Screw it. I'm so sorry, Pete... I
really can't do anything."
Pete looks so broken that I would absolutely kill to just make him feel okay. I
just want him to be okay. I want him to be happy. I want to see a real,
untainted smile on that pale face. And it breaks my heart even more to know
that his own dad wants to kill him. Then I realize that he really is going to
die. If it's his father's request, and Vic always gets what he wants. He has
power and money and followers and drugs. He's going to kill Pete. Hurt him
beyond recovery.
Mike turns and leaves, followed closely by Ashley. I feel even more empty at
that and I can tell so does Pete, especially when he just walks away to the
couch and grabs a blanket, curling up and throwing the blanket over his face.
My heart breaks for him and I just want to make him feel okay. I want to fix
this. I /need/ to fix this.
I think I love him and I can't just let him die. I can't just let him be
another victim under his father. I can't let him die, forgotten by the world.
I need him to live, because if he doesn't live, then neither can I.
"Pete, we need to figure something out, we need to get out of here." I whisper,
walking over to the boy, shivering softly from the coldness of the room. I find
myself grabbing a blanket from the other couch and throwing it around myself,
"We need to escape. They're going to kill us, p-please. I don't think I could
live without you."
"Do you really think it's that simple?" Pete barks, glaring right at me, "Do
you really think they'll just let us out and let us live happily ever after?
This is it. This the end. I'm going to die because my father said I should.
Isn't that enough proof? I'm a failure to everyone else around me. I've been
faking my smiles for years. It doesn't matter if I live or not because if you
try to save me, you'll die, too. They'll kill you and hurt you. They're already
planning on nearly killing you tonight /just/ so you'll be obedient to Vic. I
don't know what you expect us to do. Jones, Love, Williams, whoever the fuck
else, they're not coming for us."
I find myself crying, but I've found myself crying a lot lately, despite the
fact it's a weakness and I shouldn't. I'm crying, but this time it isn't out of
pain.
It's because my heart hurts.
"I'm not letting them just kill you, Pete," I say.
"WELL YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT, HUH?" Pete bellows back, making me
flinch, then softens his voice as he lets out a shaky breath, "It's pointless.
It's all so pointless..."
I clench my fists at my sides, but after a moment release them. There really is
no point... We can't get out. Pete is going to die.
I drop the blanket and crawl onto the couch beside him, but we eventually move
to the floor where there's more room. We lie beside each together and just
enjoy each other's warmth while we can. Before one of us has to leave. Before
they take us away from each other.
"You mean a lot to me, Patrick."
I press my face into his chest, feeling his hands hugging me close, and I can't
help but let out a sob of guilt, pain, hate, love, and fear. I'll have to face
Vic and Ashley and Mike and Jaime and Tony and Alex and Jack and Rian and Zack
alone. By myself.
"You mean a lot to me, too," I whisper, my voice breaking.
I don't know how I could care for someone so much. How I could be so utterly
devastated by a single statement. /He wants me dead./
"I love you." Pete says quietly.
I don't reply.
***
I wake up being dragged away from Pete, my arms tugged harshly and pinned
behind my back. Jack basically carrying me upstairs so I can barely walk on my
own. The living room is a mess and I swear I can see packets of cocaine under
the couch. They're starting the business up again.
Vic is talking to Zack about how they need to move, it's not safe for them here
anymore and how they should have moved away when they first got here. They just
have nowhere else to go. But I have the perfect suggestion: Hell.
I'm pulled into the spare bedroom and right away, Jack has my hands tied behind
my back and I'm being forced on my knees in front of Alex. I don't dare look
up, just shut my eyes and hope it won't hurt as bad as Pete had predicted. I
just want to not hurt for once. I just want to be okay for once. I want to feel
good and not bad. I want Pete to live, I want to meet my parents, I want Vic to
just love his son like a normal father and not be as sick in the mind as he is,
I want to love Pete, I want Jones and Love to show up. I want them to just /
come./ I don't understand why Jones hasn't yet. She /knows/ that they escaped
jail, that I'm in trouble. I just need to be safe again.
"Salt."
Salt?
Jack nods and quickly leaves for a moment while Alex throws off my plain
overshirt, or pulls it down to my wrists at least, and then does the same with
my shirt so I'm left shirtless on the floor every bruise on my body showing in
the bright lights. The ones on my hips being the most prominent. I've noticed
that in my time here, my ribs have shown more and more. I guess it's from the
lack of food, but it's really not a good look for me. I don't think it's a good
look for anyone. I look like a monster.
Jack eventually comes back with the salt and I watch intently as Alex pulls a
knife from his pocket but I quickly realize what they're doing and I mentally
have to brace myself, saying, "This is gonna hurt a lot but you can make it
through this."
Alex cuts right over the healing wound that Ash had sliced open just a few days
ago and I internally scream in pain, but I don't make a sound until Jack's
pouring it over it and /rubbing the fucking thing in like holy shit./
"Fuck!" I yelp, grunting in pain soon after as Alex cuts into my other arm,
deeper. I know this will take a long, /long/ time to heal, especially when I
let out another yell and collapse headfirst into the floor, my teeth gritted
together painfully. I really wish they'd just give me something to bite down on
because this is just causing me even more pain.
Jack rubs the salt in as I feel the blood trickling down my arm. I scream at
this. The pain feels so intense and the cut is so painful, I can't take it. It
just hurts to fucking bad, I just need. I need to...
Finally, Alex raises my head, and I watch him with pure hatred in my eyes.
So he slices the knife right through the skin. A long line from my left brow,
across the bridge of my nose, and continuing down my right cheek. It doesn't
hurt as bad, and I'm thankful when Jack doesn't add salt to the wound.
"Do you know why we're doing this, bitch?" Jack whispers in my ear, I shy away
from him, but it's no use, he has my head pulled straight in one place.
"Fuck off." I spit.
Alex slams his fist in my jaw and I grunt at the feeling. I've grown used to
the pain, but I know that if I went through any of this after first coming
here, I would have passed out immediately. It's one of the cons to having to go
through this.
"You're going to serve under Vic from now on, do you understand? And you're
going to be his little slave. It would be so much easier if you hadn't fucking
forgotten in the first place, though. but whatever. This will have to do." Jack
says.
I feel Alex bend me over so my head is on the floor again.
Then the blade is at the bottom of my neck, right at my spine. It presses down
and slides, down my back in a smooth, deadly pattern that makes me scream in
agony. The pain hurts so fucking much that I feel myself getting light headed
and my vision flickers every now and there.
"Pathetic."
The blade reaches around my lower back but doesn't stop until it's at the
waistband of my jeans and that's when it finally, /finally/ stops. The blood
trickles down my sides and to the floor and I don't think I could recover from
this. This would have to take stitches and bandages and maybe more to fix and I
don't... I can't... the blood is being drained so fast... so fast...
"Wake up, cupcake," Alex growls, slapping me roughly.
I feel my mind clear slightly, but there's no way I could make it through this.
I think I'm gonna die. The pain is so horrible, so horrible. I can't... I...
shit...
But I find myself waking up when the salt is poured down my back. I scream at
that, it hurts. It hurts. Pain. Stop. Relief. I. Need. Relief. Please.
"STOP!" I scream. I don't know how much Jack is applying but my heart is racing
in my chest and sweat is clinging to my skin and I can't last much longer. I'm
going to die before I get out of here.
"Shut up, Slut." Alex barks. But he's getting so blurry and fuzzy... and his
voice is muffled... is... this it?
"Please," I mouth into the carpet, whining but I can't get out much more than a
whisper. I'm so weak. I can't... I shouldn't...
There's a collision with my head. An attempt to wake me up, but it does no such
thing. It just makes my head hurt, and it makes me beg for more relief. I'm
getting so dizzy and there's so much blood on the floor and my arms hurt and I
think they're cutting into my arms now but I can't be sure. I'm just so...
Shit...
I need to sleep...
***
"Patrick? Patrick? Oh god... Patrick!"
"Medic! We need a medic, he's in critical condition!"
"Patrick, please, stay with me, oh /god/ stay with me."
"Jones, we need you to step away."
"There's another downstairs. Bullet wound to the arm, but it looks like he'll
survive. He's experienced... similar injuries."
"Patrick... Critical condition... Ambulance... CPR..."
"Stay.... please..."
"Just stay."
Chapter End Notes
     Nngggh hope you enjoyed, comments are always appreciated :D
***** Lost *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The hospital bed is soft.
That's the first thing I notice as I stir awake from my deep sleep. It's soft,
like I'm surrounded by hundreds of pillows. A river of white pillows and I'm
drifting down the slow, steady current, past the headboard sunset and into the
sea. I feel dizzy like that, like I'm rocking back and forth and just staring
at the spinning, plaster sky.
This is what it's like to wake up from a relapse. You feel empty in a way.
Dizzy, but mostly empty. You feel so very empty. Like something is missing in
your life and you've forgotten what that something is but you can't really
discover what. You wake up and... and you can't really quite remember what
happened, although, you feel like you should. In the end, you just lay there
wondering what the hell you did to yourself. How the hell you got to the
hospital with needles in your arms and a heart rate monitor beside your bed.
And then it begins to come back. You just begin remember what happened. You
begin to piece the memories together one by one and your eyes widen as the
realization settles in. The horribly true realization. Something happened.
Something bad.
But this was no relapse. This is nostalgia and deja vu. This is me waking up
from a long nap. I can't be sure how long. Maybe a week? Maybe a year? I can't
tell the difference. I am in pain. I'm in so much pain and I don't know if I'll
be able to recover from this one. I'm restrained to the bed tightly and the
only thing covering me is a hospital gown. I can feel a sharp pain in my back,
in my arms, in my stomach, in my ass, in my legs. One of my legs is in a cast
and the other is laying limp. Bandages cover my arms and shoulders. One is
binding my stomach, another my chest. One is wrapped around my head and another
on my left leg.
Fresh air is coming through the window in a gentle breeze and I can hear the
tweets of birds. The sunlight shining through and bring me more nostalgia. I
remember my room at Love's house, How I would lay in bed all weekend and write
in my notebook and listen to the birds and the trees and breathe the fresh air
and let the sun rest on my arm. Oh, how I miss that. How I wish life could be
that simple again. I want to be back there. I want to be able to take a deep
breath and not have my chest hurt horribly.
It feels like my lungs are being punctured and each breath just reminds me of
what I went through. My memory hasn't completely recovered, but I do know what
happened. I know why I'm here. I know what happened.
I know that Pete was there. I know he isn't as bad as he had been. He isn't
like my nightmares. He's a kind boy. He's just troubled  with family issues.
BPD, PTSD, anxiety, depression, insomnia, suicide. It all seems like such a
distant problem. I finally have relief and it's kind of that feeling after a
bad cramp where you say to yourself, "That wasn't that bad."
But I know it was horrible. Deep down. I know i'm going to have nightmares.
Terrors. Maybe even flashbacks.
There are five stages of waking up in the hospital without a clue as to what
happened. The first is waking up. The second is becoming aware of your
surroundings. The third is remembering what happened. The fourth is knowing the
consequences. The fifth is when others join you while you're still a stressed
mess.
I remember what they did. How they treated me, in clearer detail now. And I'm
around stage four right now, my fingers digging into the bedsheets despite the
pain that jolts through my veins. How will Love treat me? Will Jones even send
me back to Ms. Love's home? What will Dr. Williams say? Will she prescribe more
pills?
That's when stage five starts. Stage five of waking up in the hospital.
It's Dr. Williams and a new doctor who come to my side.
I don't look. I can't look. They know what happened to me and it makes me
ashamed. I'm weak. I'm not supposed to be weak. I'm supposed to be strong. I'm
not supposed to be maskless. I'm supposed to be masked and ready for anything.
I'm not supposed to show my pain.
"Patrick, uh..." The other doctor looks across my paper, frowning when my last
name doesn't show up on her sheet.
"Just Patrick," Dr. Williams says softly, "How are you feeling? Do you need a
paper and pen?"
I open my mouth at first, about to speak, but I eventually just shut it and nod
my head,  still looking down at my lap. I take a quick glance at the new
doctor's tag so I at least know her name. /Dr. Mandy Lee./
Dr. Williams sets a paper on a clipboard and a pen in my lap and looks to me
gently.
Dr. Lee reaches out to touch me but Williams quickly stops her, "No, don't
touch him. It's a trigger. Just tell him what to do."
The other woman nods, but I've already leaned forward to let her look at my
back. I don't know what's there. I guess they stitched up the cut Alex had put
there...
"Okay, Patrick," Williams sighs softly, "How are you feeling? Any pain?"
/Don't want to talk now. Hurts everywhere./
She purses her lips as Lee lets me lean back. I can't help but let out a soft,
"Ah!" of pain and grit my teeth, tears stinging my eyes in discomfort.
"Up the dosage of painkiller." Williams says quietly, "I need to talk to you
about what happened. What did they do to you? We can wait for privacy if you
want to."
I think she can see the terror that immediately flashes through my eyes. I /
can't/ just talk about what happened. I /can't/ just tell her what they did to
me. I /can't/ just say, "Oh yeah, y'know, they just beat me and raped me. No
biggie. I think they broke a few bones but you can probably see that, haha."
/No./
She purses her lips, then after a moment of thinking, nods, "Okay. Look, how
about I give you some time to process what happened and uh... just take care of
yourself. Get cleaned up. I'll give you time to heal. If you ever need to talk,
remember, that's what I'm here for. But there's also Jones and Love, too."
/I want Pete./
She looks down at the writing and I think she has to double take. Pete was my
greatest fear before the drughouse and now, I'm specifically asking for him?
What is this madness?
"Pete?"
/Yes./
She bites her lip and looks up to Lee who's adjusting the amount of painkiller
going through my system.
"Do you know where Pete is?"
Lee purses her lips, "He went home last week. He was just fine besides some
injuries, but he hadn't gone through CPR or the blood loss like Patrick."
I really, really want to kill this doctor right now. Is that an option? She's a
shit doctor. Letting Pete go. I can't believe she could just do that. I want
him now and I can't /have/ him. What is this doing to his BPD? His fear of
being abandoned? Will this make it worse? What's happening to him now? Is he at
a therapist's place now?  Being examined for signs of PTSD or BPD?
How long /have/ I been here?
/I need him./
"I-I'm sorry, Patrick, I can't get him for you. Look, how about I let you sleep
for a little longer and recover. Dr. Lee here is going to do a quick
examination and then we're going to leave, okay?"
/Okay./ I write.
/Shit doctor, I need Pete, Jesus Christ how hard is that? You piece of shit,
goddamnit!/ I think.
So they finish with an examination and I flinch every time Lee almost touches
me (which is a lot) and Williams stays to make sure nothing happens. Finally,
when it's over, I'm able to relax. Williams tells me that I have to stay in bed
until the stitches heal because they're still pretty sensitive. I still haven't
seen myself in the mirror and I really want to and I looked at the calendar and
it's already June 29th and I can't believe I was there for that long. I don't
know how long I was that I was in the hospital. At least a week, according to
Lee. Maybe more.
Now, I'm laying in bed on my side, my eyes adjusted to the dark of the room.
It's been at least three hours since Williams and Lee came in and checked on
me. It's light outside, but they shut my blinds for me so I could sleep. It's
not like I could sleep even if I tried. My mind is a mess and my body even
worse. It feels like hell. I feel like hell. I want to cry, but crying is a
weakness... I can't cry. I shouldn't cry. If I do, it'll only make it worse.
But I always seem to break down at some point.
The tears spill hot and wet and it only reminds me of Vic. I'm terrified of
Vic. Of what he did. Of how much power he had over me. I'm terrified of what he
could do to me if he found me again. Call me his little slave again. His
esclavo (is that what he called it?) I just want to be free from the pain. From
his memory. I want my notebook. I want Justin. I want Pete. I'm back to square
one. No friends. Nobody. I'm alone again.
I sob quietly into my pillow. My body shuddering and shaking as the tears sting
my eyes and nose. I want to die. I wanted to die in the drughouse, and the
feeling is back again. I'm utterly useless without Pete. I have nobody to
trust. I trusted Pete more than I probably should have but I don't care. I just
want him. He's the only person who could begin to understand. The only person
who has to understand, because he does. He understands me completely. Dr.
Williams, she studies human behavior, but she's never been in my seat. She's
never been the victim. She's never been the one to be held down and hurt over
and over again. She's not the one who went through pain. She goes through the,
"Boy, am I glad I didn't go through that."
I just want Pete. I want him to hold me and I want to cry into his shoulder and
I want to be reassured that he'll never leave me.
He'll never leave me.
/"P-Promise me you'll never leave me. I couldn't care less about everything
they put me through, Patrick. Just promise me that you won't leave me. I
can't... I couldn't go through that. Please, I just... You're my best friend,
a-and I'm terrified. I-I'm so fucking terrified of b-being alone, por favor,
por favor."/
/I hold both of his hands with mine, "I'll never leave you. I promise."/
I promised him. I promised him I'd never leave him and I did. They took me away
from him. They sent him away. I should be there. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I cry even harder with the added guilt on my shoulder and I don't think I've
ever cried so hard in my life. My throat is closing up and I'm coughing and
choking into my pillow and tears are streaming down my cheeks and my teeth are
clenched. My breathing is hard and fast and each inhale puts that sharp feeling
in my lungs, the pain. Each exhale releases it but sends more tears running
down my face and I'm a mess. I'm afraid of somebody seeing me like this,
topping it all off with the fact I'm whispering out Pete's name and begging me
to forgive him despite the fact he can't hear me and he will never forgive me
for this. I can't seem to get ahold of myself. I'm slipping and falling and
breaking and nothing Jack or Alex could have done would have sent me this far
over the edge.
I don't know how long I cry. Probably a solid thirty minutes. I look at the
time and when I've finally stopped, when I've wiped the tears away and I've
finally regained my breathing, it's 5:00 PM. I think Dr. Lee said dinner would
be coming at about this time.
So I clean myself up, getting a few tissues from the box beside my bed and
wiping my eyes and nose. I take a few deep breaths and shut my eyes, sitting up
in bed and pulling my knees to my chest. Pitying myself won't do anything good.
I just need to take a breath and realize that it's going to be okay. Because,
it will be.
Maybe I could get Jones to send Pete a letter for me.
I look over to the clipboard with paper on the bedside table that Dr. Williams
had left for me. Maybe it would be okay and maybe I could tell him that I'm
sorry for leaving him. That I'm sorry the promise was broken...
I grab it along with a pencil and begin to write,
/Pete,/
     /Hey, Pete. It's Patrick. I feel like I need to write to you to apologize
for what happened. For breaking our promise. I promised I wouldn't leave you,
and I did. I'm so sorry it happened. I'm so sorry that I did that to you. I
know your trust issues are bad and I probably made them worse. I just... You
mean so much to me and I don't know what I'd do without you./
I think for a moment, biting my lip and considering what to write next.
     /Before I met you I hated the world. I hated people. I hated everything. I
thought that there was no good. Everyone did everything out of greed and I... I
honestly didn't understand or believe in love. I didn't believe in the power of
hope or faith or destiny. I thought that we were all just animals who were
fucking up this world. In a sense, I still think that way. People like Mike and
Ashley and Zack and Alex and whoever else... They're bad people. They do it all
for money and power./
     /When I met you, that all changed. I'm understanding how good people can
be just out of love and hope. I look at you and I wonder why people always hurt
the innocent. You're innocent. I'm innocent. We don't deserve what happened. We
were forced into what happened and you need to understand that./
     /Your dad is a cruel man. You need to understand that if you keep hoping
he'll change, keep telling him you love him, he only gets worse. He nearly
killed you and you saw how terrified I was.../
     /I just want you to know I care about you./
     /-Patrick/
"Patrick?"
I look up to see a nurse at the door with a plate of food and I smile softly.
She smiles back and I set my letter down to let her give over dinner. She sets
it in my lap and pulls away, checking my painkiller and water levels.
"Do you need anything?"
I shake my head, already with a mouthful of food, still avoiding her eyes.
She turns away and shuts the door, letting me eat in silence.
***
Jones visits me the next day after a long night of nightmares, it starts in the
morning at about nine, four hours after I'd woken up because my sleeping
schedule is way off. Her hair is just as black as I remember it and honestly, I
smile a little when I see her, relieved to know she still cares for me.
The moment she enters the room, a sad look turns to one of hurt and sympathy.
Her eyes looking over my face and tears coming to her eyes. My heart breaks a
little inside when I see that. It's the first time she's ever looked so
devastated just looking at me. Do I really look that bad? What's happened to
me? Is it just the guilt of not getting to me fast enough?
"I'm so sorry." She whispers, her voice soft and fragile.
I look away when she says that, unsure of what else to do. It's a long silence
between the two of us, just her soft breaths and my guilt for not saying a
word. As predicted, she's the first to break it, her words soft and afraid.
Afraid of breaking me. Afraid of sending me over the edge again. Afraid of
hurting me like the druggies did.
"I should have come earlier. I... We all thought you ran away. We thought it
was okay and we just needed to find you. I wasn't even thinking about them. I
thought... I thought you just ran and I didn't know... About one month in I
realized... I got a warrant and we found you and... I..." She's crying now,
tears spilling from her eyes and her throat contracting.
"I'm not mad." I whisper, so softly.
I don't know why I whisper it. Why I even say it. I'm mute. I shouldn't be
talking. But I guess I'm not anymore. Maybe I'll just settle for selectively
mute. Because I've found a reason to speak.
To say, "I love you."
She comes forward and I don't know why I do it, but I reach for her and I don't
know why I trust her so much. Why I'm letting her touch me. Why I'm talking to
her with my voice and not my pencil. I guess it's because she saved me. Because
she really does care for me. Or I think so, at least.
She hugs me close, shaking as she holds me, "I'm s-so s-sorry..."
She lets go after a moment, wiping her tears and smiling down at me gently,
before she sits on the edge of the bed.
"So..." She shuts her eyes and after a deep breath, continues, "Are you feeling
okay?"
I shrug, "More or less... I still haven't seen what I look like and it's really
uncomfortable sitting in the same position all day and... uh..." I look away,
biting my lip, "I want you to deliver something to Pete."
"To Pete?" Her eyebrows raise.
"Yeah, the other boy you found." I reply, "He... Look, he means a lot to me and
over the time we spent at the... house we became close friends. He's not...
I... I remember what happened... five years ago."
She brushes her thumb over the back of my hand, "How?"
"Flashbacks... and he told me... but... I think... He's my friend and I miss
him... I..." I look away, deciding not to tell her about what I had promised
him, "He needs to know I haven't forgotten and I miss him. Here."
I grab the folded letter from my bedside table and hand it over to her, "Don't
read it, please. It's private."
She takes it and after a moment, nods, "Of course."
"Thank you."
We sit in silence for a little longer, eventually breakfast comes in and I eat
it. Oatmeal with hot water and a small carton of milk on the side. It's kind of
disappointing but I eat it anyways, knowing I need to get myself back up to a
healthy weight because my ribcage is still jutting out uncomfortably.
"So... You and Pete." She says after a while, her dark skin contrasting greatly
to mine as we sit.
"Yeah," I reply despite the fact I don't want to talk about it, "It doesn't
really matter, I mean I doubt... I'll see him again..."
I bite my lip as the reality sets in and I lower my eyes. Jones is quick to
save the conversation, though, "I'm sure you could. Fate does strange things...
But um... How are you mentally? Are you doing okay?"
I shrug, looking away and biting my lip softly, "I... I don't really know
honestly. I'm just in a lot of a pain physically and all I can think about is
Pete and how no matter how much I try to distract myself, I still feel guilty
for leaving him. He... He's been so nice to me and I don't... I don't know. I
want to show him that I didn't leave him... It's not my fault..."
"You know about his BPD." She states. It's not a question.
"Yeah." I whisper.
"I could understand that."
I shrug, looking up at the clock that now reads 10:59.
"You should go." I say, not caring that I probably sound really rude.
"You sure?" She replies gently, "We can just stop talking if you want--"
"No," I reply, "I'm just... I want to sleep, is that okay?"
She gives me a gentle smile after a moment, "Yeah, that's fine. I'll talk to
you soon?"
"Sure."
Jones stands up and heads to the door, giving me one last look with those brown
eyes before shutting it with a soft click. Leaving me in complete silence.
I've always been fond of the silence, the relief from sound to let my ears stop
ringing and leaving me to just... be. But this time it's different. I just want
to hear his voice. His gentle sighs and the way he talks so softly. I'm crazy
for him and I don't know if it's love or just friendship. He says it's love. He
says I really can feel love, that I loved him once upon a dream, but was it
real? It makes me self-aware about who I am. About what I've become.
I was a mute boy who wrote in notebooks and honestly just kind of hated
everyone. I was haunted by a man I'd never even met and I didn't let anyone get
under my skin. I wouldn't let anyone know who I really am. Who I really was. On
the inside I thought that greed and money and corruption took over the world
and that people never done a good thing. I was sure that nobody could do
anything good without some sort of reward or push to it.
And now?
I'm terrified of the world. I have no notebook and I'm scared of everyone
besides a select few. I'm no longer haunted by a man I've never met but by
people who have shown me things I never meant to experience. People who got
under my skin. Only one person knows who I really am and he's gone now. He was
my  one and only best friend. On the inside, I know that greed and money and
corruption have taken over our world and that people never done a good thing,
but I know that people can do good by themselves, showing love and compassion
at the darkest times.
It's amazing how in one month and one month alone, my view on everyone has
changed from hate to equality. Some are better than others, but we're all in
that gray area.
Even me.
***
"Patrick? Margret has a letter for you from a man, uh, Pete Wentz?"
My eyes widen and I look up from where I'm writing in my notebook in the
hospital bed. I managed to get it back when Love brought it, visiting me. She
even got me a new one, but she kind of just left awkwardly afterwards. She
didn't want to talk to me and I know she knows what happened. Jones had to tell
her at some point. It's not like I can just leave and Jones /doesn't/ tell her
the truth. But I guess it's okay. It had to happen eventually.
I'm still waiting to be discharged from the hospital, too. They say I have to
wait until my stitches heal because the wounds were very hard to repair and it
could be fatal if something were to happen and the stitches were cut, but I
will admit. The room service is nice and I know it'll be hell walking around
with a cast when my room is upstairs and the kitchen and living room and dining
room and computer room are all downstairs.
I nod to the nurse, signalling for her to let the detective/federal agent/
bodyguard/whateverthefuckherjobis in.
Jones comes in, her hair styled in a bun and her face caked in makeup for the
first time in a while. Her lips are a dark purple in color, but it fits with
her skin. She's wearing a cliche black overcoat with dark gloves and dark boots
and a dark scarf. Basically Sherlock Holmes, but dressed in all black and
wearing make up and a girl and African-American.
"Hey, 'Trick."
"Jones, he sent back?" I ask, my eyebrows raising in anticipation. Did he
really? Was she able to get it to him safe? And more so, I've been wanting to
ask what's happening to his dad. Has he been sent to jail? How long is his
sentence? 1 year? 5? A lifetime?
"Mhmm, wrote it as soon as I got you the other one. It gave me a chance to talk
to his parents about what had happened and all that fun stuff," She comes to
the bed and hands over the paper between her index and middle finger and I
quickly open it, but I'm still careful not to tear it.
/Hey, Patrick,/
     /Thank you for writing to me. It really means a lot and I really hope
you're doing okay. I miss you so bad./
     /I was afraid I'd never see you again after we were separated and I kind
of went into a panic attack. I'm sorry for worrying so bad. I should have known
you would at least write back. But, I wasn't sure. I guess it was just my BPD
and anxiety making me that way./
     /I know we probably won't be able to talk for a long while, but I really
hope I'll be able to see you soon. I want to arrange something between you and
me and Jones or something. I think she would be able to. Maybe... I just want
to see you again. There's a lot I need to tell you. There's a lot we need to
figure out, but we wouldn't be able to do it through letters. We need to talk
face to face where you know I'm sincere./
     /We live in the same city, so maybe we could work something out. I don't
know. I miss you. Have I already said that?/
     /Tell Jones thank you again for me. It really means a lot./
     /Love you./
     /-Pete/
I suck in a breath and after a moment, release it back out, shutting my eyes so
I don't cry again. I won't cry again. I can't be weak. I had my time for that.
Now, I need to stay strong. Strong for Pete and Jones and Williams. Maybe it'll
turn out okay and nothing bad will happen. Maybe Pete and I really can work
something out with Jones. She seems to be the communication between us...
/Love you./
Does he really? I remember he said it at the house, too, but it makes me
seriously question if it's healthy. He loves me, but I don't know if I love
him. I know he said I've felt love before and I just need to understand it, but
I don't know if I feel love /now./ Or if I could feel love ever again. What
does it feel like? How do I know if I'm in love and it's not just a crush?
"Thank you." I whisper, shutting my eyes, "Thank you so much."
Jones smiles softly, "What does it say? Or is it private?"
I open my baby blues again, looking to Jones who still looks as friendly as I
remember when I first saw her waking up, "He wants to meet up with me again.
And I want to meet up with him. And I don't know how we'd be able to do it.
Would we be able to?"
Jones looks away for a moment, thinking about it, but she eventually nods,
"Yeah, potentially. I mean, it would just be a meetup. I could give him your
address and I could give you his, honestly. There isn't much that we have to
work out. I'll have Love call Dale and it would honestly just be between
parents and such... Or you could call each other on home phones. I think Pete
has his own phone."
I blink, realizing that /oh yeah./ Maybe we don't need Jones for everything.
"Do it if you can," I say, looking up at her, "Just... email it or something.
I'll have Ms. Love check her email and Pete could check his oh my gosh thank
you."
I hug her close and squeeze her, because I really do like her and I never knew
Jones could be such a wonderful person. I learned a while ago that she's kind
of a bitch, but she's gotten better since then. Maybe it's because I know the
truth now. That she really wasn't lying about the drughouse.
She hugs back softly, "Anytime, Patrick."
After a moment of a half awkward, half emotional embrace, I set the letter on
the bedside table and rub my eyes, wincing when I move my arm. The cuts are
still healing and I know it'll take a while until they're just scars. It'll
take a long while...
"Do you know what's happening to... uh... P-Pete's dad?" I ask, shying away
from the name. I don't like using it. It's just kind of turned into a trigger.
I don't know exactly what would happen, but just thinking about it makes me
down and sad. It makes me want to die... Like I deserve.
"They're all going to jail for at least 15 years unless their sentence is
lengthened for dealing a class A type drug and for sexual and physical abuse
towards a child. Pete's Dad, uhm, Jaime and Tony are being sent to jail for 30
for attempted murder."
I don't give a reaction towards the names, only sigh in relief. He'll be at
least 60 when he gets out, and I... I just have to hope he won't be able to
hurt me then.
"Thank you." I say quietly, leaning back in bed and looking towards the
ceiling, "Thank you so much."
Jones smiles gently, her bright white teeth shining beneath the lipstick,
"Anytime, Hun. It really makes me happy to see you... well happy I guess..."
I roll my eyes, "Whatever."
She sighs, but a vibration in her pocket takes her from the conversation and
she quickly slides out her phone, checking the ID.
"I have to take this, sorry,"
I nod, watching as she leaves the room and puts it to her ear, answering it.
She speaks into it, pauses a few times. I can't read her lips, I've never been
good at that. But I know she has to get to work when her face breaks off into
shock and she immediately goes, sprinting down the hall.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments are a p p r e c i a t e d
     Thanks for reading this guys, next chapter will be up tomorrow as
     always
***** Return *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The moment I enter the house, I feel my heart sink in my chest. Because I'm
back. Again. There's no more Pete. No more hurt. Nothing that's different
anymore. It's all the same. The same thing every single day like I remember.
The same old couch. The same living room. The same dining room. The same Ms.
Umbridge without the kitten fetish. It's home, but at the same time it's not.
This isn't where I was born. My parents aren't here. They're probably dead in a
ditch somewhere. It's different, god it's so different.
My eyes dart around the room. At the one couch under the window that shines
down across the porch, and the other couch leaning against the wall to the
right of the front entrance. Both pieces of furniture a dark, ugly brown with
textural designs in the fabric. It makes me want to puke.
I lift my crutches and hop forward, balancing my weight on my left ankle as I
release it. It's getting easier to use them as I've practiced. It took a whole
month in the hospital before Dr. Lee decided to let me out. But I don't blame
her, the stitches did look kind of scary.
But, honestly, I don't even let Ms. Love talk to me before I've dropped my
notebook and headed to the bathroom. The walk (or hobble I suppose) takes about
a minute, but it's hell of a lot longer than it normally would. I need to see
my face, though. And piss in a /toilet/ for the first time in a month. They had
that little hose thing for whenever my bladder was full and it's an
understatement if you say it was uncomfortable. They said it was for the
stitches, though, and I tried to respect that as well as I could despite the
fact it was a stupid ass reason.
When I arrive, my eyes widen and I nearly collapse on the floor at the sight.
A scar.
All the way from my left eyebrow, across the bridge of my nose, and to my right
cheek. Red and dried, but I know it won't go away. Things like that don't just
go away. I hold back tears at the sight, but I do spend a good five minutes
dragging my fingers across the texture and feeling it, wincing slightly from
the feeling. It's not a pretty sight. It's not something that I want. Not
something I was given the choice for. I just want it to go away. The
drughouse... everything. I don't care about looks, but this... This just
devastates me. It's just a reminder of what happened, of how I've turned from
happy to broken in just one month. There is no way to fix people like me
anymore besides pills and hope. I'm running low on stock of the latter.
Everyone is.
"Patrick, are you okay?"
I blink back all the tears in my eyes, and after a moment, look over to see
Justin right outside the bathroom.
His sandy blond hair is messy on his head, just above his baby blue eyes, and
my heart breaks a little for him. For the look of horror that quickly crosses
his face and the way his jaw drops.
"What happened to your face? Why is there a scar?" He asks, then after a moment
when I don't reply, he asks another, "Is it what Pete did to you?"
I blink softly and frown, shaking my head, then give him a confused look and
mouth the word, "Why?"
"Well, I-I mean you always talk about Pete when you sleep and I think he does
bad things to you. I wanted to know if he did another bad thing to you..."
My heart melts inside my chest and after a moment, I sigh and press my crutches
into one hand, setting them on the counter, then supporting my weight on the
surface. Justin looks confused at first, but when I open my arms, his face
lights up and I see a wide smile cross those strawberry pink lips.
"Really?"
I nod, and after a moment of hesitation, he runs forward and hugs me, digging
his fingers into my jacket and making me wince softly when he pulls at my
stitches, but after a moment, he loosens his grip and looks up at me.
"I thought you didn't like to be touched, why are you okay with it now?" Justin
wonders aloud. I shrug with a small smile, but after a moment, I shoo him away
and point to the toilet, showing him that, yeah. I gotta pee. He gets the
message and leaves, a grin from ear to ear spreading across those adorable,
innocent little cheeks.
Once I finish in the bathroom and washup (after one more look at my face). I
frown and bite my lip, still looking in the mirror. It looks like the scar has
healed for the most part, so it won't open back up... Maybe I could cover it...
I lick my lips and after a moment of hesitation, I open one of the cabinets and
grab some concealer from Ms. Love's side. I hold the bottle up to the skin on
my hand and confirm it pale enough to put on my face, then open the tube and
squirt some on my finger, warming it up between the pads of my thumb and index.
After a moment of really considering it, I press a dab to the end of the scar,
testing to make sure it doesn't burn. Sure enough, it doesn't. I smile softly,
but I have to relax my face muscles to begin spreading the liquidy substance.
It spreads across my skin smoothly and blends just right so it looks like I
never even had a scar in the first place. I continue up my right cheek,
applying more until it looks fine amongst my natural skin, and soon after
continue up the bridge of my nose and to my left eyebrow just among the baby
blue orb. I know that it left a scar, a gap in my eyebrow and that kind of
unsettles me. Even with the concealer, I know it will show. But I try not to
let it get me down. At least I don't have a massive scar, prominent on my face
anymore. It's hidden behind makeup and the newfound sense of self-
consciousness.
It takes about ten minutes for me to finish covering my features, but once I
do, it looks just fine and I smile a little at my accomplishment.
I leave the bathroom once I've put the concealer away, washing it from my hands
and grabbing my crutches again (because my leg has begun to hurt from putting
so much weight on it for so long.
As soon as I've left the bathroom and grabbed my notebook, though, I feel
myself begin to feel down again, missing Pete. I don't want to bother Ms. Love
about contacting him, though... So I don't even think of mentioning it.
Instead, I just take a breath and make my way upstairs with the help of Justin,
my crutches in his hands as I hobble up the stairs and try not to trip.
When I finally reach the hall, he gives them back and I shoo him away again.
I'm not in the mood to talk.
I limp my way to my room, my eyes lowered and my lip between my teeth.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here.
"It's okay, Patrick. Neither do I."
I jump and nearly scream at the voice, my eyes wide as I turn to see who said
it.
Nobody.
I blink, my eyes the size of saucers and my jaw ajar as I try to process what
just happened. I just heard a voice. I just heard a /voice./ No, I didn't. I'm
not... No. It's just my imagination. Stupid. It's nothing.
I brush it away and continue on to my room, blinking away the confusion. It's
probably just my exhaustion getting to me. I'm okay. I'm sure of it.
I fall into bed, setting my crutches down beside the mattress and shut my eyes
once my notebook is on my bedside table.
I'm okay, really.
But no matter how hard I try, I can't sleep. I'm left on my side with my hands
out in front of me on the mattress. My eyes are heavy but everytime I shut
them, a new idea pops into my mind and they're forced back open. This happens
sometimes. It's just the insomnia. I should take my sleeping pills but ever
since I actually took them, they made me feel /too/ tired. Unnaturally tired.
It doesn't feel right. It makes me feel different than everyone else and that's
not what I need right now. I just need to feel okay. I need to feel normal.
I need to feel like a real boy and not one plagued by all these problems. I
need to be like Justin, I need to be innocent and friendly. I used to want him
to go through the world just so I could see the look on his face but now, I
just want him to stay this way for forever. I want him to appreciate what he
has before it's all taken away.
I don't want him to know what the real world is like. I want him to know about
love and hope and how some people can be truly amazing when the world goes
dark. I want him to know about a person like Pete. I want him to know what it's
like to care for someone and what it's like for them to care about you. I want
him to learn things that I never had the chance to until just a month ago.
Things I now find beautiful beyond belief.
And somehow I'm still conflicted. What is love? How do I know if I can really
feel love? What if this is just an illusion? I'm afraid that I'll end up
breaking his heart. I'm afraid that if I try to accept it, it won't be real.
I've never felt love before. Never let anyone get as close as Pete has and I
don't know why I trust him so much. I met him in a drughouse and I... I don't
know why I even began to trust him so much. Maybe it was the glimmer of
devastation I saw when we first met. The confusion of me trying to run away
from him in the living room.
How no matter how hard I tried, I could keep my feelings in and neither could
he. Maybe it was the kisses on his cheek, and his on my forehead and how no
matter how I tried, I couldn't stop from smiling when he told me about his
life.
And he's gone now. I will never get him back. He's lost to a minor
inconvenience and now, despite the fact I'm trying not to, I'm still thinking
about him. Brown eyes, black hair, a tattoo just below his stomach.
I think he's beautiful.
***
"You're so pathetic,"
Vic. Vic. Vic. No. Please. No.
"A little slut, a whore."
Stop it. Stop it. Please.
"My little esclavo."
No, no, no. Not now. I'm not. I'm free. No.
My eyes open and I'm in the spare room. The cracked white ceiling is a million
miles away from me. His hands are on me. Touching my chest, touching my
stomach, touching my neck. His lips are on my neck, my lips, my chest. His hair
is falling in his face and his beanie is crooked on his head.
I tug on my wrists but they're restrained to the headboard and that's when I
begin panicking. I squirm under Vic's touch, sobbing and begging him to stop
with, "no, no, no. Please, please, don't. Stop!"
He only hushes me gently and begins rutting our hips together, sliding his
hands under my shirt and pinching my nipples gently.
"Shh, you're okay my esclavo."
"Stop it! Stop it! Please! Stop!" I sob, squirming away and kicking out, but he
only pulls me closer, popping the button on my jeans with teasing movements.
Like I want it.
Like I'm a slut.
"Stop! Vic, Vic, please! Stop!" I scream, but I can't scream loud enough.
Sometimes it feels like I never can. I'm falling and that's all I know. I've
been falling all my life. Trapped in his grip. Trapped in this reality he made
come true. It was always this drughouse. My dreams of Pete. Then the drughouse.
And now, dreams of Vic.
He only pops the button on his own jeans and I can feel him. His skin against
mine. This is reality. Reality. This isn't a dream. This isn't a dream.
This is a dream.
***
"Vic!"
My eyes jolt open and I sit up, sweat clung to my forehead and tears falling
from my eyes. The bed is under me. Vic is no longer over me. I feel dizzy,
though, and I need to puke. It's uncomfortable. I don't like the feeling I get
after dreams, when all I can think of is the images. Of /him/, of Vic.
"Are you okay?"
I blink away the tears and look up to see Jess, a worried look on her face.
She's sixteen, I think. But for some reason, I've almost never talked to her,
(well, I am selectively mute but that doesn't matter). I don't understand why
she's here, though. Why not Justin or Ms. Love?
I grab my notebook and pencil and quickly write down, /puke/.
She reads over it and her eyes immediately widen, so she heads into the other
room and quickly grabs a trash bag for me, letting me gag into it and puke,
more tears lining my eyes as my stomach clenches and it just becomes dry
heaving.
"I'm sorry about... what happened... in the uh... the drughouse... with Vic."
I tense up at the name, at the entire sentence, really. The drughouse? How does
she know? Does she know what happened? Who told her? Love? Jones?
/Don't ever say that name again./
I underline it and glare at her to show her just how much I hate that name. She
swallows and nods after a moment to let me continue.
/Who told you?/
"Ms. Love," The girl replies, "People were asking where you were, why you were
gone... I got curious and asked and she said i-it was bad. She said you were
hurt at a drughouse and a man named... that name... he did bad things to you.
She didn't explain anymore, saying it was a violation of privacy... B-But I
just thought..."
I pinch the bridge of my nose and fall back in bed, holding back the tears of
puking but also the fact that Ms. Love just betrayed my goddamn privacy to /
children./
"Are you... uh... okay?"
I open my eyes and glare right at her before I grab my notebook and shove it in
my lap, jotting in a big fat: /LEAVE./
It takes a moment for it to go through that stupid brain of hers, but once it
does, she nods softly and leaves, throwing the bag away and walking back
downstairs.
I hate Ms. Love. I know she doesn't care for me in the least. She pretends to
and then she does stupid shit like /this/ and basically invades my fucking
privacy. I'm done just dealing with it. I'm done just taking everything she
does. I can't /believe/ she would do that. I'm so fucking pissed with her. I
just want her to stop! Is there an off button? In all honesty, if my right leg
wasn't in a cast, I would go down there and show her just how much I hate her.
But alas, my leg is still in a cast and there are still crutches beside my bed
and as I look up at the clock, I realize it's only 7 in the morning. On the
bright side, though, that means I got about 11 hours of sleep. I didn't sleep
much at the hospital, there were always the nightmares and the flashbacks that
came and went.
And I realize that I have an appointment with Ms. Williams today. I haven't
decided if I can trust her or not. I only talk to people I half-trust, and I
only let people who I trust touch me. If I don't trust them (like Ms. Love or
Dr. Lee) then they can burn in hell because they're not getting shit from me.
But people like Justin, I half trust him. He's innocent, but I really don't
know him all that well and he's still only like... what? Seven years old? Yeah,
anyway. I let him touch me. I guess that was a bit of an exception because he
doesn't know how to hurt me. He's too young to, too innocent to. And finally,
there's Jones and Pete. I trust them both a lot.
I lie back in bed, staring at the ceiling. I've noticed that I haven't had any
more hallucinations lately and that's cool. I don't know why that thought came
up, but I guess I'm getting enough sleep somehow.
But this is getting boring. And I guess I should probably do some more catching
up.
I grab my notebook, I'd done some earlier, but I never really got a chance to
finish. I spent most of my time trying to sleep or just lying in that hospital
bed, listening to the drops of rain outside or embracing the rare sunshine we
get in Tacoma. It's really not as rainy over here as people may think. I mean,
the sky is cloudy about 60% of the time, but that's not much different than
anywhere else and most of the rain is actually on the Atlantic side of the US.
I did write some stuff down.
     /July 10th,
/Hey,
     /It's been a while since I last wrote, but here I am again. A lot of stuff
happened since the last time I wrote, but here goes nothing.
     /So, Pete is real, and they are real, and the drughouse is real. But it's
not what you'd think. It's so much different. Pete is a good person. A really
good person. I think he's my best friend, but I'm just not sure if I'll ever
see him again. You see, we were at the drughouse together and a lot of bad
stuff happened... Like things that happened in my dreams...
     /I was raped and beaten and starved by Jaime and Tony and Alex and Jack
and Mike and Pete's dad: Vic. So Pete is actually Vic's son. Apparently, Pete
had been disowned because he refused to go into the business and he couldn't
take a beating like the whole family was able to do.
     /Pete is just like me. He didn't want to be there, and we have a lot in
common in our thoughts.../
That's all I had.
     /July 26th, 2017/
/We spent a month there. We talked about the world and he told me about what
happened five years ago, but I learned about most of it through flashbacks...
We agreed that it was that one psychological disorder that basically makes me
change my memory because something is so traumatic. You know what I'm talking
about, right?/
     /Anyways, near the end of it, Pete and I almost managed to run away, but
we were caught. Vic ordered Pete to die because he wouldn't serve as a good
son. It makes me sick, how can a father just do that? Just send their child to
die? Pete begged and cried, but Vic didn't give in. He also ordered Jack and
Alex to hurt me bad enough to give into Vic and be his little "esclavo," (I
think that's slave in Spanish)./
     /I hear that Pete was shot in the arm. I was cut... They poured salt on
the wounds, too... I have one scar all the way down my spine that the doctors
said I had to be careful with because the stitches they put in could rip at any
moment. So I was bed bound for an entire month. There are more cuts up and down
my arms, two deep ones on my left and right arms that needed stitches. And then
there's one on my face that I put concealer over. I hope that's okay, but I
don't want it to show... I don't want people to be reminded of what happened. I
feel ashamed of it... Like I deserved it.../
     /But I know I don't. They shouldn't have done it./
     /They had to perform CPR, too. I think I died at some point. So that's
cool./
     /At the drughouse, we weren't given much food and we had to eat pizza
rolls and apples and we'd usually have a bottle of water to share at each meal.
Pete would always save half for me./
     /There was more to it, though. More to Pete and I. He told me about... how
when we were younger, we were... it was a relationship. We kissed and we made
love, I guess.... He said it was because we felt dirty from all the rape we
went through. So we had nowhere else to turn... We wanted to feel clean and so
we did it. Neither of us knew what we were doing. We were young and stupid. Too
young and too stupid./
     /I kissed him on the cheek a few times because he said he missed that and
I wanted him to feel that way again, but we never actually... kissed on the
lips, much less fucked./
     /It was bad. I'm not really sure what to say. But he said I could learn to
love again and I don't know if I can love. I don't know if I could feel love.
If I can't feel sexual pleasure, why would I be able to feel love?/
     /I feel so conflicted and I really just want Pete here to tell me it'll be
okay. I just want to know that he's there for me. Even if it's a lie./
     /I should probably go./
     /Stay alive, please./
I hold my notebook to my chest for a moment, staring at the wall across from my
bed and I have an urge to scream. I don't know why. I think it's just my mind
being hyperactive or something. I just want to scream and cry and... I kind of
want to kill myself, too. But I know I can't. I need to see Pete again. There's
still a chance and I don't want to waste it.
I want to see the world, too...
Someday, maybe I could. And maybe Pete could take me with him and we could
travel in a plane.
Maybe it could be nicer than everything we've been put through. Maybe I could
be happy with the world for once and with everything that's happening...
As long as I'm with Pete...
"Patrick! Breakfast is ready!" Ms. Love calls from downstairs where I'm sure
she's just started making eggs and hashbrowns are about an hour out.
I sigh, setting my notebook down and grabbing my crutches from the floor where
they lay cold and motionless. I ready myself, then push, standing up with the
crutches supporting my weight. My arms really aren't that muscled, but I'm sure
that after this they will be.
I limp down the hall and once I reach the stairs, knock loudly on the wall
until Dylan appears at the foot, a bored look on his face and Jess right by his
side.
"Do you need help?" He calls, looking a little confused. I roll my eyes and let
out a long, annoyed sigh before I set the crutches down and push them forward.
They slide down the stairs and nearly hit the stupid boy in the face, but he
quickly catches them and looks back up at me, dumbfounded.
I'm about to just try to limp down the stairs, but that's when I realize, /oh,
shit no. I didn't survive that drughouse just to die cracking my head open at
the bottom of the stairs/ and I sit down, instead lifting my bad leg and
sliding on my ass the rest of the way down. Dylan has a smug look on his face
when I reach the bottom, but as soon as I've lifted myself back up again, I
slip my fingers in his pocket and pull out a condom, waving it in his face. /
Score./
"Oh my god, Patrick," He growls, quickly snatching it back with a red face and
making sure Ms. Love didn't see.
I only smirk and shrug.
We sit down for breakfast and, sure enough, it takes another 25 minutes before
it's ready because Ms. Love "forgot" the sausages. But that's what I expected
so I don't make too big of a deal out of it.
Once breakfast is over, I begin to feel a little bored and claustrophobic. I
think it's just from the house being so crowded in comparison to the spare room
in the drughouse where it was just Pete and I. I don't really know what's wrong
with me. Why I'm acting so weird. I guess it's just the aftereffects of the
drughouse but I can never really be too sure.
"Hey, Justin?"
Justin looks over at me with wide eyes, his mouth open slightly in shock.
"Patrick? Did you just talk?" He whispers, surprised.
"Mhmm, look. I don't want to talk to Ms. Love and I was wondering if you might
be able to do it for me? Tell her I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back at 1 or
so, okay?"
"Okay," Justin whispers back. I roll my eyes and pull away as he gets up to go
talk to Ms. Love. I watch with a bored expression on my face as she nods and
look at me.
"But you have to be back at one, do you understand?"
I nod.
"Okay, go." She replies, sighing softly. I smile a little to myself and grab my
crutches before I head upstairs to grab my notebook and a pencil, then back
down (with the help of Justin).
When I've finally left, my crutches at my sides and the notebook tucked under
my arm somehow, I begin making my way down to the park. I'm not entirely sure /
why/ I want to go to the park. I think it's just kind of impulsive. But, it
seems like a nice day and I've been cooped up inside all day. I just want to
enjoy the day while it lasts and while I know they're being taken care of and
while I know Pete's recovering well.
I just want to feel the sun on my arms for the first time in a while and try to
enjoy what I can while it lasts because I know soon enough I'll be taken away
and something new is going to happen. Vic is going to want revenge and I know
his targets are going to be Pete and I...
"D-Do y-y-you th-think h-he'll c-come b-back f-for m-m-me?"
I jump and turn quickly, looking for whoever just said that. I turn up
emptyhanded.
There is nobody.
I blink, no, no, no. I'm just imagining things. I'm just... But why would I be
able to hear it if I'm just imagining it? I'm not crazy or anything. Is Justin
stalking me? Although, neither the first voice nor the second really sounded
like them. In fact, they sounded like two different people. Why...?
Why am I thinking about these stupid voices in my head? They'll pass. It's
nothing.
So I continue on, limping down the street until I reach the park where,
surprise, it's empty. I'm really not sure why I chose to come here instead of
just staying in my room, but whatever.
I sit myself down on a bench, leaning back against the cold, metal arm (and
then quickly shifting because my back hasn't completely healed and ouch) and I
begin to watch the park. There's an empty swingset that seats two. A slide and
a jungle gym with an assortment of ladders, stairs, and metal bars for children
to crack heir heads open with. Perfect.
     /July 26th, 2017/
     /I'm at the park right now. Not really sure why, but I guess that doesn't
really matter. It's just...
     /I'm hearing voices. And I know it's fake. It's just in my mind, but
it's... weird. I hear something and I look around and there's nobody there.
It's just gone. I don't recognize any of them, but I do know that there's two
of them so far. One that... One said, "It's okay, Patrick. Neither do I," when
I was thinking about how I don't want to be at Ms. Love's. He was really calm
and sweet and it made me feel a little less lonely as I think about it... but
it's not real./
     /The second voice was afraid. He said, "Do you think he'll come back for
me?" He was stuttering and I think he was talking about the people at the
drughouse but I can't really tell./
"Patrick?"
No.
     /There's another one./
"Hey, dude, Patrick."
I shake my head and shut my eyes, trying to get it to go away. I'm not going
crazy. I'm not going crazy. I'm not going crazy.
"Patrick!" His hand shakes my shoulder and I gasp, choking on my spit as I turn
and see.
"Pete, oh my god!"
Chapter End Notes
     Oh dear god high school just got in. I'm working ahead some in my
     fitness class because I'm a fucking overachiever like that but I've
     been stressing myself out really bad today. I hate to admit it but I
     think some of these updates might be a bit slow after i finish
     uploading book 1.
     Wish me luck, please, please, /please/ comment if you like the story.
     They really make me feel better about my writing and make me more
     motivated.
     Anywho, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed :)
***** Heal *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Hey there, 'Trick."
I pull him close, feeling tears begin to rise to my eyes as he chuckles gently
into my neck, holding me close. He's back. Back again. He's safe. He's here.
I've never felt so relieved to see someone so much. But then again, I never
really feel relieved to see anyone except maybe Jones. But I trust her, now and
I think it's because she was the one to get me out of there. I used to hate her
guts before it. But now I feel unsafe without her. I think it's because before
it all happened, I didn't believe in any of my disorders and shit and now... I
really do know the truth...
"Pete, Pete I missed you so bad," I whisper, my eyes shutting as tears leak
from the sides. Pete comes around the bench and sits beside me, one hand on my
thigh, and the other on my back as we hug again, my body shuddering under his
touch in relief and joy. After a moment where I drain out my emotions through
my eyes, his hand moves to my jaw, wiping my tears from my cheeks, "How did
you...?"
He laughs softly, kissing my cheek before he presses his forehead against my
temple and pulls his hand from my jaw, "Your address was sent to my mom's
email. I was snooping around the computer and found it. Decided I'd come
because you aren't that far from my house. I wanted to see you..."
I take a deep breath of him, his smell. We're finally free from hurt. Pain.
Discomfort. I can finally see him happy. I can see that gentle smile on his
face that... well... no. It's still tainted, but it's no longer forced and that
lifts my heart at least a little. Enough to make me smile and kiss his cheek.
I'm still afraid to kiss his lips, it doesn't matter how often he says I really
did love him. I'm afraid it'll mean nothing. I think I'm afraid of love, and
I'm not sure why.
"I love you so much," he whispers as if he can read my mind, holding me close
as he kisses down my neck. I blush softly, pulling myself away with the
gentlest of a touch.
"Don't say that."
He pulls away completely, looking at me with a hint of devastation in his eyes,
"Patrick..."
"Just," I run my hands through my hair, staring at the ground, "Just don't...
I'm sorry..."
There's a moment of silence between us, nothing but the birds in the distance,
his steady breaths. They rock my heart on a solitude boat, each inhale a wave,
each exhale a dip in the water. But they're speeding up. The waves are rougher.
The boat is rocking from side to side and I am afraid I am going to sink.
The silence is what drives me crazy. The fact that I know he wants to say
something and I want to say something, I just don't know how. It goes on
forever, my hands squeezing my hair to remind myself that I'm here. That I'm
not on a boat, that I'm surviving and it'll be okay if I just try to relax.
"What are you thinking about?" Pete whispers, giving me room to breathe because
he knows I don't like getting touched. I have my exceptions sometimes but this
is a time where I have none.
"I'm afraid," I whisper, continuing to stare with a lost, empty expression in
my eyes, "O-of love and I'm afraid that something is gonna go wrong. I'm so
fucking afraid that you're gonna die o-or you'll leave me. I..."
"Patrick, I'm not going to die," He chuckles softly, as if it's a joke. As if
I'm a joke, "I'm doing just fine and so are you. We're both going to get
through this."
"You don't know that." I whisper.
"What?" He replies, his voice laced with confusion and his eyebrows following
soon after.
"You don't know that!" I yell, standing up and glaring at him with a look of
pure hatred in my eyes, "You don't know that you're going to get run over by a
car on the way home! You don't know that your dad is going to find us and kill
us! You don't know if you're going to live tomorrow or not! And don't you dare
just assume that I'm getting better! I'm dying without you and crazy shit's
been happening. Ryan is here now."
"Ryan?"
Ryan. I blink, Ryan? Who's Ryan?
Pete stands up, looking worried as he nears me, but I only back away more,
afraid. Afraid he's going to hurt me. Afraid he's going to beat me. Like Vic
did. Like they /all/ did. I'm afraid of pain. I've never been afraid before.
"Look Patrick, something's going on. You know I'm here for you, You can tell me
anything you need to," He's stopped nearing me, giving me space to try to calm
my racing heart.
"Look I..." I squeeze my eyes shut, tears running down my cheeks as I shake my
head side to side, "I... You have to promise not to... Not to freak out okay?"
"No, Patrick, don't. Don't tell him about us." One says.
"Of course, what's wrong?" Pete asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
"You won't freak out?"
"I won't freak out."
"Don't you fucking dare, Patrick." Another growls.
"I..." My voice is croaking as I open my mouth. /Just say it. Just say it./
"You?"
"I..." Deep breath, "I'm... I hear... I hear voices... in my head..."
"Voices? Is that all I am to you? Just a voice? You're so fucking funny, aren't
you?"
There's silence, nothing but his steady breaths and my shaky ones. My shoulders
are shaking and I'm close to just giving up and going limp, falling to the
ground. I hear nothing. The one quits speaking, I can tell the others are
holding their breaths. It makes me feel a little insane... especially since
Pete hasn't replied yet.
His eyes flicker between my left and my right, looking for a lie in my blue
orbs. His lips are parted slightly, and then he continues, "What... what do you
mean?"
I lick my dry lips, my nerves killing me inside.
"I-I hear voices..."
There another silence, his eyes are studying me, checking me for a lie even
though I'm not. It makes a little spark go off inside me.
"Are... Are you okay, 'Trick?"
I grab my crutches, another tear escaping my eye, but I don't let it run down
my cheek. I only turn away, wiping it with my sleeve and sighing, "Forget it."
"Patrick, Love--"
"No! Stop!" I snap, glaring at him, "You know damn well I'm not okay, and don't
you dare call me that again. I am /not/ your boyfriend. I do /not/ love you.
I'm afraid of love, alright? So quit fucking pressuring me! I don't even know
if I can feel love and you know damn well I can't enjoy sex, it's the only
reason love even exists in the first place. I can't do relationships, so just
fucking quit. You were twelve fucking years old and so was I. It wasn't healthy
then and it's not healthy now!"
He looks taken aback by my sudden anger but I don't stay to watch.
I think everyone kind of expects some kind of a movie scene during these
situations. Where the boy goes chasing after the girl and catches her hand just
in time. Where the camera catches his hand on her wrist and the sunset behind
them. Then, the girl turns and looks up into the boy's eyes with tears
streaming down her cheeks from her beautiful eyes.
The boy says, "You don't have to love me. As long as you're by my side, I'll be
the happiest man in the world."
The girl cries harder somehow and realizes that the boy really does care for
her. She runs forward and hugs him, crying into his chest with the silhouette
of her body shuddering before the setting violet sky.
She replies, "I was so stupid, I... I really do love you."
They kiss, they make up. The scene cuts and the credits roll.
That's not how this story goes. This story goes with me a crying mess. Nothing
beautiful about it. The sun is still high in the sky. He's still standing
without protest even though we both know what he wants to do. He's just not
brave enough. Neither of us are.
This story ends where I walk away with a broken, pounding heart and he's left
all alone.
Abandoned like he's always been afraid of.
***
"Patrick, welcome back."
I avoid her gaze, her orange hair bright under the lights and her smile even
brighter. But it's still a shade of gray. Everything is.
I take a seat on the patient's couch, avoiding her gaze and instead pretending
to look interested in the brown and dark green rug on the floor, my crutches
set on a cushion and my thoughts almost completely blanking as she shuts the
door and takes a seat at her chair.
I hear her shuffle around her files, looking for me because she doesn't
remember my situation. How could she? I'm just another client.
"You're nothing special, Patrick."
A week. One week and they won't go away. I've tried not to worry too terribly
much. I'm sure they'll pass and if they've stayed this long, I can't be
imagining them. I'm not crazy. Everyone else is. I've identified each one with
their name and their personality, though. So that's cool. First, there's Frank.
I think he has anger issues or something. He always seems to be pissed at
nothing and he insults me a lot. He also talks about how he wants to kill a lot
of people. He scares me, but he's the guy who just said I'm nothing special.
Next, there's Ryan. He's a nice guy. He's a lot like who I am, he tends to
overthink, but he's also kind of calm and somewhere in there, he's a little
afraid, but he tries not to let it get to him. He kind of questions the world
and everything in it. I like him, sometimes we talk at night when everyone else
is asleep and nobody can hear me talking to him. It's kind of private.
Finally, there's Mikey. Mikey is sweet, innocent. He reminds me of Justin, but
if Justin had gone to the drughouse. Mikey is afraid of what they might do to
us. He's afraid of somebody but I'm not sure who. He just keeps talking about
how he's afraid of a man. Mikey is just afraid. He tends to stutter a lot and
ask if he's safe. I tell him we are, or let Ryan talk to him. Ryan seems to
understand him and tries to be there for him.
"So how has your week been? You been healing alright?" Dr. Williams asks, her
legs crossed and her eyes trained on me. She's waiting for me, knowing the
words are ghosted on my lips, but she also knows I may never speak the words. I
am mute to her, I have been since we met oh so long ago. And now, I still am,
refusing to acknowledge her.
/Okay./
I'm not telling her what's happening. How afraid I am. How the nightmares have
kept me awake at night and how the voices ring through my ears. They're
secrets. Each and every one of them.
"We... need to talk about what happened," Ms. Williams states, and I grip the
cushion of the couch to keep myself from flinching, "We'll take this little at
a time, and if any of this becomes too... sensitive for you, you can always
tell me to stop."
I find myself biting my nails. I know her intentions are good. She's trying to
help me despite the fact I don't need it... But I know deep down, this is for
Jones. This is so I can make her happy, so she might be able to see me and see
someone who /isn't/ mentally unstable. This is for the only person who might
ever care for me.
But I'm terrified.
/I don't want to./ I write, exchanging the notebook and looking up at her with
a slightly panicked expression.
She sighs as she looks across the writing and hands it back, "One question, and
that's it, okay? If you can't answer, then we can get to something else,
alright? We have plenty of time to complete this."
I look away, fear in my eyes, but after a while, I nod and look back up. She
smiles as if she's proud of me, "Okay, so..." She trails off, swallowing as she
looks across her clipboard, "I guess we should start here... The people at the
drughouse, can you... can you tell me what they did to you? How you got some of
the scars down your back and the cuts on your arms?"
I avoid her gaze and I feel myself beginning to back out. I can't. I can't tell
her. I can't think about what they did. I can't...
/I can't./
I bite my lip, my eyes darting over the paper and my hands beginning to shake
as I pass over the notebook. I feel like a pussy for not making it through one
question. A coward, but my heart is pounding in my chest and those thoughts are
now corrupting my mind. My heart rate grows faster and tears begin to come to
my eyes. I shut my eyes but I only see Vic on the other side and I gasp,
looking straight into Dr. Williams eyes with a look that screams, "Help me."
She can't save me in time.
/"Fuck!" I yelp, grunting in pain soon after as Alex cuts into my other arm,
deeper. I know this will take a long, /long/ time to heal, especially when I
let out another yell and collapse headfirst into the floor, my teeth gritted
together painfully. I really wish they'd just give me something to bite down on
because this is just causing me even more pain./
/Jack rubs the salt in as I feel the blood trickling down my arm. I scream at
this. The pain feels so intense and the cut is so painful, I can't take it. It
just hurts to fucking bad, I just need. I need to.../
/Finally, Alex raises my head, and I watch him with pure hatred in my eyes./
/So he slices the knife right through the skin. A long line from my left brow,
across the bridge of my nose, and continuing down my right cheek. It doesn't
hurt as bad, and I'm thankful when Jack doesn't add salt to the wound./
/"Do you know why we're doing this, bitch?" Jack whispers in my ear, I shy away
from him, but it's no use, he has my head pulled straight in one place./
/"Fuck off." I spit./
/Alex slams his fist in my jaw and I grunt at the feeling. I've grown used to
the pain, but I know that if I went through any of this after first coming
here, I would have passed out immediately. It's one of the cons to having to go
through this./
/"You're going to serve under Vic from now on, do you understand? And you're
going to be his little slave. It would be so much easier if you hadn't fucking
forgotten in the first place, though. but whatever. This will have to do." Jack
says./
/I feel Alex bend me over so my head is on the floor again./
/Then the blade is at the bottom of my neck, right at my spine. It presses down
and slides, down my back in a smooth, deadly pattern that makes me scream in
agony. The pain hurts so fucking much that I feel myself getting light headed
and my vision flickers every now and there./
/"Pathetic."/
/The blade reaches around my lower back but doesn't stop until it's at the
waistband of my jeans and that's when it finally, /finally/ stops. The blood
trickles down my sides and to the floor and I don't think I could recover from
this. This would have to take stitches and bandages and maybe more to fix and I
don't... I can't... the blood is being drained so fast... so fast.../
"Stop it! Stop! Stop please!" I scream, but I'm back, huddled in a ball with my
fingernails digging into the couch. My eyes are wide and I'm shaking, my
muscles tense and despite the fact that it was only a memory and I'm okay now,
the pain is still burning like fire.
Dr. Williams is staring at me with wide eyes, her clipboard on the floor,
abandoned and her hands out in front of her, a few feet away from me, "Hey,
shh, deep breaths."
I stare at her, trying to calm my breathing with fear coursing through my veins
and my hands shaking. I'm not even crying. I'm just terrified. Terrified of
them. Of Vic. Of Jack. Of Alex. Of pain. Of Pete. Of being abandoned. Of being
saved. Of being dragged back to the drughouse.
"Patrick, Patrick, I want you to take a deep breath and I want you to listen to
me." She says in a gentle voice. The tone alone is enough for me to slowly
unclench my muscles and relax into the couch, "You are okay, nobody is going to
hurt you. You are just fine."
"Scared." I choke out, "I'm so scared."
She licks, her lips, "I know, I know you're scared. But they're gone now.
They're not going to hurt you anymore. They're never going to hurt you again. I
can't begin to imagine what you went through in there and you don't have to
tell me right now. We can wait for as long as you need. You're going to be just
fine."
I gradually loosen my grip on my legs, feeling the tendons relax slightly and
my gaze flickers to the doctors eyes, the fear beginning to fade.
"Are you okay?" She requests.
"Y-yeah..." I whisper, too afraid to grab my notebook. I just want to stay like
this.
"Here." She stands and walks to the side of her desk to grab a blanket from a
dark oak chest. I watch her orange hair fall from her shoulders, her black
fingernails gripping the blanket, her legs bending just slightly and her jeans
growing tighter at the hips. When she stands back up. She hands it over and
once I've stopped flinching, I take it gratefully and watch as she sits back
down.
There's a long, drawn out silence. Nothing. I can hear my heart thudding in my
chest and the memories are flashing before my eyes, his hands on my skin. His
teeth on my neck. His hips flushed against mine. His fingers on my thighs
leaving bruises that will stay for a long, long time.
"There's... Look, we can save these questions for another time. I need to
figure out your mental health right now. Not what happened, okay?"
I don't reply, I don't even act like I heard. It all just feels like a blur to
me. I watch as she grabs a few papers from her desk, setting them in the clip
of her clipboard.
"Have you been having any nightmares?" She asks softly.
I answer after a long, drawn out moment. I want to make these truthful. I want
to make Jones proud. I want to get better, "Yes."
"Have you been taking your pills?"
"No."
Pause.
"Why?"
"I don't want to. They make me feel different. I just want to be normal."
There's some scribbling, then she continues.
"Insomnia bothering you?"
"A little."
"Have you been eating well?"
"Yes."
"Injuries healing okay?"
"Yes."
"Have you seen Pete since the drughouse?"
My breathing hitches and I shut my eyes tight, clenching my jaw. I don't want
to think about Pete. I don't want to think about the fact that he probably
thinks I'm crazy. I'm /not/ crazy, but I know he's worried and it was stupid to
think that he'd come running after me. It's not like love even exists in the
first place. It's just human instinct and there's nothing that makes a friend
and a lover any different from each other. We're all just animals trying to
breed and procreate and it's the only reason why people made up, "love." To
make it seem like more.
"Yes."
"Did anything happen?"
"We got in a fight. We haven't talked since."
"How long ago was that?"
"A day after I was released from the hospital."
"Do you feel sad?"
I open my mouth, the word, "No," ghosted on my lips. But that's a lie, and I
shouldn't be telling lies. It's for Jones. So I can get better. She's just
about the only person who really cares about me anymore besides Justin.
"Y-Yes."
"Did you... love him?"
"No." But it's still another ghost, unspoken. A lie.
"I don't know." I reply.
More notes.
"What happened at the fight?"
I part my lips. I can't tell the truth on this one. I /know/ she would ship me
off to somewhere I don't belong if I told her the truth. /I'm hearing voices.
In my head./ I don't need that right now. I just... I need. I need Pete but I
can't have him and I miss him so bad and I feel so empty without him. I want to
know that he needs me just as much as I need him.
"We met at a park, I was at a bench and he found me. We talked for a bit. He
said he loved me, I told him not to say that. He asked why and I replied that I
didn't know if I loved him. He says I do, because I've loved him before and I
replied that it's not a healthy relationship. It never was and we'd never work
out. I left. I... just..."
Abandoned him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I fucked up so bad. I fucked up so, so bad. Oh god, no.
"Do you think it's effected his BPD?" Dr. Williams asks, pulling her lip
between her teeth as if she can read my mind.
"Yeah."
She jots something else down, and continues, "Now, Patrick... There are some...
conditions that are still being uhm... Well they're in the process of being
researched. A lot still isn't known about some of these disorders, but there
are patterns that come from a few of them and there are rather... alarming
symptoms that come with them.
"Some of these disorders come from pasts that you experienced such as
environment growing up, uh, intense emotional, physical, verbal, and sexual
abuse as a child of around the age you were at the drughouse. You were
diagnosed with dissociative amnesia a couple months after you were sent to Ms.
Love's foster home. Do you know what that is, Patrick?"
I squeeze my eyes shut, "No."
"Dissociative amnesia is when you forget parts of your life.  In this case, you
completely forgot about everything from when you were born to when you were
twelve and lied to yourself about what happened. The dissociative amnesia also
kind of messed with your PTSD. You never really questioned it, according to Dr.
Johnson, and Jones never told you about what happened. When she finally did,
you refused to believe it at first, correct?"
I open my mouth, and after a moment, I realize that, yes. I did refuse it,
"Yeah."
"There." She says immediately, "Now, about new disorders you might be
experiencing, I want you to answer truthfully to all of these questions, no
matter how strange they may sound. You're going to be okay, okay?"
"O-Okay."
She nods and flips through her papers, pulling one out and clearing her throat,
"Okay, first: Have you had any thoughts of suicide?"
"Yes." I can't stop it before it's out of my mouth, but I immediately wince and
sit back a little, trying to get as far away from Dr. Williams as I can.
She scribbles something down, looking a little surprised, but she doesn't dwell
on it for long, "Do you ever feel worthless?"
I frown, I've never really thought of my self worth, "No." I guess I just kind
of feel equal to everyone else around me.
"Do you ever feel sad for no reason?"
"No."
"Do you ever feel hopeless?"
"Sometimes." I feel hopeless that I'll never get to see Pete again and that
scares me and just kind of makes me want to huddle in a ball and cry until I
can't cry anymore.
"Irritable?"
"All the time." People piss me off.
"Do you ever lose interest in something or just want to give up?"
"No."
"Good, next set." She says, setting the paper on her desk. I see in small
print, /depression test sheet/ as the title and my heart begins to pound in my
chest. Depression? What the fuck? I don't have depression! What else does she
have here?
"Just keep calm, Patrick," Ryan says softly.
Keep calm, right.
"Do you ever feel restless?"
"Only from my insomnia."
"Nervous in social situations?"
"No."
"Do you ever feel afraid or paranoid?"
"Only of them." Them as in the people at the drughouse, Dr. Williams knows who
I'm talking about, though.
"Ever overreact to something small?"
"No."
"Good," she whispers, setting this paper on the desk and going to the next
sheet. I don't see the title but I'm pretty sure it's anxiety because as she
sets it down and makes one more mark, she whispers out something along the
lines of, "common panic attacks."
"Next, mood swings?"
"Some." I tend to feel pissed at Pete one hour and the next, I want to cry and
have him back.
"Do you feel out of touch with reality ever?"
"Sometimes." I whisper, when she gives me a surprised look, I quickly add a,
"M-Mostly from flashbacks."
"Do you ever feel a rush of adrenaline out of nowhere? Happy? Excited?"
"No."
"Any self-harm?"
"No." I've never even thought about it.
"Do you ever feel better than everyone else?"
"Most of the time." I reply truthfully. We both know it. She chuckles a little
at that, scribbling more notes down and setting that sheet down on the table,
"Three sheets left."
"Okay."
She sighs, her brown eyes flickering across the paper, "This is where it
gets... weirder..."
I lick my dry lips, still gazing up at her.
"At home, are you antisocial?"
"Yes." I spend all of my time in my room besides going to the park or eating.
"Hostile?"
"I guess." I get irritable, but I wouldn't really count that as hostile.
"Impulsive?"
"Kind of." I tend to want to leave out of nowhere, and I usually act on it.
"Do you ever feel guilty?"
"Only for walking away from Pete."
"Do you see yourself differently than other people may see you?"
"Yeah, I guess." It's that, "better than everyone else" thing again.
"Are you afraid of being abandoned?"
My breathing hitches, and I find myself shutting my eyes to reply, "A little,
yeah."
She scribbles more stuff on that sheet, and sets it to the side. Two left.
Right away, she begins to scribble things down, checks, I think.
"Have you blacked out in the past week?" She sounds close to crying and
confusion immediately laces my mind. Why is she close to crying? Is something
happening? Is it me? Did I do something? I've noticed that she's gotten more
and more hopeless as each second passes and it's beginning to worry me.
"No."
She sets the paper back, and finally, gets to the last paper, pursing her lips.
She scribbles out more things here and there, and after about five full minutes
of that, she looks up at me with tired eyes.
"Do you ever have... hallucinations?"
"I had them before the drughouse." I reply, "I think it was because I wasn't
getting enough sleep."
"Do you think differently than other people may think?"
I purse my lips, "I-I guess..." I always see the world as a whole and I see us
as animals and I think that might be different.
"One last question," she says. After a long pause, she shuts her eyes and asks,
her voice dripping with emotion I can't exactly place.
"Do you hear... voices inside your head?"
My mouth turns dry, my tongue sandpaper as all the fluid goes to my palms.
"No."
***
/August 4th, 2017/
/I have new medication./
/Clozapine (or Clozaril. Whatever.) I don't know what it's for, nor do I care
to know. I'm not going to take it, just like I don't take the rest of my pills.
I'm supposed to take Ativan after a flashback, Lunesta when I can't sleep. So
much medication, and Dr. Williams said she might add more or take it away, but
she's not entirely sure. She started me off with a low dose. A half a tablet a
day and said if I wanted to get better, I'll take them./
/Like I said, it's not gonna happen, though. I don't need them./
/I've been reluctant to talk to Pete, too. I want to call him and tell him I'm
sorry for everything. I'm sorry for leaving him. I'm sorry for overreacting
because I /do/ care about him, but I don't know if he'll forgive me and that's
probably what scares me about this whole thing. Love just kind of scares me in
general, though./
/I have to be honest, though, I've been kind of shaken up since the appointment
with Dr. Williams. I know she found something, I'm just not entirely sure what,
but I'm more worried about not being able to talk about what happened. I was
doing just fine and then she asked and I just... froze up. I couldn't help it.
I'm not entirely sure what happened... I guess I was just afraid./
/But here I am again, writing about how fucked up I am now. Insomnia, PTSD, a
few other things Dr. Williams checked off. I'm not sure what she diagnosed me
with. I might ask her next time but I'm not entirely sure./
/The voices won't go away anymore. They're always here now and Ryan seems to be
the most friendly. That makes me happy. I guess they're just little friends in
my head. It kind of makes me warm inside knowing I'm not alone. I haven't told
anyone else because they'd probably think I'm crazy. I'm not, though. They're
really there. Ryan and Mikey and Frank. I think Frank is my least favorite.
He's so aggressive and snappy./
/I kind of feel numb, too. I've begun to feel that way more lately. I feel
like... Well I feel like I can't feel. I just kind've want to lay in bed and
stare and do just... nothing. I have no motivation and I want to feel
something... Anything. Even pain./
/It doesn't matter, though. It'll get better maybe./
I stare at the wall, my tired eyes boring into the material.
/I don't know what to write./
/-Patrick./
I set my notebook down with a sigh and shift my pillow so it's flat across the
mattress and my head rests down on it. I shut my eyes even though I know sleep
won't come. It's kind of pathetic but I don't really care. I just want to sleep
and eat and maybe I forgot to eat breakfast but I didn't want to go downstairs
with my cast.
"A-A-Are y-you o-okay?"
Mikey, I can always tell it's Mikey.
"No," I whisper, "I just want to... disappear."
"A little shit like you should. Why don't you just overdose on the pills now?"
Frank growls.
"I would, but I have to stay alive for Jones. She's worried about me."
"D-D-Do you think sh-she would just l-let y-you k-kill y-yourself if y-you r-
really c-couldn't l-live w-with w-what happened?" I've told Mikey about the
drughouse throughout the past week, I've told them all about it because it
easier than talking to people I've known for forever. These people can't tell
my counselor. And it's kind of therapeutic to just talk about it without the
worry of medication or being sent to a loony hospital.
"I doubt it," I say, "I mean... she would miss me... Do you want to do that?"
"S-sometimes," Mikey whispers, "Wh-Where's Ryan?"
I shrug.
"Doesn't matter. I just... I want... Can you go away?"
"I-I guess," Mikey whispers, "S-sorry. B-bye."
"Mmm."
I press the bedsheets tighter in my fingers, then release and take a breath.
"Patrick!"
I release, moaning into the mattress and sobbing a little because, no. I don't
want to go downstairs. Fuck. Please.
I eventually drag myself up and grab my crutches (and my notebook), taking a
breath before beginning to make my way down the hall and to the top of the
stairs. Once I reach the bottom of the stairs (in a record time of four
minutes), I look to see Ms. Love with her fading brown hair holding the phone
out for me.
"Pete." She says simply. My eyes widen. Pete? Why does Pete want to talk?
I'm really not entirely sure what's up. Is there something wrong? Is he trying
to forgive me? Or say sorry? I'm really not sure who is to be sorry here. Him
for pushing me or me for walking away? Either way, we both took and made some
damage. We're both broken in this.
I take the phone, tucking my crutches under one arm and quickly taking a seat
at the foot of the stairs with the phone at my ear, "P-Pete?"
"Patrick, oh my god." He sounds afraid. Like the world is falling down around
me and I wonder for a moment if he's attempting suicide.
"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" I ask, my eyebrows furrowed and my lip
between my teeth.
"I-I'm so, so sorry I doubted you about the... the voices. Oh god I think I'm
fucked, 'Trick. I don't know what's going on but something is wrong and I--Shut
up!" He sounds like he's crying, talking to someone else.
"No, no, no, what do you mean?" I ask, "Dude, hey, talk to me."
He's breathing fast and I can hear something banging around on his end of the
phone.
"They're here. I hear them. I hear them, there are voices in my /head./ I'm
going crazy, man."
My eyebrows raise, "You..."
"I hear the voices. Th-three of them. Please, I'm so fucking scared, meet me at
the park I want to talk to you in person. Fuck I'm so sorry."
I run my fingers through my hair, and after a moment, I reply, "Okay, I'll be
right there."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Chapter End Notes
     Heckle, I'm hoping this doesn't become too terribly boring
***** Black *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Patrick! Patrick! Fuck, please."
I look up from where I'm sitting at the bench, listening to Ryan and Frank
arguing with each other and trying to get them to shut up. I think Ryan was
about to do that, but now Pete's distracting me, running to me with tears in
his eyes and his body shaking. He looks utterly terrified, his palms sweating
and his legs weak as he comes to me and hugs me close, sobbing into my shoulder
and relaxing just slightly as I stroke his back.
"What happened? Are you okay?" I ask, my eyebrows furrowed and my fingers
gentle. He looks so broken and my heart aches a little for him. I allow myself
to feel that way, we're even. We've both done damage to each other. Now, we're
both afraid, but we're both still here for one another.
He chokes out a plead, a whimper, a whine and I only hug him closer, letting
him sit and grasp me, desperate for comfort, "They won't go away, won't... I
can't..."
"What won't go away?" I ask quietly, watching him with worried eyes. He only
bursts into more tears, pulling his hands away and holding them to his ears
desperately.
"V-voices, I'm hearing voices in my head j-just like you... like you are...
Like you said you were, Patrick I'm s-so scared. I-I... They won't go away." He
whimpers, his eyes wide. I continue to gaze at him despite the fact that I know
it's my cue to say something. To lie to him and tell him it's alright. Instead
I just stare and wait for... well I'm not sure what I wait for. I think I'm
waiting for myself, but I'm not sure what to say. I guess I just don't have the
will.
"There's... th-there's three of them..." He whispers, "J-just like you have. G-
Gerard, Ray, and B-Brendon. I think... I think I'm going crazy, 'Trick. Fuck
I'm so fucking scared. I'm going /crazy/."
I watch him with my mouth open in shock. Eventually, after a minute or so of
awkward silence, he turns to me with a terrified look on his face, "Aren't you
going to say something? I... I'm fucking terrified. I'm scared I'm going crazy.
Insane. I'm hearing voices in my head. I-I'll be sent to a mental hospital. I-
I'll be taken away from you. Aren't you in the same boat?"
I finally feel my will to speak return, my mouth movable once more as I reply,
"I'm not insane. Neither of us are. We /can't/ be. Look, we're... what if it's
not our imagination?"
He blinks, continuing to stare at me with a confused look on his face. He wants
me to elaborate, and I'll do just that, "The voices, the people in our heads.
They're /real/. They're not just our imagination. They have to be real people.
We don't just make up stuff like that and imagine they're just voices. We're
hearing somebody else in our heads and... I think they might hear us."
Pete blinks, a look of utter confusion on his face, but after a moment, it
begins to fade and he nods softly in agreement as he thinks about it, "so...
you're... you're saying these are real people in our heads. Somewhere across
the world, and we're just... hearing them in our heads."
"Mhmm," I reply, "Ryan, Frank, Mikey, Brendon, Gerard, who was the last guy?
Ray? We're all connected and we're all just... we can hear each other somehow."
Pete gives me a little bit of a skeptical look, "I don't really believe it..."
I sigh softly, "It's worth a try. Look I just... I know we're not insane. We
can't be insane. We're not like them, we're normal. We won't be sent off to a
mental facility and we won't have to go through extensive therapy. We're
normal. We just hear things in our heads, and that's okay. Everyone does, don't
they?"
Pete bites his lip, then nods a little, "You swear it? I'm not insane? You're
not insane? We're just... normal?"
"Just normal," I confirm with a smile, after a moment, he sighs and presses his
head against my neck, "Thank you. I was... I was close to breaking down and it
really means a lot that you could help me like that."
"No problem... You're my best friend," I reply, stroking his cheek and pressing
my lips to it soon after, "Look, I... I'm sorry for like... leaving. I should
realize that I'm not the only one in the world... A-and it's okay if you...
y'know like me in that way... I'm just... I feel complicated right now and I
don't know what to believe. I'm just afraid... I'm afraid of losing you like I
did after... After what happened..."
Pete replies in a voice so soft that I can barely hear it, but it registers.
"I already lost you, I just want you back."
I bite my lip, squeezing his shoulder softly and feeling him tense up under my
touch. Neither of us say a word, but I feel the guilt crawling under my skin,
biting into my veins and flowing to my heart. It's a nasty virus. You just have
to deal with it if you want to survive.
The seconds pass to minutes, I can hear Ryan talking to me in a soft voice,
saying, "Talk to him, he needs you." And Frank coming in soon after, "Just say
something, Kid! You don't have all day." And Mikey staying silent. I think
that's because he's afraid of saying something wrong.
"Patrick?" Pete whispers, his head moved to my lap, laying on his side on the
bench. I stroke his cheek softly, kissing his temple and replying, "Yes?"
He bites his lip, hugging me close by my leg.
"Do you think Dad's gonna die in prison?"
I swallow, biting my lip with my breathing hitched, "You mean like... He'll be
killed by the inmates?"
"Yeah." Pete replies, "Do you think he'll be killed? Or will he survive?"
I lick my lips, "I hope he dies, but I can't be sure..."
"Oh," The raven-haired boy whispers. The city buzzes behind us, and soon enough
he continues, "If he ever gets out... like escapes... I want you to protect
me... C-Can you do that? For me? Please?"
"Of course."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
***
/August 4th, 2017/
/I can't believe July is over already. The time seems to pass by so fast. Year
5 is over, I'm going into year 6 next school year and I might be able to
actually do stuff that's important. I mean... It's not like I'll live a day
past 19, but I can believe. (Did I mention I got my cast off, too?) I just... I
don't want to be successful. I want to live my life and I want to see the world
and I want to forget about money and I want to forget about a job and getting a
house. I just want Pete and that's all./
/I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand
the way I think. How we're all just animals who've evolved and I want to forget
about what we've made. I just want to focus on being human. On enjoying the
sights, the sounds. I want to go to... Well I'm not entirely sure where I want
to go... But I want to learn about the world. Not how it was made, but what
it's become. I want to know Pete. I want to love him I want to forget about the
drughouse and I want to forget about Vic. I just... I just want to enjoy life
while it lasts. See the stars. Climb the skyscrapers./
/I know it would never work, though. I'm stuck. I'm stuck here alone with
nobody to comfort me except you. I think I'm beginning to understand that I'll
never really get what I want. I'll never get a real life without fears. I'll
never live in a world where I'm okay and I don't have to worry. I don't get to
just forget about the drughouse. I will never just forget about Vic. I'll never
be okay.../
/I'm stuck, you see. We're all stuck. And until we break out, we're going to
remain stuck in the illusion that a house and a job and money and a partner is
all we need in life. We're stuck in the illusion that we can't really escape
the world. I'm stuck in the illusion, but this illusion isn't much of an
illusion. It's reality until the world can fight back./
/Then again, if the world decides to fight back, society breaks down. People
die. Innocent people die, and as sociopathic I can be, I know that that
wouldn't help. I just... I want people to live their lives outside of this
"reality." I want people to realize that we're killing the world and that if we
try hard enough and actually try to stop society. To /actually/ work on helping
instead of just being blind behind computer screens and earbuds.../
"Patrick?"
I look up, my heart pounding in my chest, but it slows as soon as I realize
it's only Justin at the side of my bed, a stuffed bear in his arms (Ms. Love
got him one for his birthday the day before yesterday). He looks so innocent in
front of me, his blond hair brushed gently beside one of his baby blue eyes. I
raise my eyebrows at him.
"Yes?" I ask, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another.
"I-I uh... I wanted to know if I can... uh... sleep with you tonight?"
I blink, then frown, "Sleep with me?"
He looks a little nervous and scared at my reaction, "Y-yeah... Y-you always
have nightmares and I-I don't like it... I don't want you to be scared... A-and
I want you to sleep well... S-So I thought--"
"Justin, no." I sigh, "It's pointless, just... go back downstairs? I feel like
shit. I don't want to talk right now, okay?"
"O-Oh..." He looks close to tears but I couldn't care less, "Okay... T-talk to
you later maybe?"
"Yeah," I sigh, "Whatever."
He gives me a sad smile, then hugs his teddy bear close (or Fred as Justin
named him) and turns, his head down and his soft hair in his eyes. I bite my
lip after a moment, watching as he walks away and feeling an ounce of guilt in
my heart.
It doesn't matter, though. It's not like it's anything big. He's just a kid. He
doesn't matter to me.
I turn over, pulling my blankets up to my shoulders and sighing as I cuddle
into the blankets, letting the warmth get to my skin. I know I won't be able to
sleep, though. It's only 7 and I've been thinking about the drughouse for most
of the day, so it's just not... It's not going to be a good night for me.
Usually if it's on my mind, I have nightmares. Those nightmares tend to keep me
awake. I try not to let them get to me. They do.
I'm about half asleep when I swear I can hear Vic's voice in my ear,
whispering, "My little esclavo," And with that I immediately jump (making sure
he's not in my room) and sigh with tired eyes. I feel like shit. But then
again, doesn't everyone?
Justin comes to bed after a while and I continue to stare at him, laying on my
stomach and watching him sleep. I'm afraid I'll wake him up once or twice, but
then again, I don't give two shits if I wake him up. He can fall back to sleep.
He's six now and he's being treated like he's two. It makes me want to puke.
I'm pressed into my mattress in just a way that I can hear my heartbeat ringing
through my ears. It seems to shake my mattress, /thump, thump, thump./ One,
two, three, one, two, three. Like the beat of a song, one of those cheesy ones
that says, "Let your heart run with the beat of the song." but this is
different. My heart is beating to its own pace. A song with rain in the
background and a slow piano occupying my thoughts. Dark and depressing. The
kind of shit that makes you want to cry and has the lyrics of, "How cruel is
the golden rule?"
I want to cry. I want Pete's Dad to leave my thoughts. I want Pete here. I want
the nightmares to go away and I want my insomnia to stop... I think that's what
the pills are for, but I'm still reluctant to take them. I'm afraid and
honestly a little paranoid. I mean, I know Dr. Williams wouldn't do anything
like... give me something I can't have... But I mean...
Shit, she could be working for the drughouse. I mean... What if /Jones/ is
working for the drughouse? What if... What if they're coming for me?
No, no, no. That's stupid. Jones /saved/ me from the drughouse and Dr. Williams
had a background check. I'm sure the pills are fine... and with how fast my
thoughts are going, I probably need one soon. I need to just sleep and not
think about it, but at the same time, if I just sleep it all away, I'll just be
as blind as everyone else and...
"Go take a pill, Patrick," Ryan says, "Please?"
I bite my lip, and in a soft whisper (soft enough that it won't wake up
Justin), reply, "It won't hurt me?"
"No, Patrick," Ryan chuckles, "And you know I'm not working for the drughouse."
I sigh in confliction, but after a moment, I realize that I'll have to do it.
It's already 10 and I know Ms. Love would be mad at me if I stay up all night.
She says I need to start taking my pills because they'll help me. I don't /
need/ help. I mean... I admit I'm fucked up. I have PTSD and Insomnia and
whatever Copatine... or Copazine? I don't know. Whatever my new drug works on.
I should probably look that up at some point.
"Come on, Patrick! Just get your ass out of bed or I'll end up killing someone
here. I swear they fucking deserve it." Frank barks.
I continue to walk to the bathroom as Ryan shoots back a, "Shut up and let the
kid be. He's just fine."
I open the cabinet, searching through the pills until I find what I'm looking
for: Lunesta. I pull it out and check the dosage. I push and turn open the lid
and grab two pills, popping them in my mouth before I'm taking a sip of water,
too.
The walk back to my room is quiet and as I pass by Justin's bed, I can't help
but sigh and watch for a moment.
He's always so calm, peaceful. I don't really understand how, why. It's because
he doesn't know better, but still. I wish I could be like that. I want to
regain my innocence and I want to be able to forget about the past and start
all over again with real parents. A real family. I want someone like Justin in
my life to be my little brother. Like my /real/ little brother. Connected
biologically. I want to show him how to grow and I want to be his big
brother... someone to watch his back, I guess.
I continue to walk around the bed, deciding against sleeping with him, because
I really don't want to. I want to get through this on my own. I don't need
anyone. I just need to forget about it. Forget about love and forget about
sleep. I want it to be as it was before Jaime and Tony just /had/ to drag me
off to the drughouse.
I fall into my bed and with my stomach still facing my mattress, I pull up the
blankets and shut my eyes.
My heart still beats in my ringing ears, /thump, thump, thump./
Thump...
Thump...
Thump.
***
I wake up early the next morning, my eyes tired, but I'm surprisingly
refreshed. The sun is warming me through the windows and I'm feeling myself
smile. /Smile./ I haven't smiled in a few days. Not since Pete and I last saw
each other at least. It makes me feel kind of happy and I really like that
feeling. I like being that happy. I like being happy in general.
It doesn't happen often.
I stay in bed for a couple hours more, letting myself dose off here and there,
and when 9 in the morning finally comes (because it's also the weekend), I pull
myself out of bed and run my fingers through my hair, then grab some clothes
and head to the bathroom. Justin is still asleep and I can't help but gaze at
the boy for a moment more, kind of happy to see him.
I make my way to the bathroom and shut the door, then set the clothes on the
counter and quickly tug off my boxers and change them out for a new pair along
with pants and socks. When I get to my shirt, I bite my lip a little and avoid
the mirror. I mean it's not that they really... bother me that much anymore...
but I know where they're from, not to mention the one on my face.
The concealer is washed away from last night and once I've changed my shirt
(not looking) I quickly reapply some more, careful to make sure nothing shows
before I smile a little more at myself. I'm not gonna lie, that also bothers
me. The scars... I mean /all/ the scars... The one on my face. The one down my
back. The ones on my arms...
The burns and the cuts on my stomach...
I don't like knowing that no matter how hard I may try, those scars, the
cuts... They'll never go away. I'm still under their mercy despite the fact I'm
not there. Vic is still haunting my mind and raping me at night. He's still
beating me in a way that I can't control and no matter how hard I may try, he
will /always/ have control over me. He will /always/ hurt me and make me
realize I am worthless.
No matter how hard I try, his memory will always be in my mind and I may never
get to experience anything else. He's watching me constantly, watching me
suffer, watching me squirm and scream in my sleep. He has me in his grasp and
he may never let go of me. He'll hold me down and laugh as I scream. Just like
he usually does.
I blink as I stare at myself in the mirror, but after a moment, I realize it's
kind of useless and just run a comb through my hair quickly, brushing the
strands so they don't look like I just got out of bed. The piece of metal comes
back down to the counter and my feet go fast as I make my way downstairs, each
step meeting my foot just right.
Just before I hit the bottom step, though, my ears perk up as I hear Ms. Love
talking to someone and I hold my breath. Careful not to miss the conversation.
I know it's kind of rude to eavesdrop but I can't help it. I want to hear
what's happening because most of the time, they're talking about me.
"What do you mean, he's been just fine here? Have you seen him lately? He
leaves whenever he gets a chance and his episodes have really been bothering
the children. He needs to leave the first chance he gets!" That's Ms. Love. I
don't think I like her anymore.
"We can't get rid've 'im 'til he does /actual/ damage to yer property er the
children 'ere. I'm sorry, Ma'am." That's another person.
Love sighs and I try my best not to get out there and bitchslap her. Instead, I
just take a deep breath and finish the last two steps, avoiding Love's eyes and
who ever the other guy is. My fingers dust off the front door as I slip on some
shoes and the cold handle reaches the palm of my hand.
I leave, despite her protests, and head right. To the park where I hope Pete
will be waiting for me because I really want to kiss him. I think that's what
this relationship thrives off of. Just physical contact and Pete telling me he
loves me when he knows damn well I don't return it. Not yet at least. I just
need to be in his arms and I need to stop thinking about this. I need to forget
that Ms. Love wants me gone.
I don't really care that she wants me gone. I know she's wanted me out of that
house since I first got there, but the fact that she actually tried to get me
out really makes me want to hurt her.
The dark rubber of my shoes scrapes across the burning gray concrete as I tug
my hood to shade my face. I've always hated summer, especially the fact that
it's hot 24/7. It's nice to be out of school, but still. Sometimes I really
just want to cuddle up in a blanket and keep warm while it's still dark out,
but summer would be the kind of guy to throw the blankets off of me, shining a
flashlight in my eyes and yell, "HAHA NOPE!" At the top of their lungs.
I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and continue down towards the park. As I
approach, I notice that the trees seem to be especially green and the ground
especially yellow, and as I would have guessed, Pete is on the bench, earbuds
in his ears with his chestnut eyes gazing emptily at the sky. I feel a hint of
guilt for him, he's probably going through some shit at home, worse than I am.
He's an only child at his house, honestly, and he gets all the attention. No
time to just... be. I'm sure his parents leave him to do whatever he wants now,
though. Especially after what happened to us.
I swallow and finally continue, not even realizing that I'd stopped at first,
but it kicks in.
His eyes dart from the sky to me, and his faded lip twitches up slightly, but
he doesn't put much effort into it. I just wish he would smile a real smile for
me. Make me smile back.
"Hey," I whisper, stopping in front of him and watching him move out of the way
for me, "How you doing?"
"Hor--" His voice cracks and he quickly coughs it away to continue, "Horrible."
I sigh and sit down, pulling him close and letting him shake in my arms,
"What's wrong?"
He shakes his head in my chest, taking a deep breath, then releasing, going
limp in my arms, "H-had a flashback earlier... I c-can't keep f-fucking living
like this."
His black locks brush over my chin and I hold him close, shutting my eyes and
letting him calm down in my lap, "I'm sorry. I've been going through them,
too..."
Pete stares off into the distance, nodding softly into my shoulder, then
pulling in closer and shutting his own eyes, "Thank you for being here for me,
and like... understanding... Sometimes it gets bad when there's nobody who
understands..."
I open my eyes, staring down at him and wondering how the hell I was lucky
enough to get him as a friend, "You're fine, I uh... I'm the same way kind of.
You're here for me. It means a lot."
He nods a little and then we sit in silence. The sun is beaming down on us, but
it doesn't bother me too much. Or maybe it does, I don't know. All I know is
that I'm happy with Pete and I don't want to let go yet. I don't want to let go
ever. I just want to be with him til death do us part.
It sounds like I love him, but I don't. We're just friends. I mean... It's not
like I would actually feel that way about him... could I?
"H-He really d-does l-love you, P-Patrick," Mikey says, "J-Just give him a-
a chance."
"Do the voices still talk to you?" I ask Pete, reminded by Mikey, but I don't
say that aloud. I kind of feel like ignoring him right now. Especially after
that comment.
"Sometimes," Pete replies, then smiles a little, "Gerard is especially bad.
He's always ranting about one thing or another. Ray is alright, he's just kind
of there, giving these stupid ass speeches about how, 'everything will get
better with time' and, 'sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets
bigger.' Anyways, Brendon is cool. I think he's my favorite."
I nod. Not gonna lie, but it's kind of interesting how we both have three
voices and how one of them is more aggressive than the other two.
There's silence for a while when I don't answer, and I should probably
elaborate on my part or something, but I'm kind of enjoying it. I want to stay
like this for a long while longer. I want to sleep off my voices and all the
flashbacks. I can't think when I'm asleep. If only my insomnia let me sleep
more, I'm sure I would. How could I not?
I feel myself drifting off a little, and I shut my eyes. But I don't fall
asleep like I wish. Here's what does happen:
I wake up twenty minutes later with Pete staring at me beside the bench with
wide eyes, and a confused expression on his face.
---Mikey---
What happened?
That's the first question that enters my mind. What happened?
I was... I was at the mental hospital, a-and Dr. Martinez was there. Why am I
here now? How did I get here? He was in my head and Dr. Martinez was trying to
get me to speak to her about what's happening.
I blink and look around, kicking out with my legs, but I only find a man with
dark hair and shut eyes on them.
"Hey!" He protests, but I'm already on the other side of the bench staring with
scared eyes and my hands gripping the bars of the arm. The man gives me a
confused look but I'm far too terrified to come out and confront him. What if
he was part of /his/ plans? What if he's going to hurt me? Oh, no. Oh, no, no,
no...
"Patrick?" He frowns. Patrick. He's one of the voices in my head. How would he
know Patrick?
"M-Mikey," I whisper. He can't hear me, so I speak louder, "M-My name's M-
Mikey."
He blinks, then frowns, "Patrick, what the hell is going on?"
"I-I'm n-not P-Patrick!" I argue, "I-I'm M-Mikey, I w-was just at th-the h-
hospital... th-they were t-trying to g-get m-me to t-tell them ab-bout Him."
The man frowns even more, his eyebrows furrowing as confusion takes over his
face, "Mikey?"
"Y-Yes," I stutter out. He takes a step closer but I quickly, protest, falling
back in the grass with a, "No! W-wait!"
He stops immediately and takes a step back, his hands up in surrender, "I'm
Pete... Patrick's friend. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Pete?" My eyes widen and for a moment, I feel safe. Patrick told me all about
Pete and how caring he was. How he wouldn't hurt a fly and how hurt he was,
too, but how that's okay because he's getting better. Maybe he could understand
how I'm feeling. The fear that always bubbles in my chest and the anxiety that
always haunts me. What if he understands why I flinch every time somebody
speaks? Maybe I'm not alone in this.
"Yes, Pete, are... are you okay?" I hear the boy reply, an edge of sincere
worry in his voice. It seems so strange because it's not very often that people
actually feel worried for me unless they're trying to get something from me. It
seems so weird. So strange. And why is he asking if I'm okay I... I don't know
if I'm okay. Maybe I am, I just... I'm afraid of what might happen if /they/
manage to find me. If /they/ get me.
"I-I th-think so," I reply quietly, my voice such a mess that it almost
surprises me, but not quite, "Wh-where a-am I?"
Pete bites his lip and looks around, "Well, you're currently in Winona Park."
"W-where?" I ask, my eyebrows furrowing as I slowly lift myself up off of the
ground.
"Winona Park, Tacoma, Washington." He replies, then turns to me, "Are you... Do
you know who Patrick is?"
I nod quickly, "Yeah, he's o-one of the v-voices in m-my head... D-Dr. Martinez
says he's n-not real but I kn-know he is. He's s-somewhere out th-there."
Pete nods.
"D-Do you--"
I freeze up and I can't finish the sentence before everything goes black and I
feel myself falling again. Patrick's voice in the distance somewhere out there
yelling for Pete.
Chapter End Notes
     I'm not trying to diss my writing but I kinda hate how I wrote this
     chapter. Or the last part at least. Oops.
***** Crazy *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
I feel so weak. So afraid.
I swear I blinked and now I'm on the ground, limp. Pete is staring at me with
his brown eyes dark and wide. He looks so bewildered like I'd just been
possessed by a ghost. This moment above most others is pretty damn scary
because I know something happened. I know something is wrong. I did something
and now I need to pay my consequences. Just like waking up in the hospitals
after a relapse. The question is, what happened?
I open my mouth to speak but I close it soon after. I'm not sure why but I
just... can't speak. I want to, sure, but it's one of those moments where no
matter how much I want to, I can't bring myself to do it. Instead, I just look
up at him, begging for an answer. What happened? Why does he look so afraid?
Why isn't he speaking?
"Patrick? Is that you?" He asks, still not making an attempt to come forward.
I nod slightly and after a long moment, stand up from where I'm sprawled out on
the ground to pick up my notebook and pen from the bench.
/What happened?/
He lets out a sigh, shuddering the slightest, and sits down, running his tanned
fingers through his short, brown hair.
/Pete?/
"I don't know what happened, Patrick!" He snaps, but as soon as he sees me
flinch away, he leans back and apologizes, "Sorry, look it's just... this is
gonna sound crazy. Really fucking crazy 'cause I don't know what happened. It's
like..."
He hangs his head and shuts his eyes, furrowing his eye brows as he squeezes
the bridge of his nose, "It's like you were... Like someone else came into your
body... You know what multiple personality disorder is? Where one person has
like seven or so different personalities and they come out at different times?"
My eyes widen, I think I feel a little sick to my stomach, even. Multiple
personality disorder? I don't... I can't...
/Who was it?/
His oak eyes dart across the paper and after a moment he pulls away and takes a
long breath in, then a long breath out, "Mikey."
My eyes widen and it's then that my stomach acid refuses to stay down. I
stumble up and make my way to a bush where I immediately double over and begin
gagging into the bush, my breakfast and lunch coming up with it. I didn't
really think... this couldn't have actually happened, right? This is just a bad
dream? Just a nightmare and I'm going to wake up. I'm not crazy like that. I
could never be. I'm perfectly normal. I'm just fine just... Oh god. Oh god. Oh
god.
"Patrick?"
I barely hear it, I'm just holding completely still, my stomach empty and my
hands shaking slightly as one rests on the tree by my side and the other stays
on my knee. I just... Mikey just... I was... I just blacked out. That was one
of the things on Dr. Williams' list. "Have you blacked out in the past week?"
That was one of the questions. I can't remember which one but I know one thing
for sure. I'm getting worse.
I can't be getting worse, I just got back from the drughouse. Just found my
safe haven. Just got home. Pete's by my side. I can't break like this. I can't
let this happen right now. I just need to... I need to figure this out because
this can't be happening. I'm going through enough with the PTSD and Insomnia
and whatever else Dr. Williams treated me with. Whatever the Clozapine shit
does to me.
"Pete, I c-can't. This c-can't be... I'm not... I-I'm n-not crazy like that." I
turn, tears in my eyes. Everything is shaking and I can't breathe and it's
getting bad again like it did before. Like it did when Alex first gave me the
note in this park, "You can't tell anybody about this. Not Ms. Love, not your
parents, nobody. This needs to be kept secret. You need to keep it that way no
matter what. Nobody can find out, they'll kick me out. /They/ might find me.
Your dad and everyone else..."
My thoughts trail off on that and my breathing gets harder because I'm going
faster and faster. In-out-in-out-in-out. 1, 2, 3, 4. Faster, faster, faster.
"What if he finds me, Pete? What if they find me and they t-take me back? What
if they escape again? P-Pete I-I'd be defenseless, th-they'd kill m-me." I
pant, hands shaking and brain going into a panic.
"Hey, Patrick, no, stop." Pete says, "Put your hand on my stomach."
I look up at him with wide, teary eyes, still hunched over as he takes my hand
cautiously and places it on his stomach so I can feel his breaths. In, pause,
out, pause.
"Deep breath with me." Pete says gently.
"N-No, c-can't." I choke out, stumbling backward away from him. I can't calm
down because I know /he/ has found me. Pete's father. Vic is doing this to me.
Making me into someone else.
/My little esclavo/
I tug at my hair with each of my hands, one on each side as my eyes widen and
tears escape my eyes. His voice ringing through my ears. I'm not crazy. He's
really coming. I can't. He's.
/Slap!/
My eyes widen and I feel the memories begin to ebb away, leaving me here. The
voices gone beside Mikey and Ryan's gentle whispers to each other. I can't make
out what they're saying. Probably something about /him/ and how I should stop
trusting Pete.
"Patrick. Are you here, with me?"
I shut my eyes, keeping the tears at bay and eventually opening the blue orbs
again after a deep breath. I am here. I'm back in the grass. It's not like I
left but... /he/ was here. I swear he was. He was coming for me. He was going
to kill me. He /is/ going to kill me. Both of us.
"You gotta talk to me, Patrick."
"I'm here." I croak, still lowering my eyes away from Pete. I don't want him to
see how afraid I am in fear that he'll try to comfort me, but I'm okay...
really... Mikey never came. It's fine. It's just... It was nothing. Pete
probably imagined it.
"Are you sure?"
Am I sure? Am I sure I'm here in reality? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I
can't tell much anymore. Sometimes I'm here, sometimes I'm in the drughouse,
and sometimes I'm apparently blacked out and possessed by one of the people in
my head. It's not like he meant any harm if... if he /did/ manage to take over
my body. But I do like to be careful. After what happened... after everything I
just want to be happy for once. I want to be safe from harm. From the people at
the drughouse. From everyone. I just want to be with Pete and that's it. Fuck
seeing the world. Fuck learning everything I can. Fuck seeing the sights. I've
seen them and they're some of the ugliest things I've ever laid my eyes on
besides Pete.
Pete and Jones and maybe Justin are the only people I trust anymore. The only
people who have shown me some sort of compassion in this stupid place and...
Sometimes I wish there were more people I could trust. More people I could
just... be happy with and more people I know won't hurt me.
"Yeah, I'm fine." I snap, glaring up at him. My face softens soon after and I
sigh, standing up. I'm hesitant to touch him, but I want to. I need to. I need
some kind of reassurance. Someone to tell me it'll be okay even if it isn't
through words. So I pull him into a hug. He seems tense at first but after a
moment, he pulls me in, pressing his forehead to mine and letting out a long
sigh.  A relief from all the stress I guess. People do that a lot around me. I
know I'm the one to cause it but I'm trying not to let myself care.
"Do they ever pile up on you?" He asks. After a moment with no clarification,
he goes on, "The voices. Do they ever yell at each other and no matter how much
you want them to stop, they won't?"
"Not yet, no. You?"
He bites his lip, "It gets bad right before a flashback. They start screaming
at each other. At me. It gets loud and so many things pile up and I just...
leave."
I stroke his side gently but pull away after a moment because I'm feeling kind
of paranoid like there are a million eyes on me. Or just one set but those eyes
have hurt me worse than I think I've ever been hurt before.
I look around nervously and after a moment I finally just squeeze my eyes shut
and pinch the bridge of my nose, wincing slightly. I need to get back to my
room. It's not safe here anymore and I'm afraid /he's/ gonna find me if I stay
any longer. It's not safe. Anyone could see that, if I stay any longer I might
be found. Might be taken away in the middle of the night. Might not make it
through the morning.
"I should go." I say, my eyes meeting Pete's again, "Don't tell anyone. At
all."
"How are you gonna hide it from Love?"
The question spikes my heart and I realize that I really /can't/ hide it like
that. If this happens again and... and /Frank/ comes out. I could be in huge
trouble. I... Oh god.
"I'll figure it out. Bye," I reply irritably, pulling my jacket closer around
myself and throwing up my hood like nobody will recognize me if I do. I hope
they won't recognize me at least. I just need to know I'm safe because I feel
anything but safe and I'm not sure why. Vic's in jail. I'm not in trouble.
It's... It's okay, right?
It's gotta be okay. It's not like he can escape. It's... but if he does... He's
done it once before, who's to say he won't do it again? And he won't come after
me and rape me and hurt me and touch me like he did before? Who's to say I'll
heal this time? Who's to say he won't kill me before I can heal?
Who's to say he's not already out there to hurt me?
I turn almost immediately, paranoid, then look back. No sign. My eyes dart
around, focusing on possible places he could be hiding. Anywhere he could jump
out and attack me. Take me away in the middle of the night. I promised Pete
that I'd protect him from Vic but who's to say Vic won't come after me first?
I feel my breathing pick up and my heart begins to pound and everything begins
to spin again and I swear I see him out of the corner of my eye.
"God, you're so pathetic," Frank laughs, "Can't even think straight, he drives
you /mad/, doesn't he?"
"Stop it." I whisper, "Shut up, please."
"I'm never going to shut up, 'Trick. I don't work like that because soon I'm
going to come out there and I'm going to kill Pete and Justin and Jones and
nobody will be able to stop me. What do you think of that?" Frank asks.
"Give the kid a break, Frank." Ryan sighs.
"He's had enough breaks. It's been, what, a month since Vic took you?"
"Three weeks," Ryan barks, "You wouldn't last a day."
"I'd last a year, Ross. Shut the fuck up." Frank yells.
I open the front door to the house as soon as I can, slamming it shut behind me
and running through the living and dining room. Zooming straight upstairs and
nearly tripping over the stairs as I take them two at a time, then continuing
to my room, past Justin and falling into bed almost immediately, sitting on the
soft cushion.
"Go downstairs." I demand to the blond boy. He looks at me questioningly but
when he doesn't comply, I yell it again, "Go downstairs, Justin! Right now!"
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Justin," I snap, standing up and pointing to the door, "Go before I
kick you down to the couch."
He hesitates for a moment more, and that's about my snapping point because I'm
so close to breaking down that I can't take it anymore, "GO JUSTIN! GET OUT OF
HERE RIGHT NOW!"
He finally gives me one long, afraid look, then gets up and with his arms
around his stuffed bear, begins walking out the room, shutting the door behind
himself with a small, "I'm sorry." But I don't care how sorry he is. I just
need to... my head is pounding and I'm afraid /he's/ going to find me and so
many things are falling apart right now.
As soon as the door is shut, I sprint forward, holding my arms around myself
and shut it. I don't want anyone to come in and find me. I don't want anyone to
know what's happening right now because so many things are happening and I
think the world is dying. I think I'm dying.
"Patrick, take a deep breath. It'll be okay, you need to calm down," Ryan warns
me softly.
"God, Patrick, you're so pathetic. Letting it get to you so easily," Frank
laughs, "You know it's been just as bad before you were dragged back to that
hell hole. The hallucinations. The thoughts. You know you deserved what they
did at that house. You've always deserved to be pinned down and hurt until you
can't take it anymore and then some. You're pathetic. You're so useless, not
even Pete needs you anymore. It would be better if you weren't even alive."
His voice is blocking out all the rest and everything is going black and I'm at
the drughouse again and Vic is there and everything is so loud. So blindingly
loud and the pain is back. The pain is everywhere. The long slices down my
spine. I can feel the salt burning my skin and my whole body sore from Vic
inside me as his arms hold my wrists. I can feel hands on my skin, leaving
bruises and fingerprints.
"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."
"No, Patrick, you need to stop living this lie that it was never your fault.
That you never deserved it. That you weren't born to be a fuckup. You deserve
all of this. Open your eyes. He's coming for you, Patrick. He's not gonna stop
until you're begging for death because you don't deserve life. You deserve to
die. Why don't you just pick up the knife like you were always afraid of and
give in. You deserve all the pain in the world. You deserve to be beaten over
and over again. Let me in."
"Frank, s-stop!"
I open my eyes but nothing has changed besides the fact that Frank is gone.
Vic is here.
/"Esclavo. Esclavo. Esclavo. Qué voy a hacer contigo? Herirte? Matarte? Tal vez
no hoy pero pronto. Y nunca mataría a alguien tan valioso como tú. Ni siguiera
te vendería. Has estado aquí mucho tiempo, esclava." Vic whispers in my ear. I
don't understand a word besides the esclavo. Esclava. It sends chills down my
spine as I grip the duct tape binding my hands together around the post at the
end of the bed./
/I look straight into his eyes, a venom behind mine of hatred and poison but
still the slightest bit of fear. I hope to god he can't see the fear./
/Vic lifts my chin softly, inspecting my jaw as if he expects to find me hiding
something behind my ear but after a moment, he slaps me hard, making me whine
the slightest and fall limp against the bedpost, avoiding his eyes, "Recuerdas
algo de lo que pasó? Recuerdas lo que te?"/
/"I don't fucking speak Spanish." I growl, hostilty lacing my voice. I feel Vic
slap me again, harder and it takes all my will to keep a straight face. At my
reluctance, he slams his fist in my gut with a grimace, "I asked you if you
remember it. Do you remember any of what happened?"/
/"No. I don't. I've established this." I reply. He bares his teeth and rips the
duct tape with his bare hands before turning me around and bending me over the
bed./
/"Maybe I should remind you, esclavo. Would that help?"/
My eyes open, my entire body shaking as my mind quiets and I lay, hands over my
head, protecting myself. The burning is still down my spine and in my stomach
and my legs still burn from the stretch as I replay everything that happened
from that point on. The screams. The pain. The grunts. His shirt in my mouth.
His hands claiming my hips. Claiming me.
"Vic is coming for you and you know it. He's going to kill you this time. Watch
your back, Love."
And just like that they all disappear and I'm left with the urge to hurt
myself.
It's what I deserve, isn't it?
***
"Okay, Patrick. I'm gonna ask you a few more questions. Just like last time, I
want you to answer truthfully. If any of this becomes too much for you, just
tell me. I'll start with 3 questions. If you can take more, we'll continue. If
not, that's okay, too. This takes time and you should understand that. Are you
ready to begin?"
"Yes."
We're back again. In Dr. Williams' office. Ms. Love found me laying under my
bed covers, clutching my head and crying and begging. She didn't know what else
to do so she brought me here. I wish she would just let me do my thing because
it gets annoying having someone check up on you every second of every minute of
every hour.
"So, I'm guessing you had a flashback when Ms. Love found you. Could you tell
me what happened in it?" She asks gently. My eyes widen. What? Does she expect
me to just tell her how it went? How he called me his esclavo? How he pinned me
down in that mattress and...
"I can't," I breathe, "I'm sorry. I th-thought that I would be able to but I'm
scared th-that they're gonna find me."
Dr. Williams raises her eyebrows, jotting down something in her notes.
"Have you been worrying a lot lately?" She asks.
"Yes, some." I reply.
She has the urge to write that down as well and I just have the urge to huddle
up in a blanket and die.
"Okay, enough with the smaller questions. Here's the last one and I want you to
at least try to answer this one, okay?"
"Okay."
"Can you tell me what happened in the drughouse? What did they do to you? How
did things work around there?"
I bite my lip, pulling my knees to my chest and covering my head self-
consciously. I need to answer this one or at least part of it. I can do it, I
mean... how things worked there. What did Vic do? What did Ashley do? Where
were Pete and I kept? I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath and avoiding Dr.
Williams eyes.
"Vic was gone most or all of the time. I think he was out selling drugs.
Everyone else took shifts hanging out around the house." I reply, finding the
memory of the place and trying to push it away but pull it in at the same time.
Picking through the rotten meat to the bones.
"Can you keep going?"
I shut my eyes hard, feeling tears rise to them, "P-Pete and I were kept in a
s-spare room with nothing at all and they would feed us really rarely. I'm not
sure how often, though."
Dr. Williams nods in understanding, scribbling that down in her notes as I try
to work up the will to continue. There's nothing. I can't say it. I can't say
what they did. I can't say why I have a scar across my face that I have to
cover every fucking day and I can't say why my foot was twisted and I can't say
why I flinch so much.
"I can't."
"I know, that's enough for today. You did well." Dr. Williams nods, finishing
off her notes. Once she does, she pulls off the paper and sets it aside before
crossing her legs and clicking her pen, "Now, about what happened today," oh
god, "can you tell me what was happening? Ms. Love said you were holding your
head. Was there any reason behind that?"
/The voices./
"No, I don't think so. Just a headache," I say quietly. Do I tell her about the
voices? About how I blacked out? I'm trying to heal for Jones but I'm afraid
Dr. Williams will send me off to a mental hospital with the electroshock
therapy. They don't use that anymore, though, do they?
She bites her lip and looks straight at me, squinting her eyes, "Patrick, I
want you to know that you're being diagnosed with several mental illnesses. I
need you to answer truthfully if you want to get better. You /do/ want to get
better, right?"
I nod, avoiding her eyes.
"So you would tell me if you were hearing voices or having blackouts, right?"
Wrong.
I nod.
"Have you been hearing voices? Or blacking out?" The silence between us is
horrible and it makes me pull my knees in tighter uncomfortably.
"No." I say, "I haven't."
I can feel her eyes on me for a moment longer, but eventually they disappear
and she writes a new note in.
"How are you and Pete doing?"
"We're okay." I reply.
"Okay? Or good?"
"We're good. We got over the fight and stuff... he hasn't mentioned being in
love with me or anything."
She nods, writing that down, "Is he getting therapy, too?"
"Not sure," I reply, "I haven't asked."
"Are the flashbacks getting any worse?"
"I could feel what they did to me," I say, "But that's it."
She purses her lips and writes it down, "That's common in PTSD cases like this.
My best advice is to stay away from triggers as well as you can. It isn't
healthy to keep bringing it back or to, 'build a resistance.' These things take
time, especially with something like yours. You've only been living in the real
world for five years. If you'd like, I can schedule you with a counselor, his
name is--"
"No," I say immediately widening my eyes, "Not a man. I don't care. I am not
getting counseled with a man."
That terrifies me. Being left alone for an hour with an older guy. He could do
anything to me and my screams wouldn't matter. He could do anything he wants
and I wouldn't be able to fight. He could be just like Vic. Just like Jack and
Alex.
Dr. Williams frowns, "How long have you been afraid of men? Since the
drughouse?"
I can't fucking do this. I don't want to think about it.
I stand up, "If you want to know, ask /him./ Just don't fucking talk to me.
It's fucking useless. Thanks." And with that I leave the room and slam the door
shut, going out to the waiting room and glaring at Ms. Love, "We're going."
"I need to pay first, Darling," She smiles falsely, it soon disappears, "Isn't
it a little short, Honey?"
"I really don't fucking care right now. Can't you pay another time?"
Ms. Love glares at me for my language and doesn't reply as she heads into Dr.
Williams office. I hear some mumbling and then Ms. Love, "Patrick, sweetie,
could you go out to the car for a moment? I'll be right out."
"Sure," I reply. But I don't. Dr. Williams told her to say that. What are they
hiding?
I press my back against the wall of the door and listen closely to their
conversation, my ears twitching the slightest. I know they're hiding something.
If Dr. Williams won't tell me or won't keep me in the room to hear it, it's
something I'm not supposed to know. And I know damn well I should know.
"Okay, so... what's going on Hayley?" That's Ms. Love. I can tell by the false
worry and the old lady tone.
"I'm diagnosing Patrick with... quite a few disorders. And I feel like you and
the rest of the kids at your foster home should know some... risks that come
with these disorders. Patrick... he's a very brave, young boy and you should be
proud to raise him. I mean with everything that happened at the drughouse. I...
I'm diagnosing Patrick with schizophrenia. That's what the Clozapine was for.
But that is still a maybe. There's one symptom he hasn't shown, or he's hiding
from me and that's what worries me."
"What would that be, Doctor?"
"Well, he would... he'd be hearing voices. Uh, seeing things maybe. Have any of
these things... occured over the past five or so years?"
"He's... he's mentioned seeing things, but we were unsure if that was because
of his insomnia or not. And that was long before this past incident."
"Okay, I could... I could definitely see that happening. Anything more recent,
though?"
"I don't think so." Love replies.
"Okay," She scribbles something down in her notes, I'm sure, "And there are a
couple other illnesses and disorders. I'll email you a... uh... guide I suppose
to help you all along. But with the schizophrenia, the PTSD, Insomnia. There
are chances that he has a case of DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder. Where
he has... multiple personalities. Have there been any blackouts lately? Acting
different than he normally does?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but he's gone a lot of the time so I can never really
tell. Off with that other boy. Pete was it?"
"Yes, or that's what he's told me at least. Anyways, I also have BPD,
depression, and anxiety here. The depression is easy to see from my notes.
Anxiety isn't as apparent, but it's there with the panic attacks. And the BPD
is sort of a... Well it's not diagnosed. If you see any... any feelings of
worthlessness he might be giving out. Maybe some impulsive behavior. Emotions
are unstable or dissociation. Anything of the sort."
"Alright, anything else?"
"If... Look, patients in this kind of... situation. They're complicated. Hard
to read, I suppose. Their symptoms clash so he will be angry and depressed and
feel worthless all at the same time. Other times he'll be completely
emotionless, but he will also be impulsive. Lots of self-doubt. Self-conscious.
Especially with the... the scar. It's a constant reminder. Just try to keep him
on your good side. Give him concealer if he needs it, you know? If you have any
questions at all, I will always be here to help."
I leave, heading out to the car and getting in as Dr. Williams finishes talking
with Ms. Love. The words sinking in. Scizophrenia. BPD. DID. PTSD. Anxiety.
Depression. The blackout at the park. Ryan and Mikey and Frank. I'm not going
crazy. I don't care what she says. She's lying. I'm normal just like everyone
else. There's no way I'm crazy like she's trying to convince Love. I'm normal.
I'm completely normal.
Fuck doctors, I can fix myself in my own damn time.
***
As soon as we're home, I head inside, going up to my room once the door is
unlocked. Neither of us said a word to each other. She's obviously trying to
figure out what to say. But I'm kind of surprised she didn't insult me.
I kick off my shoes, shut the door, and fall into bed.
And I black out.
Chapter End Notes
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Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
God. Fucking. Damnit.
I look to my hands, then to my clothes, and run my hands over my face, and then
I get up from the bed and make my way to the bathroom, calmly. It happened. But
this time it isn't Mikey. It's me. Ryan.
The moment I enter the bathroom, I feel sick to my stomach. Dirty blond hair is
spiked just the slightest on my head, my eyes a bright blue. I mean, this is
how I normally look, but it seems a little odd anyways. I bite my lip and turn
around. It's a little strange not seeing myself in a tux and my thoughts
immediately go to what Brendon would think. A hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Yeah, he
would probably disprove but so would just about everyone else in my family.
It's kinda comfy, though.
"Hey, Mikey?" I ask. There's silence. Silence for quite a while, and I ask
again. But there's nothing.
/I'm not the one with schizophrenia./
I squint as I step away from the mirror and instead turn and head back to
Patrick's room. I grab Patrick's notebook from beside his bed and frown as I
open it, taking the pencil from the table as well.
/July 21st, 2017/
That was yesterday.
/I'm afraid. I'm so afraid of the voices in my head. I'm afraid of Frank most.
Afraid he'll come out and he'll find me just like Vic had done. I know I'm not
crazy. I can't be crazy./
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again.
/It's hard to get up in the mornings. Hard to find the motivation to do
anything. It's useless. They're going to find out. Pete loves me and I'm so
afraid that I'll hurt him. Maybe that's why I'm not letting him closer, but I
know I will. I know Frank will. I want to love him, I think. But at the same
time, what is love? That's the question that scares me most. Not if I feel
something, but if that something is even real./
/I want Jones back. I want to forget that any of this is happening. I want a
normal life. I want to have a mom and a dad and a brother and sister. I want to
live normally. I want my old life back. I wish my parents had never left me./
/But I can't have that./
/July 22nd, 2017/
/I was a student in college. Studying in psychology. Human behavior and mental
illnesses. Parents were kind of rich, and I mean... I never really liked it
that much. I think the only reason I wanted to go into psychology at all was so
I could understand myself and not necessarily other people... I tend to think a
lot. Get lost in my thoughts./
/I've always been a dreamer. Always believed in good luck and love and always
loved the stars. It gets old after a while, I guess./
/I'm afraid we're all crazy in one way or another. Serious or not. We all have
our own quirks. We're all different. We all have something that we are afraid
of. If it comes to mental illnesses, imagining things, seeing things that
aren't really there... then yes. Patrick is crazy./
/But if being crazy is being trapped in your own head, unable to escape.
Thinking too much... then we're all a little crazy./
/-Ryan/
"Patrick?"
My gaze turns up to see Justin, sleeves past his small hands and sandy blond
hair messy on his head.
"What's up, Sport?" I ask with a small smile.
He looks away, a little flustered before he holds up his teddy bear--what was
his name?--and swallows, "I know you don't like me very much and Ms. Love said
not to talk to you but you seemed lonely because you were talking to yourself.
I do that, too, sometimes. So I wanted to know if you could play with me...?"
I swear to god my heart breaks inside my chest and I internally slap Patrick,
but I nod anyways, eyes darting over the boy, "Alright, let's play."
***
The rest of the evening is spent playing with Justin. I learn about his bear,
Fred, and how Fred is a hero in the land of Latopa and how Princess Jasmine
(his stuffed cow) was taken by an evil man named Voldemort (but this one has a
nose and that's about the only difference). I watch as Fred saves Jasmine from
Voldemort and catches the bad guy and puts him in jail, the end.
It's kind of nice. I've always been fond of kids and if Brendon ever came back,
I would want one with him. Adopt one, maybe. I'm not sure but I would want it
to mean something.
If... If I was even real in the first place...
I blink and shut my eyes, before opening them again.
"Are you okay, Patrick?" Justin asks, worriedly. God, I wish. I wish none of
this had to happen but I know it has to. Otherwise, Patrick would be dealing
with Vic through pills, self-harm, and sex. I'm not sure which is worse. The
other may be easier, but this one will at least get him better help besides
going cold turkey. He'll be cared for...
I know it's only a matter of time before Frank decides to take over, though.
Before everyone in this house is in danger. Before...
"Patrick?"
"Huh?" I blink, looking at him, "Yeah, yeah I'm fine."
He smiles, "Good, because Voldemort is gonna break outta jail and-"
"Hey, Justin?" I ask gently. He looks up with wide eyes.
"Uh, look. I'm gonna... I'm gonna go now. I'm really sorry to cut this short
but I need to figure out some things, okay?" I ask, standing up.
"What?" He asks, his face immediately falling.
"I'm sorry, Justin. I'll be back soon and we can play /extra/ long. How about
that?"
"Oh... okay," He smiles the slightest, "Bye, bye."
"Bye, Justin," I reply, hands in my pockets. I really do like the kid and I
wish Patrick would appreciate him more. I wish everyone would appreciate him
more. He's pure. He's a bundle of joy that's slowly being tainted by everyone
else, and at the same time, he's still surviving. His hopes haven't died yet
and I hope they never do. He's gifted. I can see it in him. I know he's going
to be sucessful growing up.
If only growing up meant never losing our innocence. But I know we all do. I've
lost mine. I've lost much more than innocence and I know Brendon has lost
things, too. Caring parents, a loving family. Something neither of us ever had.
There has never been a successful faggot in the family. That's all they cared
about. My success. Improving the family name. Making people love us more. I
never wanted to be rich, but I guess we get what we get.
I stand up, lowering my eyes before leaving the room and heading back to
Patrick's. Pete has to have a number of some kind. Has to have something to
contact him. I bite my lip and after a hesitant moment, I head downstairs,
throwing up my hood so I seem a little more emo than I usually am, a little
more seecluded, a little more... well... Patrick. After a quick pep talk, I
head downstairs, the carpeted steps creaking beneath my feet as I reach the
bottom and look around.
Ms. Love. Ms. Love. Ms. Love. Ms. Love!
"Hi there, Patrick." She smiles at me gently.
"Hey," I reply, despite the fact it's not too convincing, "Do you have Pete's
number?"
"Uh, yeah, sure." She smiles again, faker than before and it's right then that
I realize why Patrick isn't too fond of her.
She disappears into the kitchen and afterwards, returns with a note. Pete's
number.
"You've already met up with him today. Something happening? And it's six in the
evening..."
"I know," I reply, "I just need to talk to him about something. Something
really important."
She nods, "Don't spend too long, alright?"
"Thanks." I run back upstairs almost immediately and grab the phone, dialing
Pete's number. I know it's the landline and anyone could pick up and overhear
it, but I really do need to talk to him. I wanted to see him in real life, but
I need to play it off for Ms. Love. Get her on Patrick's good side in case
something /does/ happen and he can't get out of a bad situation.
Like changing right in front of her. Maybe she'll like Patrick a little more if
he follows her rules and she won't tell anyone. I know damn well if Frank comes
out, it'll mean the institute for us. I know Patrick needs help, but those
places make me nervous. I've seen some... abuse before. I'm not talking about
what they did a hundred years or so ago, but I'm kind of also talking about
that.
/Ring, ring, ring.../
/Ring, ring, ring.../
/R-/
"Hello?" I ask, eyes wide.
"Patrick?" Pete asks, "Who is this?"
"Ryan. Er... Patrick. Whoever. Look, he changed again and I know I'm not...
y'know... real. Look, you know Brendon... right?"
I swear I can hear the confused blinking, but after a moment, he replies,
"Yeah. Wait so this is Ryan?"
"Yes, this is Ryan as in Ryan Ross as in, one of Patrick's personalities. I'm
not Patrick."
"Oh. Okay. And you're looking for Brendon?"
"Yeah... he's... y'know... In your head, right?" I ask, my eyebrows raising
expectantly, or maybe excitedly. I can't tell. All I know is I need to talk to
Brendon and I need to know he's okay and I need him to know I'm here... I need
to know not everything is a lie because reality is crashing down on me. Because
I need comfort and I need someone there for me like Brendon always is. It gets
this ways sometimes. I can't stop thinking.
I'm not real. I'm not real and that scares me. It's like if Patrick were to
wake up in the hospital, have all these memories, and in reality, nothing had
happened before that moment. It's a bit of a mindfuck but right now, I couldn't
care less.
"Oh okay... uh...I'll see if I can talk to him I guess, and tell him I talked
to you? Do you... do you need me to come over there?" Pete asks, "Do you even
know what's going on with Patrick?"
I sigh, "Yes, I know exactly what's happening with Patrick. I'm working on my
degree for psychology... kinda..." I clear my throat, "I don't think his
caretaker wants you over, though. If anything happens, I'll call you, alright?"
"Yeah," Pete replies, "Sure. See you around, maybe."
"Bye, Pete."
"Bye, Ryan."
I hang up the phone and gaze at it for a moment before squeezing my eyes shut.
Silver buttons on a black background imprinted in the depths of my mind along
with many other things. I wish all this mental could be physical, but at least
I'd know the truth. Am I real? Is Patrick really crazy? Psychology has never
been that great for me but I know a thing or two. "The main symptom of a
psychiatric case is that the patient is perfectly unaware that he is a
psychiatric case."
So it all depends on Patrick. And me convincing him that it really is real.
That I am taking over. That Mikey took over. That Frank will take over. I know
he knows because Pete convinced him so, but the real problem is getting him to
realize that he is sick. That it's not normal for it to happen.
Because I know that as soon as they find out. As soon as they send him off, he
won't believe a goddamn thing they tell him. These symptoms. Everything.
Because as soon as he realizes, he'll save himself.
God, it's a fucking mess. Everything is a mess and I know it. With Mikey gone
and Frank gone and Patrick gone, I know I'm alone and it scares me because I'm
the only one who knows he's crazy. And if I could fight back, I would. But I
can't. And only Patrick can fight back. This is his body. His mind and I can't
be the one taking over. He needs to understand that.
I need to convnice him that it really is real. I need him to know... Maybe...
Maybe I know how.
I look to his bedroom, and walk back, my pace fast as my hood warms my face.
The moment I get to his bed, I pull out his notebook and his pencil, erasing
the signature after the entry I wrote.
/Patrick, you need to understand that you are mentally ill. It may not seem
like it at the moment but please. You gotta understand this. It isn't normal to
switch personalities. It isn't normal for Mikey or I to come out. Please
understand. I'm not even real. I never have been and I never will be. It hurts
to say it but you have DID. You are hearing things that aren't even real. The
voices in your head are a side effect of the schizophrenia. Your brain made the
connection between that and the DID. It's playing tricks on you. It's only a
matter of time before you have thought disorder, too, and nothing makes sense.
/Please, Patrick, you need to understand that none of this is normal. Vic
should have never done what he did to you. This is you trying to cope with it,
this is your brain trying to stop feeling this way. Trying to cover it up with
me and Frank and Mikey. Nobody really knows why it happens, but that's my best
theory. Because you're trying to live a better life than the one you have now.
It's all subconscious and I know it's not easy to just believe these things,
but when you do, the moment you realize I'm not real and Mikey isn't real and
Frank and Gerard and Ray and Brendon... Then you will be one step closer to
solving it.
/I really do care about you. I really do want you to get better and even though
it hurts me to say it, you have to tell Dr. Williams. She can help you. Tell
her about the voices and about blacking out and how you need to get better.
God, I'm begging you. Please just believe m-/
---Patrick---
My eyes open and I take a deep breath, finally out of under the water. No
longer drowning.
I blink away my concerns. I blacked out. Again. I just hope to god it wasn't
Frank. It can't be Frank.
I look down to my lap to see a pencil hanging loosely in my hand, the end
duller than before. And a whole page of handwriting that isn't my own. It's
much neater than mine and I think I know who did it.
"Patrick?"
"Ryan." I whisper, "Was that you?"
"Read it. You have to read it and believe me." He practically begs, "Please."
So I do, my eyes flickering over each word and each letter. A trainee in
psychology. Rich parents. None of this is real. Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit,
bullshit.
"What the hell were you on?" I chuckle with a raised eyebrow, "I'm not crazy.
What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm not joking, Patrick," Ryan says, "You gotta believe me, Man."
I growl, "It's real, okay? Stop worrying. I don't care how certified you are
and shit, but I'm fine. Really. You are real and Mikey is real and Frank and
Gerard and Ray and Brendon."
"Okay. Then listen to this: I know Brendon. He was my boyfriend before I was
brought here. How the hell is that supposed to work, huh? He just magically
teleported into Pete's mind and I went into yours? But just our subconscious
self." Ryan asks.
"I don't know how it happened, nor does it matter. I'm not crazy. Look here,
'Nobody really knows why it happens, but that's my best theory.' It could be
anything, Ross. You're a nutjob. I bet you didn't even come out."
"I did." Ryan growls, I can imagine him gritting his teeth, "Fine. If you don't
want my help, I won't give it."
"Your help is bullshit. Psychology is bullshit. Just fuck off."
"S-Stop, p-please."
So Ryan leaves Mikey and I in quiet, nothing interrupting the silence.
I'm not crazy. I don't care how many people say it, I've never been crazy and I
never will be crazy. DID is bullshit and I hate cussing so much but it's true.
BPD is true, because Pete has it and it really does hurt him. But even if I did
see him go through what I did, I know it wouldn't be real. There's nothing to
prove that it's a mental illness and... I don't even want to think about it.
Because I know the truth. They can't convince me otherwise.
***
"So, Ryan came out yesterday. He was asking for Brendon." Pete says quietly.
"I heard." I reply, lowering my eyes and hugging myself close, "He was trying
to convince me that I'm crazy. He's really kind of stupid." Pete smiles at
that, "Really?"
I reply, "Really."
"Sounds shitty."
"It is pretty shitty." I look up at him, smiling lopsidedly, then pressing my
head into Pete's chest. I only feel this way when I'm with him. Feel safe from
Vic, from Frank, from everyone. I'm free here. Nobody can hurt me when I'm with
Pete, and time also seems to go by faster because before I know it, it's been
at least five minutes since we've last spoken to each other and my mind is
wandering to when he said he loved me. I wonder if he still loves me... If I
should let myself love him.
Because deep down I know it's real, and it's not just instinct for sex that had
us make it up. What if love really is real? And what if I really am feeling it?
I care about him, more than anybody else. Not Jones, not Justin.
"Do you think I could ever love you?" I ask. It comes out before I can stop it
and as soon as it's out I feel myself regretting it.
"Pathetic. This is why you deserve to die. Nobody could ever love you." Frank
laughs.
Pete takes a breath and after a moment, releases it, "I think if you try, you
could. Like, really, truly try. I believe anyone can feel love. But you
can't... you can't push yourself into it. You just have to feel it. Go with
what you want to do."
I bite my lip, still pressed into his chest and after a moment, I shut my eyes.
"I want to try to love you." I whisper, then pull out of his lap, eyes open,
facing him instead so I'm awkwardly straddling him, "I really do want to
try..."
Pete smiles fondly up at me, a slightly pained expression in his eye, "Really?"
"Really."
"Well, where would you like to start?" He asks, looking me up and down. If it
were anybody else, I would be squirming away uncomfortably, but I trust him. I
really do and I don't think I should trust people, but I do.
I feel my eyes widen and my cheeks flush, "I-I uh..."
He chuckles softly, "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you
nervous."
"I think this is the first time I've ever been nervous." I reply quietly, "Is
it always this awkward?"
"Not usually with you," Pete says, "How about you come back to my house. Would
that be okay? We can go up to my bedroom. We aren't going to do anything you're
not comfortable with, but I think it's somewhat illegal for us to do this in a
public place."
I swallow. I've never been to Pete's house before. What if his parents don't
like me? What if they're homophobic? What if he tries to do more with me than I
want? What are we going to do? What if Vic finds us? What if I go into an
episode there and I can't stop myself and I have another panic attack? What if-
-
"Patrick, look at me." He demands suddenly, I comply, eyes wide and hands
shaking, "You can't do this. Not now, take a deep breath. It's okay, if you
don't want to go, we don't have to. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to
happen. /He/ isn't going to be there, my parents are good people, there's
nothing at my house that could hurt you. Can you trust me?"
I blink, feeling the shaking and the panicky feeling slowly go down, "Yes."
"Good, let's go."
I get off of him and I take his hand, it's rough and calloused but it brings me
comfort and I'm grateful for it. I don't usually let people get as close as he
does and because of that, I both trust and distrust him. I shouldn't give so
much trust and reliance to someone. He could stab me in the back at any moment.
Could betray me to Vic at any moment to get on good terms with his faster.
Fuck, I know better than that.
The walk is somewhat short, longer than the walk to Ms. Love's but still
walking distance. He holds me close through the whole time, keeping me safe and
making sure I don't freak out again. I really don't want it to happen again.
Don't want the flashbacks. Don't want Frank to taunt me again. There's only so
much I can take and the episodes push past those limits, and I know they're
going to start pushing me even farther.
"Patrick, hey."
I look up and the moment my eyes meet those deep brown orbs, I feel my anxiety
begin to calm a little. He'll protect me. I know he will.
"We're here," He says gently, pointing me to look at his house which is really
big and I internally wonder how rich his parents are, "They really are nice
people, just keep quiet and keep your hands to yourself if you need to."
I nod, following him up the steps to the door where he opens the unlocked door
and my anxiety spikes again.
"Mom? Dad? I'm home!" Pete yells. What if they're not home and Vic's here
instead and he's gonna kill us Ihaven'twatchedthenewsinthepastfewdaysfuck.
"Hey, Pete." I hear a woman call.
"I brought a friend," He replies, shutting the door and making me stiffen up
impossibly more.
Pete's mom comes into sight with a plateful of chocolate chip cookies and I
feel my mouth water almost immediately.
"Oh, hey there," She smiles sweetly, coming forward and making me back away
into Pete's side, grasping his hand firmly. He takes it without hesitation,
instead stepping forward the slightest. His mom's face immediately goes
confused but it's not long before realization sets in.
"Mom, this is Patrick," He says, nodding to her and then looking to me,
"Patrick, this is my mom."
I force a smile and wave slightly, hoping it's enough to convince her that I'm
really not as troubled as Pete may have told her and hoping to god she won't
think I'm weird for not speaking and not touching her. I really don't want to
come off as weird. I want her to trust me at least a little so she'll let me be
alone with Pete. I'm really taking a lot of risks for this.
"Nice to meet you, Patrick," She nods, then smiles, "If there's anything you
need, I'm happy to help. I made cookies if you want one."
Pete nods, grabbing two, "Thanks, we're gonna go upstairs and hang out for a
bit. The park was getting boring." His mom nods, "Of course, Hon. Have fun."
"Mhmm," He hums back, taking my hand gently, with two cookies in the other and
with a short, reassuring look at me, he smiles, and leads me upstairs. The
place is pretty big, like I said. The upstairs alone has 5 rooms (1 master
bedroom, Pete's bedroom, a bathroom, a closet, and a guest bedroom) with a
black and white theme, but I don't have long to look before he's pulling me
into his bedroom, "Door open or closed, which would make you feel more safe?"
"Shut." I reply quietly, "In case..."
I don't finish that thought.
Pete shuts it as I ask, sighing before coming to me and hugging me close, hands
around my shoulders as he keeps me close. It shocks me a little at first, but
it's not long before I eventually let myself relax and melt into the hug, my
muscles unclenching. It really is a nice feeling and he lets me stay as long as
I need to. I really do need it. Being here, in a new place that I've never been
before, it scares me.
But I know I'm safe in his arms.
"Where are we starting?" I whisper, pulling away.
He smiles the slightest and places his arms on my shoulders, watching me flinch
but slowly calm back down.
"Well, it depends on what you're most comfortable with. We could start here."
He moves his hands up my face and presses his thumb to my forehead, "Or here,"
He moves them down to my lips, "Or here," He touches my ears making me smile
and laugh quietly, "Or here," he strokes my neck, "Or here." He finishes with
my hair, "Or a combination of any of those."
I raise my eyebrows, "What?"
He smiles and touches my forehead, "We could talk for a while," my lips, "kiss
for a while," ears, "listen to music," neck, "more kissing, but more sucking,
really," hair, "or we could just cuddle and let me play with your hair."
"That sounds so cheesy I feel like I'm gonna puke."
"I'm sorry I'm a romantic?" Pete laughs, standing up a little straighter.
I raise my eyebrows and after a moment, I lower them and pull his hand to my
lips, still looking him straight in the eye, "Can we start here?"
"Are you sure?" He asks, "We don't have to go that far today if you don't want
to."
"I want to." I reply, still watching him with determination, "I want to forget
what he ever did to me for just a few minutes. I... I want you to kiss me and I
want to enjoy it and I want it to be something out of love not..." I don't
finish that thought either, "Just... please."
He gives me a gentle smile and I swear I can see the hurt churning through his
mind. Rain crashing down. He's afraid of hurting me but I won't let him. I
trust him. I really do.
He shuts his eyes and presses his forehead to mine, I quickly take the signal
and shut mine as well.
"Just... the only advice I can give you is to do what you want to do. Just let
it happen. It's gonna be okay."
So I do.
His breaths are warm on my lips and I hold back all thoughts of anything else.
Of the drughouse. Of Vic. Of Ashley. Jaime and Mike and Jack and Alex and Tony
and Rian and Zack. It's all in the past now. This is the present. Right here,
right now. Pete's lips inches away from mine. Eyes shut.
I think of nothing besides this. Us. Now.
And his lips press onto mine.
Warmth shoots through me, my lungs fill fast, my chest rises and his lips... oh
god his lips are so soft. It's like Summer and Autumn and all the seasons I
love warming me. Hot coffee filling my chest, my stomach twirling and I swear
for a moment I can see the bright sun far above me, shining down on the beach.
It's like Seattle on a rainy day all at the same time. All the feelings I love.
The fresh scent of cinnamon and apples and the feeling of ocean waves crashing
down on the shores and the moon high in the sky dark at night and it's almost
overwhelming.
And with every inhale comes an exhale. Pete's fingers cup my jaw and mine come
up to grasp his shoulders, pulling him closer because I never want to leave
this feeling. The waves retreat from the sand and the moon slowly disappears
below the horizon and the cinnamon and apple are replaced with snowflakes. The
rain has passed and the sun above the beach is disappearing behind clouds. My
stomach begins to settle and the coffee fades. The Summer and Autumn have
turned to Winter and Spring.
Pete pulls away but my eyes are still shut as I take in everything that just
happened.
Pete's hands are gone from a moment and I'm forced to let go of his shoulders
as he leaves and comes back with something and my eyes are still shut because I
don't want to leave this feeling. Everything is warm and cold at the same time
and I need to refill it all like a drug. I need his lips again. I need to know
he hasn't disappeared for forever.
But he's back, pressing an earbud into my ear and playing a song I heard once a
long, long time ago. The guitar plucking away gently in my ear as Pete presses
the other in his own ear and kisses me again, not stopping this time.
/"And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now."/
/"And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
And sooner or later it's over
I just don't wanna miss you tonight."/
Our lips move this time, pressing even deeper because neither of us can get
close enough. Because everything is getting foggy and soon enough we're on the
bed, kissing. It's slow. It's passionate. It's everything I had hoped for.
Everything I had dreamed it would be. It's the Fourth of July now. Fireworks
are going off and lights are flashing before my eyes and there's a warmth
riding thorough my chest and my heart is pounding but I couldn't care less.
It's warning me against this but I can't leave.
I never want to leave.
/"And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am."/
Chapter End Notes
     Was that enough cheese for you?
***** Time *****
Chapter Notes
     I swear this is the last update for today haha. I'll probably post
     again tomorrow and the day after then get started on the second book.
     Also gonna be making another book (Stumpcest) called "I Fell In Love
     With the Boy at the Rock Show."
     Anyways, hope you enjoy, can't wait for the next two chapters!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
August is over and with it comes school.
Nothing is getting better.
Yesterday morning I woke up to find a note beside my bed, Mikey's handwriting
and in small, clear letters he wrote /He is coming for me./ It sent me into a
panic attack, but it was bad. Worse than when Frank just puts me down, worse
than reliving it from memory. Because I know if he finds me, I'll be reliving
it in real time. I'll be his slave all over again. His little slut. He'll find
me and hurt me like he did before and the thought alone now sends me shaking
violently.
Frank's words get under my skin worse and worse each day, cutting deeper and
deeper until I just had to do it myself. So I cut. It was just a nick. Nothing
more. But it made me feel even worse. Why am I letting him get to me in the
first place? Why can't I just man through it? Either way, it makes me shake and
shudder and cry late at night. I barely get any sleep, like normal, and
sometimes it gets so bad that I just can't find a point in living besides Pete.
I overall just feel... sad... worthless. I don't like writing as much as I used
to because I can't find a point and I'm trying to. I'm trying so hard not to
fall into this void but I'm already waist deep and just barely hanging on.
Then there's the fact that I get more and more anxious by the moment. What if
Vic finds me? What if he takes Pete? What if I can't fight back? What if Pete
stabs me in the back to earn Vic's trust? What if Ms. Love finds him? What if
she forces me out of the home? What if I never see Pete again? Sometimes, just
like before late at night, I lay in bed and I look to my right and I see him.
I'm absolutely blinded in fear, paralyzed. I can't move and then he crawls on
the bed and his eyes are completely black and he presses his hand to my throat
and I can't move. But it's Vic. Not Pete this time.
Pete.
We're getting better. Both of us are. After that day where we kissed for the
first time, he showed me lots of music which I've grown to love and he even
lent me an old iPod he never uses anymore. He said I needed it more than he did
and smiled. Then kissed me again. His lips are so soft. I never knew kissing
could be so great and I would say I'm falling in love, but I still don't know.
What if this is just physical attraction? How do I know if I'm falling in love?
What if I'm just lying to myself?
I want to know. I really do but I know it's useless at the moment. I don't know
if I'm in love or not. All I know is I care about Pete and he cares about me
and that's all that matters right now. As long as I'm with him, I'm okay. It's
been two weeks since then, but it still puts my heart in a flurry. Still
injects all sorts of butterflies into my stomach and gives me a feeling of pure
passion and joy in my chest.
Most of our kisses are stolen now. He told me he spoke with his mom and she's
okay with me coming over, I just need to bring my notebook so I can talk with
her. I would come over more, but I've had no time, and I've considered talking
to Ms. Love about it but I haven't had the chance... or worked up the will...
But, instead I've been okay with talking to Pete over the phone like what I'm
doing at this very moment. Phone at my ear, eyes half shut, and my back against
the pillow and the wall as Pete talks softly into my ear, poetry that he used
to write but has trouble working on now. He mentioned it once in the... in the
drughouse but he never actually read it to me and I've been eager.
"Say a prayer, but let the good times roll
In case God doesn't show
And I want these words to make things right
But it's the wrongs that make the words come to life
Been looking forward to the future
But my eyesight is going bad
In these crystal balls
It's always cloudy except for
When you look into the past." I swear I can hear him bite his lip.
"Y'know I never really meant for any of this to sound so cheesy. I wanted to
make music. I've never liked poetry all that much. I like songs. Lyrics, I
guess, because it's more hidden and you have to truly listen if you want to
understand. Does that make any kind of sense?" Pete chuckles, realizing he's
rambling.
"I think it's cute," I murmur, "Really."
He smiles through the phone, "Look so... I don't want to push you into
anything, okay? And we don't have to be super cheesy and make it official or
anything because that's just... kinda stupid. I've never been into the classic
boyfriend-girlfriend Fault in Our Stars kind of thing, but are... are we a
thing? Like a real thing?"
I shift in bed so the covers are up to my shoulders and I still have the phone
to my ear, "I... I don't know yet I guess. I want to, I need you to know that,
but you need to understand I still... I don't... God, how do I put this Pete?"
"Look, no," Pete replies, "It's okay, you're fine. Take your time with this.
I... I've been hesitant to ask you because of myself anyways..."
"I'm just scared." I whisper, tears beginning to gather at my eyes, "I'm scared
/he's/ gonna come and it's getting harder to do anything anymore. It's hard to
get out of bed in the morning. Hard to write. Hard to work up the will to come
to the park. It just seems so pointless and I... Pete I kind of want to die..."
"Hey, hey, Patrick, listen to me, please don't cry. Talk to me, why the hell
would you want to die?" Pete demands softly.
"It's so pointless. I've been living all this time completely blind to the fact
that I was sent to a fucking drughouse. I wanted to live to see the sights and
it was a pathetic excuse because l just didn't find a point in dying. But now I
have and I really do like you, Pete, but sometimes I get so paranoid and I get
terrified that you're gonna kill me and show /him/ to get his trust back and I
know that's not like you, Pete. Not at all but what if it does happen and
there's nothing I can do?" I choke out. It takes me another moment to gather
myself before I continue, "God, I'm sorry... I'm so pathetic... It's just...
I'm sorry, I should go."
"Patrick, don't you dare or I will come over there." Pete growls before I can
hang up. After a moment of thought, I put it back up to my ear and wipe my
tears, "Don't let Frank get to you, okay? Gerard does it to me, too. You gotta
understand this, because sometimes it gets so bad that I hurt myself. Because I
really do believe it, but you gotta believe me. You don't deserve a damn thing
he says you do."
I wipe my tears and take a deep breath, then reply, "Thank you."
"Mhmm. I love you, Patrick," Pete whispers, "I really do and it hurts, okay?
And I know you're still getting your emotions worked out but you'll get there.
I promise."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Do you want to come over?"
I look to the time and after deciding it wouldn't be too late, I reply, "Yeah,
sure."
"I'll leave the door open for you."
***
The moment I enter the house, Pete comes running downstairs and embraces me in
a tight hug, breathing down my cheek. I don't hug back. I only stand limp, eyes
cast down to the floor with an expression of absolute blank emotion. I feel
nothing, I guess. I want to die and that's the only emotion I have. Nobody
really counts that as an emotion, though, which is sad because sometimes people
really do feel like that.
"Wanna go up to my room?" The raven-haired boy asks gently, hands behind my
neck and eyes concerned. I only nod in reply, clutching my notebook close.
I follow him up the stairs, head down with my body pressed all together. Arms
locked, shoulders pulled together. By the time I'm in Pete's room, I'm breaking
down and sobbing, hands shaky as tears fall to the floor and I wonder how the
fuck I got here. Three months ago I didn't care. I didn't cry. Crying was weak.
I didn't talk. I kept to myself. Now? God, have things changed.
Pete pulls me close as soon as the door is shut, kissing my forehead as I drop
the book and pen and just cry into his chest and let out all the pent up
tension I've been holding up for god knows how long.
"Pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic." Frank laughs, "You wanna be stronger?
Start off with being a real man and quit crying."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" I yell, holding my hands to my ears and trying to
block it out. Trying to get rid of it. Please, oh god, /please/.
"Shh," Pete whispers gently, "listen to my voice, take a deep breath."
"I c-can't, Pete, please."
"You're so useless, why don't you just do it already? Jesus Christ. Quit going
to your faggot of a boyfriend."
Pete pulls me around and lays me down on the bed, watching me sob helplessly
before laying beside me and letting me weave my hands to hug his shoulders
close.
"Yes, you can. In and out with me," He whispers.
"You're gonna try to calm down? What's this, huh? A mental breakdown? God,
you're so pathetic. No wonder Vic always treated you like trash. What did he
call you again? Esclavo?"
Esclavo.
I feel my eyes widen and my crying stop and my muscles tense and everything
from that point on is a blur. The drughouse. Vic. Clothes gone. Control gone.
Everything is gone. I've lost my only motivation to keep going--a life that I
want to live. I won't go into detail. I don't think anyone wants to know...
Everyone already knows but I don't want to describe it. I don't want to tell
exactly what I see, but it's not pretty. I'm in pain. So much pain. Sweat
clinging to my face as I lay dead weight.
Why did I have to love this life? Why can't I just be happy? Is it seriously
that bad?
I come back about ten minutes later. The real world coming back to me and as
soon as I realize I'm in Pete's arms, I feel myself relax and take a deep
breath.
"You okay? What happened?" Pete asks softly, brushing the hair from my eyes.
"Flashback." I whisper, "Frank. I'm sorry."
"No, shh," He kisses my forehead, "Get some sleep, okay? I love you. I'll be
here when you wake up."
I smile the slightest, thankful. I haven't gotten much sleep lately due to my
insomnia and the nightmares and I really do appreciate it. So without much
worry, I shut my eyes and pull closer into Pete and his gentle voice eases me
into sleep.
"/Honey is for bees silly bear
Besides there's jelly beans everywhere
It's not what it seems in the land of dreams
Don't worry your head just go to sleep.../"
***
When I wake up, Pete's back as he promised, his breaths long and smooth like
waves in a gentle lake. I've never seen the ocean... I've never seen much of
anything, honestly, Ms. Love keeps us cooped up all day in the foster home and
we only leave for friends or chores. It's a little depressing if I'm honest,
but I don't mind.
I can't get back to sleep, my eyes shut but nothing comes and I guess that's
alright. So instead I spend my time gazing across his features. I don't mean to
be creepy or anything... I've just never been this close before.
His hair as I've always loved it, is short and black and I think he had a
fringe at one point but he may have shaved it down since then. I think I saw
the fringe at the house. When I first saw him and I first started freaking out
about him. Since then, he's shaved it down and I can see the gel he used to
keep it up softly fading away. It's shorter in the back than in the front and
I'm a little tempted to run my fingers through the back but I resist the urge
and instead just look.
His eyes are shut, short, black eyelashes poking out from his lids and
flickering every once in a while, below that is a small nose, then his soft,
gentle lips, a pink that fades in with his skin but not quite enough that I
can't see them.
Then fading beneath the blankets is his body and everything from the waist
down, I couldn't care less about. It's not that the thought of sex hasn't
occurred to me, it's just that the thought of sex scares me. It's not just
because of Vic and the nightmares before the drughouse just... I mean I might
try it, but I don't think I'd like it.
Maybe I could ask Pete about that later. He knew I was asexual even before /I/
knew. So maybe he knows just how bad it was. I just have to bring it up in a
not awkward setting because I really don't want to think about it now. I'm just
happy with what I have right now. Happy that I have him in the first place.
I don't know how much longer I lay there watching him. It feels like an hour,
maybe two. I think I drift off somewhere in there but I can't really tell. But
when Pete finally wakes up, I waste no time in pulling him tight against me and
not letting go.
"Patrick?" He mumbles tiredly.
"Morning," I smile a little, looking up at him, then past him to the clock that
reads 4:23 PM. I got here at 2.
"You feeling better?"
"Mhmm."
"Promise?"
"Promise." I smile. Pete smiles back, then rolls me over so I'm on my back and
he's straddling me and kissing me, lips soft against mine and hands gentle as
they hold my sides. If it were anyone else, I would be freaking out but this is
Pete. He would never hurt me.
But I feel myself blacking out anyways.
---Ryan---
His lips are soft and wet and thin. Everything Brendon isn't. I don't know who
is kissing me. I don't know why they're kissing me But the moment I realize it
isn't, in fact, my boyfriend, I shove him off of me, hands pushing out as far
as they'll go until he's off of me and he lands back on the bed with a soft,
"oof."
Goddamnit Pete.
"Patrick?" He frowns, eyebrows furrowed as he rubs the back of his head, "You
okay?"
"I'm not Patrick, idiot." I reply, smiling the slightest before wiping my lips
off and grimacing, "It's Ryan."
"Oh, gross." Pete replies sarcastically.
"Shut up." I smirk, but my smile fades not long after and I find myself rubbing
my nose. It happened again. Patrick's not getting better. I shouldn't have just
let him do it on his own. I know something is seriously wrong here. I've known
ever since I first heard him in my head. I'm still having trouble processing
it, "It happened again."
Pete shrugs, "I'm sure it's fine. He's... getting better..."
I lower my eyes, shake my head, and look back up, "There's no way he's getting
better, Pete. If he were getting better, I wouldn't be coming out as often. If
he were getting better, he would have told someone besides you."
"He really is, Ryan, you gotta believe me, okay? He let me kiss him and touch
him and all these things he never thought could happen after Dad." Pete
releases a belated breath, then continues, "Really, Ryan. He's trusting me and
if you're still going on about how he's crazy, he isn't. Brendon talks about it
just as much as you do. Neither of us are crazy. These personalities, they
really are other people and it doesn't make us crazy. You're overreacting. It's
normal."
"It's not normal!" I bark. Pete yelps back and nearly falls off of the bed in
fear, eyes widening. I shut my eyes in frustration, "No /normal/ person would
change personalities. No normal person gets flashbacks. I'm sorry, Pete. You
have to tell someone."
Pete squeezes his eyes shut and finally just glares at me, "I'm not crazy. I'm
completely normal. Patrick isn't crazy. He's completely normal you son of a
bitch."
I can only watch in horror as he tackles me to the bed, pinning my arms down
before socking me straight in the face. I knew I shouldn't have messed with a
schizophrenic. I sometimes forget they're aggressive. Goddamnit.
I shove Pete off of me but while I may be fit, he's muscled and easily holds me
down, glaring right at me before slapping me hard, "Neither of us are fucking
crazy and until you take back it back I'm going to fucking kill you for that."
"Do it. You know Patrick will die with me." I bark, "Get off of me. Now."
Pete glares but doesn't get up no matter how much I'm sure he will, "Fucking
pussy."
He punches my nose sharply but I manage to hit him pretty bad in the temple. I
think I can taste blood on my tongue but I don't pay it any mind. The
adrenaline rushing through my veins feels like a waterfall and I am a cliff. I
just send the punches right over the edge. Pete bruises my arm, I get his lower
lip and all the while, we're rolling over on the bed, Pete yelling at me to
take it back and admit he's not crazy while I just stay quiet.
I'd never admit it.
People don't just blackout.
---Patrick---
"Son of a bitch fucking fight me!" Pete growls at me, aiming a punch right at
my cheek and the moment he raises his fist, I swear I see Vic. Long, brown
hair, tan skin, beanie on his head, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes. My eyes
widen in fear and when it hits the scream that echoes through the room scares
the both of us out of the haze.
"Patrick?" Pete's still pinning me down and I feel myself slipping into the
past and I'm trying not to freak out but I can barely let a croak out of my
throat. Everything hurts. My nose, my forehead, my jaw. I can see a few nasty
bruises on Pete, too. But I can't focus on it. The panicky feeling in my chest
is returning and everything is shrinking around me.
"Patrick, are you okay?" Pete's so far away and he should be. He hurt me. He
isn't safe. How can I trust him after that? I thought... I thought I could
trust him.
"Get away from me," I whisper.
"What was that?" Pete asks, reaching out to touch my arm, "Look, you gotta
believe me. Ryan was there and--"
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT RYAN!" I scream, "GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"
Pete immediately backs away, getting off the bed and standing at the side to
watch as I pull on my jacket and shoes. I can hear his breaths, stuttered and
fast and worried behind me but I couldn't care less. He could rot in hell for
all I care. I don't want him near me. I don't want him to touch me.
"Get away from him, Patrick. He's no good for you, you need to listen to me."
Ryan says gently in my head.
"Shut the fuck up, Ryan." I bark at him, making my way downstairs and out the
door without another word. My hood up. Phone in my pocket, notebook in hand.
Everything is shaking and spinning around me. Buildings beginning to topple
over. Vic in the distance with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Brown eyes,
brown hair. /My little esclavo./
How could Pete do that? Hurt me? And then make an excuse? I knew I shouldn't
have trusted him. About anything. I shouldn't trust anyone. That kind of shit
is dangerous. I went the first 17 years of my life without trusting anyone, why
should that change now? And why would I ever even trust anyone related to Vic?
Like father like son. How could I be so stupid.
"Quit crying you fucking pussy." Frank barks, "you know you shouldn't have
fucking trusted him. You should have listened to me since the start dipshit."
I wipe away the tears I didn't realize were there and begin walking faster
through the sidewalk and soon after through the park.
"You should never have trusted him. Trust me instead and you'll be able to make
it through this." Frank says, "I swear you'll make it with my help. You /need/
me, Patrick. Admit it. You can't make it without me."
"You would hurt everybody I care about the first chance you get, Frank. Why the
hell should I trust you?" I whisper.
"Pete hurt you. Imagine who else would. You barely know Jones and Dr. Williams
and you know damn well Justin will be tainted soon enough. We both want the
same thing, Patrick. Freedom. Just trust me and you'll be okay." Frank replies,
starting to get annoyed at my reluctance.
I look around for a moment, realizing I've stopped at the bench. Rain is
pouring down from the clouded sky, dark stormclouds rolling in and sending wind
and rain through the air. Trees are shaking, my coat is fluttering. It's so
intense but at the same time, so calming. The rushing storm matching the storm
in my mind. Tears are the rain, thoughts are the clouds, and my shuddering is
the wind. Everything hurts. I thought I could trust him. I thought I would be
okay. I never thought he would do something like that.
I thought we could be okay.
The tears really begin to spill then, hands falling to the wet dirt underneath
me as sobs rack my body.
"Trust me, Patrick! Jesus Christ!"
"Shut up, Frank!" I yell, "Just shut up! I don't know who to fucking trust
right now and you're not fucking helping so shut the fuck up and leave me be.
I'm trying to figure this out on my own right now and it's hard when you're
always trying to fucking change me on all this shit!"
"Well, Kid, you know what?" Frank replies, "I'm pretty fucking sick of you
always doing all this self depreciation shit-"
"And who the hell did that to me, Frank? Who? You have nobody to blame but
yourself for that!" I reply, "Which is why I'm having trouble trusting anyone
right now because I know as soon as I do, they'll stab my back. Ms. Love, Pete.
Vic and you and Alex and Jack and everybody else in that stupid drughouse. I
might not have trusted them in the first place but you know damn well I could
be hurt just as badly.
"Look, I just want to be normal. And I know you can't give that to me. Nobody
can. I'm forced to be like this for the rest of my pathetic life so why don't I
just commit suicide, huh? I have PTSD and BPD and Insomnia and that's shit that
nobody else should have. They all think I'm crazy and I know I'm not. I'm not
crazy. I'm not stupid, either. I'm perfectly normal. They just don't understand
that yet. Unless you can convince Ryan and Dr. Williams and Jones and Ms. Love
that I'm not crazy, then I just might trust you. I just... I don't know
anymore."
I release my hands from the wet dirt in the ground and shakily fall back on my
knees, eyes open as the rain crosses my face and my mouth stays clenched shut.
I'm so done. So fucking done trying to make people understand that I'm really
not crazy and I don't know how to convince them otherwise. I don't know how I'm
supposed to help them understand that they're the ones making up nonsense and
not me. What the hell am I supposed to do? More so, how am I supposed to trust
anyone again?
Pete just betrayed everything I ever felt with him and I don't even want to
look at him anymore. I just want to shut my eyes and sleep for the rest of my
life. Just fade away to darkness. I want to stop living. I want to fucking hurt
someone. Or maybe just myself.
Maybe I'm just extremely confused. I don't know what I want anymore but I know
that the way out of this is to sleep it away. My insomnia can make sure I won't
have that. I know I could take the pills but... I won't. I don't care what they
say, I'm not going to take those goddamned pills. If they want me to take them,
they'll have to shove them down my goddamn throat.
I feel the last of the tears escape my eyes and only then do I bend forward,
hands on my knees as my stomach churns.
If Pete betrayed my trust like that, what else did he betray me to? Dr.
Williams? Ms. Love? Jones?
Vic?
My eyes flash open and almost immediately I look around, my head spinning. What
if he's already coming for me? What if he takes me away and I never see day
again? Oh god, oh god, oh /god/.
/"My little esclavo."/
No, no, no. The sights. The sounds. The slapping of skin on skin. The smell of
smoke and drugs. His hands tangling in my hair, hands on my hips. Pain jolting
down my back. Burns and cuts and nicks and scars. I'm shaking so horribly. I'm
terrified.
What if he's already back?
"Mi pequeña esclava."
That isn't a memory anymore. He's really there. I can feel his breaths on my
neck and his hand over my mouth.
I duck out of his grasp, my speech frozen in fear as I turn and stare right at
him, eyes wide and hands shaking badly. His piercing brown eyes are glaring at
me, his long, brown hair a mess in his face, small amounts of stubble joined in
on his face, a black beanie resting on his head. He's grimacing down at me,
fingerless gloves on his dirty hands.
Vic is here. He's going to do everything he did in the drughouse. He's going to
hurt me. He's really going to hurt me. Worse than I've ever been hurt before. I
know it. I don't need to know him well to know that he really is going to kill
me this time. Train me to be his little slave. His little esclavo.
He steps forward and just like that, I do what my first instinct tells me.
I run.
Faster than I've ever ran before. My feet are nearly tripping over each other
as I sprint past him and head down the park. Closer to my safe haven. My room.
My house. Where he can't find me. I just need to shut the windows. Lock them.
Everything will be okay. I know it has to. Please. I can't. I can't breathe.
Everything is going so... slow...
I make my way faster through the streets even though my feet are tiring and
stumbling. I need to... get... away from Vic...
No...
Please...
***
Black. It's so dark. Darker than black, even.
But the moment I open my eyes, I see Jones above me, hands working gently on
rinsing down a washcloth in a bucket and ringing it out before setting it
gently on my forehead, then gently cupping my jaw and smiling down at me
fondly.
"Good morning, 'Trick." She says softly.
"Jones..." I whisper. But I don't hug her like I want to. I don't smile. I only
bite my lip and look away, avoiding those gentle brown eyes and that soft, dark
skin. The black hair worn down to her shoulders and the long, black overcoat,
"Where's Vic?"
"Vic?" She frowns, "Honey, Vic's in jail. He's not coming out anytime soon. Are
you feeling alright?"
I shake my head, "I saw Vic. He was there... in the park. Really, you gotta
believe me. I saw him and he was right there behind me and he ran after me and
then... I... passed out..."
Jones shakes her head, "No, Love, he hasn't come out of jail and he won't
anytime soon. You're safe here, alright?"
"I..." I blink, "Oh... okay..."
She's lying.
Jones sighs and begins wetting another washcloth, "We found you passed out on
the ground with a really high fever. Dr. Williams is just outside right now.
She told me you haven't been taking your pills, Patrick."
I roll my eyes, "I don't want to... it just makes me fell different and I just
want to be normal..."
Jones nods, her teeth coming out to scrape at the velvet lipstick on her lips,
"Well, taking the pills will actually make you normal, though, Patrick. And
these things won't happen as often."
"But they'll still happen. What's the difference. I don't even have half the
stuff Dr. Williams says I do..." I mumble.
Jones gives me a belated smile and finally just switches out the washcloth on
my head with a new one, "I know it's hard to believe right now, 'Trick, but
it's real. I care about you and I know you're trying to get better for me. If
you want to, you'll start taking the pills Dr. Williams prescribed you with."
I lower my eyes and finally nod. I know I shouldn't trust her, but I am trying
and Jones has been with me since the beginning. She hasn't betrayed my trust
yet. I'm sure she'll be there for me... She has to...
"Thanks, Jones." I murmur, "I'll try."
She smiles and kisses the washcloth on my head gently, almost like a mother
would a son. That's pretty much what we are, though.
"I have to go, 'Trick. The agency wants me back on the job soon. But I'll talk
to you in a bit. I'll call or something. Love you." She pulls back, "Take your
pills."
"Mkay."
I smile a little to myself as she leaves the room, my heart feeling kind of
warm. It's been a while since her and I last talked and I'm happy to finally
see her for once. But my thoughts go back to Vic. I know she was lying about
that which bothers me, but whatever. I'm sure it's fine. He's gone now...
"But he'll be back." Frank says, "Trust me, Patrick. If you don't want that to
happen again, you'll join me. Let me help you."
"How could you possibly help me?" I sigh.
"I could kill him for you. You know damn well I'm capable. All I want in return
is some freedom. That's all." He replies.
I bite my lip. It's tempting. I know he could... Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be
so bad after all.
"Do we have a deal?"
I swallow.
"We have a deal."
Chapter End Notes
     Don't forget to leave a comment if you get a chance!
***** Understand Me *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Pete has been calling me almost every day. Trying to apologize for what he did,
but I'm not showing that motherfucker any mercy. He hurt me. I don't know what
to feel about him anymore. I hate him, but I still feel heartbroken that he's
gone. Frank and I have talked more. Passive aggressively. He's stopped
insulting me for the most part, but sometimes he will still call me stupid.
Ryan's warned me against talking with him, but I've stopped talking with him
altogether. As for Mikey, neither of us talk much unless Frank is gone, and we
talk about random shit when we do.
Most of the time, I'm just lost in my own thought. Thinking too much about the
world. Reliving the drughouse. The flashbacks come about once a week. Maybe
more, and since Jones told me to start taking my pills, I've been considering
it. I know she told me that if I don't, it'll only get worse.
I really do want to get better for her. I really should try. I know. But I just
can't bring myself to do it... Frank told me not to.
I mean, it's not like Frank is a big problem. He's helping me, he said that
he'd protect me from Vic, and I trust that... well, I'm trying to at least. He
hasn't taken over yet, at least not that he's told me of. But I know he will
when he needs to. I just hope he doesn't betray the little trust I have for
him. I don't need someone else betraying my trust.
/September 3rd, 2017/
/It's been 8 days since Pete hurt me and Vic found me. I'm terrified. Every
minute of every day, I'm constantly watching my back. I know he could show up
at any minute. He could find me. He could hurt me. I know Frank is there for
me, but what if he doesn't?/
/Maybe these worries are unnecessary. Maybe I'm just afraid of Vic. I don't
know anymore. The sky is a darker shade of blue than usual today, as if the sky
is sad for me. Leaves are turning and falling. Oranges and yellows and reds and
browns, and I've been listening to a song on the music player Pete gave me.
It's called The A Team by Ed Sheeran. It's pretty./
/And there's the ferris wheel. I have dreams and I see a ferris wheel. As
broken as the world. Seconds away from shattering. The sights are only
glimpses. A rusted handlebar. A cracked seat. I'm having shattered thoughts and
my mind is the pane of glass. Everything is glass./
/I'm overthinking. I'm lying in bed. I'm as broken as a carousel that won't
stop moving. Frank tells me to stop thinking these thoughts but I can't. They
come and go as they please. It's harder to stay in the right head. The one
where I know what's happening around me. I think it's just been really bad
lately./
/Anyways, I should go. I need to talk to Dr. Williams soon. My appointment is
at 5 and it's 4:30 now. I think I'll tell her about the ferris wheel. I don't
know yet, though. I'll talk to Mikey about that. I think he's okay. I just hope
she doesn't find out about them or the blacking out. I/--
---Ryan---
I open my eyes.
I'm laying on my stomach, pencil in hand and my hand in front of my chest as I
look down at the notebook in front of me. Patrick is gone again just like the
last time this happened. But this time I'm writing. Or... Patrick was writing.
Without a second thought, I look across the writing. Through the third
paragraph I can already tell the symptoms of schizophrenia. Disoriented
thought. Delusions. Dreams. Things that normal people don't think.
And the last paragraph makes my eyes widen in anticipation. Dr. Williams. I can
tell her about Patrick and all the blackouts and the fact that he has voices in
his head and everything. I need to get him into an institute no matter how bad
it is there because he needs help. Frank is going to come out soon. Any time
now. I know he will.
I can finally get Patrick some help. Finally escape this and be free. I can
finally get both of them help. I could save a life...
I collect the notebook and the pencil in my arms and I'm about to leave but
that's when I feel a tugging at my ear and I frown as I look down at the MP3
Player on the bed with a song playing through my ears that I hadn't even
noticed. /Asleep - The Smiths/. I slowly walk back and pick up the player
looking across the sleek, silver edge and then turning it to gaze at the screen
again while the words continue through my ears.
/"Don't try to wake me in the morning
'Cause I will be gone./
/"Don't feel bad for me
I want you to know
Deep in the cell of my heart
I will feel so glad to go.../
I swallow, and stare for a long moment but it's soon interrupted by Ms. Love's
calling from downstairs.
"Patrick, are you ready to go?"
I look up, "Yeah, coming!"
I shove the player in my pocket and head out the room and down the stairs,
careful not to slip on the steps as I go, one after the other. My feet are fast
and accurate as I reach the last step, quickly grabbing my shoes from the
bottom of the flight and slipping them on without much thought. Ms. Love looks
at me with an expression of confusion but I ignore it. She's probably wondering
about the book but I need evidence for Dr. Williams.
"Any reason for the notebook, Honey?" She asks.
I shrug, and don't say another word to her. She looks at me for a moment more,
then as if something clicks in her mind, she blinks, and glares, "Oh no.
Patrick, don't do this to me again."
I just shake my head and avoid her gaze with a stubborn look. I guess I'll just
play along like this. Patrick's gonna be mad at me but I don't really care.
He's gonna be sent to an institute soon, anyways. It's not like he has much of
a choice anymore. I'll make him realize that it isn't healthy. I need to help
him out of this. I need to help him heal. I need to just... help him. He isn't
in the right mind. He never is. I need to help him get there. I really do like
him and I just want him to realize that he really is sick in the mind.
Ms. Love sighs, grabs her purse, and walks out of the room, heading to the
front door with me following soon after. Neither of us say a word to each
other. It's complete silence as we head to the car. I wince at the leather
seats, more used to the rick interior of the Mercedes that always goes into our
garage. But I guess they can't afford one with so many kids.
We begin to drive while I read through some of Patrick's past entries. August.
July. May. The book is already about a quarter of the way through and I think
he just recently got it but I'm not entirely sure on that. I wasn't there to
see him get it.
My fingers dance through the pages, eyes lifting across the pages. I can feel
Ms. Love's eyes on the paper, and I immediately shut the book, irritated. It
bothers me and makes it feel like there are bugs crawling under my skin when
she does that.
The rest of the drive is spent with my eyes lowered, the book shut, and my
hands shaking, eventually just going to the hoodie pockets that Patrick was
wearing. When we finally arrive, I'm the first out, head down but I let Ms.
Love lead because I've never been to Dr. Williams' office before. It's kind of
embarrassing, but I get over it when we finally get into the office.
I take a seat at the single seat so Ms. Love can't sit beside me and I
immediately open the book again as we wait, the music still playing through my
ears. I don't know the song but the lyrics make me both sad and happy at the
same time. Pete made a nice playlist. I saw the title of it. It's called
"Peterick Mix" and I thought that was kind of cute. It's full of love songs,
The Goo Goo Dolls, Ed Sheeran, Blink-182, Green Day.
/"Thought I ran into you down on the street
Then it turned out to only be a dream
I made a point to burn all of the photographs
She went away and then I took a different path
I remember the face
But I can't recall the name
Now I wonder how whatsername has been."/
"Patrick?"
My eyes lift from the paper to see Dr. Williams at the entryway to her office.
I shut the book and stand up, nodding to Ms. Love before heading inside her
office with my pace fast and eager and adrenaline rushing through my veins. I'm
finally gonna tell her. I'm finally gonna help Patrick. I smile slightly at the
thought.
Dr. Williams turns as soon as the door shuts and takes a seat at her desk,
turning a little to search through her files while I sit patiently. But I'm
nowhere patient enough.
"Uh... Dr. Williams?" I ask quietly, finally using my voice for the second time
since I changed.
"What is it?" She asks, turning with Patrick's file in hand.
"There's... there's something I need to tell you... I--"
--Patrick's POV--
I open my eyes, taking a deep breath and feeling extremely dazed for a moment,
but as soon as I realize where I am, I straighten up and blink. Dr. Williams.
The office. The dark oak desk. I changed. I don't know who came out but it was
someone.
Dr. Williams raises an eyebrow, "You...?"
I quickly say the first thing that comes to mind, "I... I think I'm getting
better. I've been feeling less depressed and anxious. I... I don't know.
Sorry."
I lower my eyes slightly, and when I don't say anything, Dr. Williams just
smiles, wide lips with her orange hair swaying slightly in the messy bun.
"That's great, Patrick. Have you been taking your pills?"
I nod, "I've been trying to since... since Ms. Love found me... but it's been
hard." I shrug, "I should get to it, I know."
Dr. Williams nods, "That's fine. So about us building more trust. I was
wondering, do you think you could take four questions today?"
I lower my eyes almost immediately. I don't want to think about Vic. About the
drughouse. It's been bad. So fucking bad lately, and I don't know what she's
going to ask. I'm scared that she'll trigger a flashback. I don't want a
flashback right now. I just want some kind of relief. I just want to be happy
with what I have... I want to forget about it while I can.
"Three." I reply, pulling my knees to my chest.
"Patrick," Dr. Williams says warningly.
"I-I just... I've been happy I don't want to have a flashback now," I reply,
pulling my hoodie around myself. Dr. Williams swallows, then nods.
"Three questions, then. First, Jones told me that, at the park, you'd seen Vic
even though he wasn't there. How real would you say he looked?"
I shrug, "He... I don't know, he looked like he was there. It might have been
my lack of sleep, though. It's getting darker out than it usually is, y'know?"
Dr. Williams gazes for a little longer, then nods and writes it down, "Second
question, can you tell me about how often Vic took you out of the room when you
were in the house?"
I swallow, looking away from where our eyes had met, "Vic... He... I'm not
sure. Maybe once every couple days. B-but there were also the others there,
too..."
Dr. Williams nods and jots that down, "Third, besides Vic who were you most
afraid of?"
I bite my lip. Who was I most afraid of? Well, obviously Vic. But since I can't
say him... Probably Jack or Alex...
"Jack or Alex." I say quietly.
Dr. Williams frowns a little and looks up at me, "Any particular reason to
that?"
I shrug, "Three questions. That's it."
She smiles and finally nods, "Alright."
The next few minutes seem to pass much slower than the others. Dr. Williams
jots down more notes in her pad. The scribbling is a soothing sound, but it's
not enough to calm my quickly growing nerves. What if she starts asking more
questions about Vic? Or Pete? What about my relationship with Pete? Or why I
was 'seeing' Vic? I'm just afraid she's going to bring on thoughts I don't
need. I'm terrified of it. I don't want the past to come back right now.
Her sigh once she's finished writing is one of vexation and tension. It's long
and while she does it, she rubs her temples, her lungs deflating in
frustration. I slowly shrink back into the couch. Did I upset her? What if
she's mad at me for not doing 4 questions? Is it because I'm being stubborn?
"Of course it is. You're a failure, Jesus Christ." Frank laughs, "Fucking deal
with it."
"Shut up." I whisper under my breath, anger getting the best of me because I
really don't need to deal with Frank right now. I don't want any more stress or
sadness. I want him to just shut up and never talk to me again, but I remember
my deal with him.
"What was that?"
I look up in surprise. I didn't expect Dr. Williams to hear that. She better
not ask. What if she does? What if she finds out? What if... What if she
already knows?
"Frown and pretend you didn't say anything." Frank demands.
I quickly comply, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion and looking her right in
the eyes, playing it off as well as I can, "What?"
She bites her lip and shrugs, "Sorry, thought you said something."
I shake my head and look away from her eyes, instead to the floor, where I find
it much more interesting. I tend to do that a lot now. It reminds me of when I
was first at the drughouse... when I looked straight into Jaime's eyes. How he
slammed the gun right into my head and acted like it was nothing. I remember
how he had smirked at the shock in my eyes... how Jack and Alex had just
grinned at me when I was screaming in pain from their knives...
/My little esclavo/
I blink away the tears, instead looking right back up at Dr. Williams who has
her head tilted as she watches me. As if she can see everything going through
my mind. As if she could read it.
"You blanked out." She says quietly, as if I couldn't already tell.
"No fucking shit, Sherlock." I bark, looking away. I just don't want to see
anyone right now. I want to be alone again. I want her to stop poking and
prodding at my brain, searching endlessly for an answer she will never find.
It's pointless. She'll find nothing besides the voices and blacking out. she
won't be able to find anything because no matter how much she may want to see
it, I'm really not crazy. She's thinking it so she might be able to fix me. But
I'm not. I'm really not crazy. I'm perfectly sane. Ryan is there for a reason.
Brendon is in Pete's head for a reason. So are Mikey and Ray and Frank and
Gerard. It isn't just some stupid mental illness, it's just something that
happens. I wish she could understand that.
Dr. Williams looks at me with a cold, disproving look, and I immediately look
away, crossing my arms tight in front of me. Who cares if I snap at her? She
deserves it, thinking she's going to find something in me. Why won't she just
realize that she just needs to let go. That I'm not sick like she thinks I am.
"Patrick. Look at me."
I refuse at first but eventually look up, still glaring at her, frustrated.
"What's gotten into you lately? Is there any reason as to why you've become so
snappy?"
I feel my lips twitch up the slightest and a false laugh escapes my lips,
bitter and salty on my tongue, "I've always been this snappy and sarcastic. Why
won't you realize that? Even before I was taken away to the drughouse, even
before I was beaten and raped and... and hurt, I was a sarcastic little bitch.
I haven't changed at all. I don't have DID or Schizophrenia or whatever else
you think I have. I don't have anything. I'm just /me/ okay? I don't hear
voices in my head, I don't black out. I'm not some /loony/ you can just
'diagnose' and analyze to death. I'm a normal fucking person and I just need
people to understand that!"
Dr. Williams blinks as if she didn't expect me to say that. as if she never
expected me to be so upfront. I just wish she would open her goddamn eyes and
realize I'm completely fucking normal.
"You were beaten and raped?" She asks quietly.
I blink, confused. I didn't say that... I... oh my god. My eyes widen and I
stand up, "I-I... I didn't... N-no..."
Dr. Williams just continues to stare at me, trying to cover up the look of
sympathy for me. Trying so hard but failing. Oh no. Oh no. Oh /god/ no. I
didn't say that. I never said that. I didn't say anything like that. No, no,
no. Not to her.
"My little esclavo..."
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears rising to my eyes. Not again. Please. Please,
Vic... stop!
"Patrick, look at me."
/"Look at me, Slave."/
"It'll be okay."
/"This won't hurt a bit."/
"Deep breath."
/"It'll hurt less."/
I feel myself shaking, but the real world is so far away. So... so far... I'm
falling again. Falling to the ground. Falling apart. Everything is crumbling
around me and all I can hear is Vic whispering in my ear. All I can see is the
bedsheets in my face. All I can feel are his hands on my hips. All I can taste
is the alcohol on his lips. All I can smell is the stench of sweat and weed
throughout the house as he brings me down one last time. Bare chest on the
sheets. Bare hands on my back. His fingers dancing around the waistband of my
jeans. The hair tickling the back of my neck and upper back and his words in my
ears as he says three deadly words.
/"My little esclavo."/
***
I wake up a few hours later in the waiting room to Dr. Williams' office, laying
across the dark leather couch with a few scratches here and there, cushion
tidier than usual. I guess they must have fixed it up for me. Dr. Williams is
talking with Ms. Love beside me. I don't know what about because I alert them
of my presence sooner than I should. I'm guessing it's something I shouldn't
hear, though, because as soon as I sit up, Dr. Williams sighs and comes forward
with one last hushed word to Ms. Love.
"I want him to check in with a specialist."
No. I'm not doing this shit.
Dr. Williams tries to check my forehead, but I immediately dodge away and look
around for my notebook.
Ms. Love has it and it's shut, thank god, but I know they could have looked
through it. Could have seen anything inside. Oh no. Oh god no.
"Patrick, hey, what's wrong?" Dr. Williams asks gently, keeping her distance. I
don't say a word. She's lost all the trust I've put into her. I /knew/ she
would keep trying even after I told her. I /knew/ she would push me too far. I
/knew/ she would find out eventually. God. First Pete with hurting me, then
with Jones for lying to me about Vic, and now with Dr. Williams for pushing me
too far.
"I'm the only one who hasn't betrayed you yet," Frank whispers, "You know I'll
be here for you. I'll help you out of this. You just gotta trust me. I know you
don't yet."
I hug my arms around my waist and dart my eyes across the area, hands shaking
as I take in his words and not long after, I'm pulling my hood up over my head
so it feels less like eyes are drilling into it. Be it Vic's, Love's, or
William's.
"Patrick, you can't keep closing yourself up like this. You gotta start
trusting me, Honey."
/I already did trust you,/ I think, /Why did you have to betray it?/
I tug my hoodie close around me, too afraid to let go. Too afraid of what
she'll do if I do let go. I look up at Ms. Love, and then down at the notebook
with a pleading look. Ms. Love looks to Dr. Williams who immediately shakes her
head.
"No, Patrick, if you want to talk to me, you have to say it out loud." Dr.
Williams says gently. I glare at her. I have to say it out loud? Bull-fucking-
shit. I am not saying a goddamn word to that bitch. Not now. Not ever again. I
don't think I can. I don't think I ever will again.
I'm terrified, honestly, terrified that someone else will betray my trust. I'm
terrified that Jones will lie to me again. Terrified that Pete will tell Vic.
Terrified that I'll be back in that man's arms. I'm terrified that Dr. Williams
really will send me off to a specialist. Terrified that if I trust anyone
again, it'll be broken. Just as broken as I am.
"Patrick... you gotta talk to me sooner or later. You can't keep holding
yourself up like this." Dr. Williams says gently, "I know everything you went
through was a... it was tough, /Tough? You don't fucking know the half of it/
but you gotta listen to me when I say you need to put the past behind you. That
it's useless to keep getting stuck on things you've already experienced.
It's... very non-counselorish of me to say it, but you need to focus on what's
happening now. The more you do, the less flashbacks you'll have. You need to
start taking your pills, too. Ms. Love told me you've been skipping them
lately. Is that true?"
I run my fingers through my hair, avoiding her eyes as I zip up the jacket and
pull my knees to my chest, tears rising to my eyes. Skipping pills. Who cares?
I'm not sick. Taking my pills won't change anything at all. Nothing can change
this because Ryan, Frank, Mikey... they're real. They're really fucking real,
and I wish she could understand that. They're not my imagination. They're
really there and I need her to see that. I need her to know that I'm not a
schizophrenic. That I don't suffer from DID. I don't have BPD. I need her to
realize that it's the others who have it. Not me.
"Patrick, have you been taking your pills?"
I pull my hoodie over my knees, hands shaking as she sighs softly and asks once
more, the words slipping past her lips as smooth as a rock on hard gravel.
"Patrick, I need you to answer me."
I get up and leave marching out the door and to the parking lot, not bothering
to look back. They can suck my dick. They need to realize that /no/ I /haven't/
been taking pills. And it's not because I'm stubborn. It's not because I just
don't want to. It's because I don't have it. It's because no matter how much
they think I do, I don't. I'm not sick. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly fucking
sane...
I'm just like every other human being on this stupid planet. I'm just like Ms.
Love and Dr. Williams. I'm just like Justin and Pete. I'm just like Jones, and
I'm just like Mikey and Ryan and Frank. The only difference between them and me
is that I have a different personality. Is that I have voices in my head. But
that doesn't fucking make me crazy. That doesn't mean they should just fucking
overreact on me. That doesn't fucking mean that I'm on a completely different
planet.
It just means I was made different.
I just wish they saw it, too.
Chapter End Notes
     One chapter left before the next book!!!
***** Deal With the Devil *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next morning starts slow. The dawn coming early in the morning with the sun
meeting shades of blue and pink and orange. My eyes are nearly blinded by the
sight through my window but I try not to let it bother me too bad. The
silhouettes of lampposts and cars and houses in the way between the sun and my
eyes makes it a little easier on my eyes, but I still have to squint.
Justin is still sleeping then, at 4 or so in the morning. It's very peaceful,
though, and I'm glad he is. It's nice hearing his gentle breaths in the bed
beside mine. I let the sound drift me back into sleep after a few minutes of
watching the sunrise.
I wake up about an hour and a half later at 5:46 AM. Justin is still fast
asleep. The whole house is, really. I wonder what kind of things they're
dreaming of. If they're sexual or normal or bizarre. I wonder if they'll even
remember their dreams in the morning, if they'll share them at the table or
not. I'm experiencing the making of a projection of someone's mind, and I'm not
even there to see it.
I haven't dreamt of the ferris wheel since last I wrote in my notebook. Which I
think was yesterday... yeah. Yesterday. Before Ryan. We talked last night and
he said I needed help. I just told him to shut up but he didn't. He just kept
racking my brain. I did my best to ignore it. Frank eventually came out and
told him to shut up. Mikey stayed quiet. I wish he was more confident in
himself. I wish he knew that he really is strong for going through whatever he
did involving his own little version of /him/ and I sometimes wonder if we went
through the same thing or not.
I don't question it further. I can't. My eyelids are already drifting shut
again, my breaths steadying gently until they're slower than Justin's. I took
my insomnia pills last night but I took them way too early. So here I am...
I wake up a third time to the sound of dishes clinking against each other. Ms.
Love and Mr. Love talking downstairs as the sink runs. Justin is out of bed.
Fred has been left in bed. I wonder if Justin had dreams last night. I wonder
if they were about Fred or if they were about me. What does he even think of
me?
He probably thinks I'm crazy, honestly. Just like everyone else does. He's
probably still trying to steer away all the time... I haven't talked to him in
a few days. Then again, I stopped talking to everyone last night.
I look to the clock to see that 2 hours have passed since I woke up last, the
clock reading 7:34 and I finally just sigh and get up, grabbing my clothes and
going to the bathroom. I pull off my shirt and my gym shorts and my boxers
and... despite the fact that I don't like to, I take a glance at myself in the
mirror. My heart lightens the slightest, but it's immediately brought back
down.
Across my stomach and chest are scars. Scars from years and years ago. From
times I can barely remember. Back when I was still a child and Pete was with
me... Back before Vic was caught. I see a few dark marks from burns, and little
bits of my ribcage here and there but it's not near as bad as three months ago
when I was given next to no food.
Continuing up, I see the scar across my face. The one Jack put there with that
knife but avoided the salt with. The one I gasped at. The one I saw as soon as
I got home and nearly broke down over. The concealor from yesterday has worn
off but I know I should probably wait until after my shower to actually put it
back on.
Continuing down, I can see healing scratches on my legs, a few scars down there
as well. It's probably the best place out of everywhere on my body. Where it's
the least obvious I was ever hurt. I tend to look there a lot (but not straight
at my penis, Jesus.) My gaze continues back up to my arms where I see a long
bump the size of where Ash had cut me on my upper arm.
With one long breath, I turn, gazing across my back at the long scar all the
way down my spine. It isn't near as bad as it was. They took the stitches out a
while ago but there's still a long scar all the way down and my gaze lowers
even more.
"You deserved it. You deserved everything they ever did to you." Frank laughs,
"God, you're so fucking pathetic. You can't even look at yourself without
crying. Pete didn't deserve you. Nobody deserves to have to deal with a mess
like you."
"Shut up, Frank." I breathe, turning for the shower and quickly starting it. I
nimbly turn the warm knob a bit and the cold one less until it's a reasonable
temperature and I get in.
No one says a word to me as I wash, running my fingers through my dirty blond
hair before I grab the shampoo and begin to wash it.
The shower doesn't last long. I'm eager to just get dressed again. By the time
I'm out, it's only been 5 minutes but I don't care. I dry myself off and rush
to get my clothes on, then grab the concealor from Ms. Love's drawer and after
drying off my face completely, I begin pressing it across the scar, making sure
it's covered completely. I don't want anyone to see it. I don't want to see it
myself.
I put on deodorant and brush my teeth, then head downstairs a little later
after one last trip to my room to grab the MP3 that Pete gave me, playing
through that playlist that he made for me... It brings nostalgia I both hate
and love. Sure, it hasn't been that long since Pete and I stopped talking, but
it still makes me sad and it reminds me of the park. I wonder if he's there
now, hoping I'll come around sometime. I wonder if he thinks about me as much
as I think of him. I hate him... I swear...
I hear Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran come on and I let the sounds envelop me
as I walks back downstairs, eyes to the ground and my hands limp at my sides.
It was a happier morning. I'm feeling myself quickly falling. Depression
pulling me right back down from my high and forcing me back into a useless maze
of thoughts I really don't want right now.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs I notice that Ms. Love is cleaning dishes
off of the table. I missed breakfast. It really doesn't bother me all that
much... I'm not hungry anyways. My mind twisting too fast. My stomach following
not long after.
"A-are you ok-kay, P-Patrick?"
I sigh and under my breath, I reply, "I'm fine."
Mikey doesn't say a word as I start to head back upstairs. Ms. Love does,
though.
"Hey, Patrick, sweetie?"
I shut my eyes, quickly holding back my frustration but letting the irritation
show. I don't give two shits if she sees it. I don't give two shits if /anyone/
sees my irritability and my overall pissy character. It's the depression that
I'm more afraid of them finding out about. The insecurities behind the mask...
the mask...
I look back around at Ms. Love, sighing softly as I wait for her to continue.
When she realizes I'm still ignoring her, she glares at me, but it softens not
long after, "Go to the store. I need more concealor and if you want some, you
better get it yourself, because I'm not giving you anymore."
I blink. No more concealor. No more hiding the scar. Oh god. Oh god. Oh /god/.
/No./
I don't let that show, though, just shrug. She can't get to me. I give zero
fucks... I can... I can manage on my own... it's not that hard getting $20...
right?
"Good," She smiles as if she didn't just say anything and heads to her purse,
grabbing a $20 from the inside pocket and handing it over not long after, "You
know what kind to buy."
I nod, lowering my eyes before grabbing the money and heading out the door,
hood up and grabbing my shoes on the way. As soon as the door's shut, I begin
walking down the street. Why the hell can't she get Justin to do this shit?
What about Dylan? Everyone knows he's too busy fucking his girlfriend and he
really needs to get out of the house eventually.
I turn as soon as I hit the sidewalk and tighten up my hoodie so nobody will
see me. I don't need Vic finding me like this... vulnerable... all alone. What
if he's gonna come for me? What if he's been fallowing me this whole time? What
if he's right behind me...?
I spin around, bracing myself for his attack but there isn't one.
Just Pete.
My eyes widen and I immediately turn again. How did he find me? Did he tip me
off to his dad? What if he's gonna kill me himself?
"Patrick, wait," Pete yells to me, reaching out. I don't turn, though.I just
keep walking, hunching my shoulders over as I continue down to the Walmart. He
betrayed my trust just like Jones and Ryan and Dr. Williams did. I can't trust
anybody. I can't trust that he won't hurt me like he did when I was at his
house oh so long ago. I can't trust anything that comes out of his mouth.
"Patrick /please/. Just talk to me. I love you. I want to help you. I'm sorry
about what happened in my room with Ryan. I should have never hurt you. I'm so,
so fucking sorry. Patrick, please forgive me." I feel him grab my hand and with
that, I immediately turn and shove my fist into his jaw.
"Don't fucking apologize, Bitch. It's said and done. There's no way in hell
I'll ever forgive you. You fucking hurt me, Pete. I can't trust you."
"I had a relapse, Patrick."
I turn, blinking at him, we're now outside of the Walmart and he now has tears
in his eyes and my heart is now breaking, "Y-you... relapsed...?"
Pete wipes his eyes and nods, "I had a relapse. Gerard and Ray a-and Brendon
are worse than ever. I-I'm so s-scared... I see him everywhere I go. I can't
talk to my counselor about anything anymore. I've cut again. P-please don't
leave me... Please don't just abandon me. Patrick, /you're/ why it happened.
Please you gotta fucking believe me. I-I love you a-and I d-don't want to lose
you. I /can't/ lose you. You're the only person I trust right now... You're the
only person I ever /will/ trust. Everything about us... they match up. Patrick
we were /meant/ to stay together and it can't work out if you leave. It's Folie
à Deux, Trick. Please, you gotta believe me."
"Folie à Deux?" I see a few people staring at me confused and a little weirded
out but I don't care. I need to talk to Pete.
"Madness of two. Ray and Mikey. Brendon and Ryan. Frank and Gerard," Pete
breathes, "Don't you see?"
"Don't listen to him, he's fucking crazy," Frank advises, "Just turn and keep
walking. He'll live."
I rub my face, avoiding his gaze before just nodding and turning away from
Pete, sighing with my hands in my pockets.
"Patrick, wait!"
But I'm already in the store and heading to the makeup aisle. Pete can suck my
dick. I don't care about him. I don't care about anyone, really. People never
done a good thing.
I search through the aisles, finding the tube of concealer that Ms. Love needs.
It's a lighter shade, black lid. I don't usually pay attention to the bottle,
but I know I need to find the right shade or she's get mad at me and send me
back which would require me talking to people and I really don't want to do
that. I don't like talking to people. I really /can't/ though. I'm selectively
mute. And right now, I'm mute to everyone besides Frank and Mikey. They're the
only ones who haven't betrayed my trust.
I head to the self checkout because it's easy. No human transactions, but
that's when someone else catches my eye.
Beanie, dark hair, lanky frame.
Oh god, no.
I feel my breaths picking up as I quickly check out Ms. Love's concealer. Hands
are shaking and palms are sweaty. Why is he here? What's he going to do? Is he
here for Pete? What's he gonna do? What if he sees me? I /knew/ it wasn't just
my imagination. He really is here.
A hand grabs my arm as I get my change back and I turn with wide eyes to see a
boy. He has long, black hair, brown eyes, a lipring, and he's just a little bit
taller than me. He points to where I can see the top of Vic's head, then holds
a finger to his lips and leads me to the front where there are a bunch of
shelves. He hides me there, and in a small whisper, he says.
"I'm Frank."
My eyes widen and I have to blink to look over him, "I thought you were like...
trapped... in my head..."
Frank shakes his head, "Just making a permanent home there."
I raise my eyebrows but don't question it as he looks around paranoid.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper.
"Just.. let me," he presses two cold fingers to my temple and I feel a jolt of
pain, but by then it's already black. Everything has left.
---Frank---
My eyes open and the moment I notice that I'm really here in the outside world,
everything clicks into place. I gaze up, there is no Vic and there is no Pete.
They're both all in his mind. Stupid bitch. Jesus.
I grab the concealer from where it's dropped on the floor and waste no time in
leaving my little hiding spot. I already have a plan. Already know how I'll
kill each and every one of those bastards off. Starting with Justin, then going
to Dylan and Jessie. Tanya and Lacey. Ms. and Mr. Love. A knife across their
throat should be enough and just like that I'll run.
The knife will have Patrick's DNA all over it, but not a trace of mine. He'll
be the one who takes the blame.
I leave the store, pressing my change and the concealer into my pocket before
heading home, hood up and hands in my pockets. The walk isn't long but it takes
me a little while before I recognize the place. I've seen small glimpses here
and there. The white house with a dark trim. The sleek red car in the front,
Justin in the window. I lower my eyes immediately, but a small smirk manages to
twitch the corner of my lips up.
I raise my eyes when I open the door and shut it soon after, dark wood feels
smooth on my fingertips, the cold, silver knob brushing against my upper arm.
My eyes glance over at Justin who's still in the window, but his head is turned
toward me, a little bit of a fearful look on his face. I only smile at him with
a friendly mood and that seems to change his mind. He smiles back, "Patrick?
Can you play with me for a little bit?"
"Yeah, sure," I smile. This was easier than I thought. Damn, "I'll be upstairs
in a moment, okay?"
He nods, a giant grin on his lips before he grabs his teddy bear and runs
upstairs, passing by Lacey and giggling a little. I bite my lip, but as soon as
he's up the stairs, I head to the kitchen, searching quickly for the knife
rack. I see the microwave, the fridge, the sink, Ms. Love.
Ms. Love. Oh shit.
"Did you get the concealer?" She asks from where she's cutting an apple up and
sliding the fruit into a bowl. I stop myself from speaking to her and instead
nod. I know what Patrick's been doing lately and I don't want to act weird and
disrupt that. I also know she'll be dead in less than an hour. She'll be a
quick kill. Justin will be long and slow, though. I think I'm gonna play with
him for a little... I might need some duct tape...
I blink myself away from the thoughts, instead focusing on Ms. Love. A cut up
the stomach, slit her wrists, and cut a smile on that ugly face...
I nod, pulling the concealer from my pocket and handing it over along with the
change. Ms. Love examines it for a moment, gives me a suspicious look, then
just nods, "Thanks."
Maybe I'll poke those eyes out, too. I wonder how she screams. What someone
would do if their eyes were taken out. They wouldn't be able to see... That
seems like it would be kind of interesting. I bite my lip and lean against the
counter to let her past me. As soon as she's out of the room and heading to the
living room, I snatch the biggest knife from the rack and shove it in my pocket
before quickly looking through each drawer until I find the supplies.
Screwdrivers, nails, scotch tape, a pencil, a pencil sharpener, a ruler... duct
tape. Duct tape!
I grab that as well, shoving it in my other pocket quickly, then leaving the
room and heading upstairs without another thought. It's all kind of unfamiliar,
the walk upstairs. I've seen glimpses of the house but that's about it. The
wood stairs, a light tan in color, the railing made with the same material. All
the way upstairs to the small door that leads to the attic to my left. It's a
white in color, but it's covered in dust, soft and grey. Just the thought of it
nearly makes me sneeze. I'm not looking for the attic, though.
I turn right, continually checking my knife is hidden in my pocket, the silver
tape in the other side, and I continue up through the hall, gated by a white
barrier to stop me from going completely over the edge and falling to the
bottom of the stairs. Maybe I could maneuver them over the gate, watch them
scream as they dive, then stop with a sickening crack. Stop breathing. Stop
thinking. Stop living. I could cut open their head and leave them on the table
with an apple in their mouth. The cops would surely love Patrick's creation.
I smirk and continue down the hall to the end, passing by Ms. Love's door, and
the bathroom, and continuing on to both Patrick and Justin's door. I know the
bedroom and the office are connected, but it's seperated by a pair of french
doors. Justin's room is closer to the hall, Patrick's is in the office and the
door is right where Patrick can watch over Justin at night. It's cute, sure,
but I don't really care. I just want to get Justin to myself. I just need the
satisfying feeling of blood on my hands again, wet and sticky and metallic.
Dark and red contrasting beautifully against pale skin. /God/ I need it. I need
to watch him crumble under me. Finally, /finally/ break. I need to watch those
blue eyes turn empty and dead. I need, I need, I need. It's burning me like a
fire, pushing against me. "Kill him," It says.
I will.
I enter Justin and Patrick's room to see Justin playing on the bed with his
toys. In a blink of an eye, I have my tools under the bed and I'm hopping onto
the mattress. Justin is smiling at me with a wide grin and excited eyes,
"Patrick!"
I chuckle a little. Right, Patrick.
"Mhmm," I smile, just the tiniest lace of annoyance in my voice, "You ready to
play?"
Justin nods and make a noisse of affirmation. I hate kids. I really do. I don't
know how anybody stands them. I hate them, so, so much and with each passing
moment, I know I'm gonna make his death slower and longer. I might have to kill
the others first before I can really finish with him but that's okay. It'll
give me as much time as I need. And once I finish with him, I'll call the cops,
and I'll have Patrick come and see the work I did. Have him see /exactly/ what
happened. /Exactly/ what I did and his life will be ruined. He'll be sent to
prison. He'll pick up the soap from the floor. Jesus, I might kill someone else
there. Get sent to a worse prison. All I know is I'll get him to escape and
then we'll do it all over again. Maybe I'll kill Pete. Make him watch as I slit
his pretty little boyfriend's throat open and--
No, no, no. That's too fast of a death. I need something slower than that.
Maybe a slit down each arm and I'll choke him, leave my bruises and let Patrick
watch him bleed out. Let Patrick just deal with the rest himself.
"Hey, Patrick?" Justin asks quietly.
"What is it, Sport?" I reply.
"Why do you always talk to yourself so much? I mean... I know it's because
you're lonely but why are you so lonely that you talk to yourself every day?"
Justin murmurs.
I sigh, "Look, Jus. I... I'm a little different from you. I can hear people in
my head, and sometimes they get the best of me. I have to talk to them
sometimes so they'll be quiet from a little bit if that makes sense. I need to
tell them something." He'll be dead soon, it doesn't matter if he knows.
"Oh..." Justin replies, "That's cool, what do the voices say?"
I slowly inch off the bed, snatching my duct tape and rolling it around my
finger casually, "They tell me I need help. They ask me if they'll be okay."
I rip open the duct tape, "But most importantly, they tell me who to kill
next."
"To kill?" Justin asks getting a little uneasy.
I nod, gently pulling him back.
"What are you doing, Patrick? Stop," Justin breathes.
I press the tape over his mouth and pin him down in the bed, holding him there
with my knee as he struggles. I only smile the slightest and tape his small
hands together, watching him struggle against me and sob into the temporary
gag, muffled, "Ptrk's," coming out.
"I'm getting ready to kill you, Justin," I whisper, "Are you ready to die?"
Justin screams out into the gag, tugging against the duct tape and sobbing as
tears appear at his eyes. He looks so pretty, so helpless, I notice as I get to
his feet. So, so pretty. I'm not a pedo, though. Jesus Christ that's sick, but
he looks afraid. And it lights a spark in my stomach. I tug him forward by his
hair and grab the knife from under the bed, watching it shine in the light of
the sun through the windows. It's such a pretty silver. I know damn well it's
sharp, too, it was the biggest knife in the rack. Just imagining what it could
do to just makes me smile and bite my lip as adrenaline courses through my
veins.
Justin's gonna die, and Patrick's gonna hate me and Ms. Love and Mr. Love, and
Tanya and Dylan and Lacey and Jess. They're all gonna die.
They're all gonna die.
I make sure the door's shut, pressing it closed and deciding not to bother with
the lock (it locks from the outside) before I crouch down under the bed and
grab my knife. When I rise to my feet again, I see Justin with wide eyes,
struggling against the bonds and trying to get out. It's kind of pathetic in a
way. He thinks he's strong. Thinks he can get away. That's all a mouse hopes
for before being eaten by the cat. I smile a little at the thought and crawl
back up to the bed, yanking Justin closer by his hair before trailing the knife
down his chest, finally making a small nick on his upper chest. He screams out
at that. A small little nick. He screams. I laugh, if he reacts so badly with a
small nick, I wonder how he'd react to something bigger.
I make a small cut on his arm, right around his shoulder, and another a little
lower, right above the dip of his elbow. He's crying and fighting harder
against the gag and the duct tape than before. It's pathetic.
I lock a hand around his throat, cutting off the air and squeezing as tight as
I can. He kicks out despite the fact that his legs are taped together as well.
He tries to sob or scream for help but it's pretty useless and it's only when
he kicks begin to get weaker do I let go of his throat and instead pick up my
knife again.
He looks so desperate for me to stop. Begging, pleading. I won't give him any
mercy, though. It's too much fun to just torture him like this.
I grip his hair and pull his neck back roughly, holding the silver to the thin
skin on his throat. He sobs and pleads. Begs me to stop. Kicks, fights. I don't
dare let him go, though. I can't risk going to jail. I can't risk anything like
that. Not yet at least. I need to wait until everyone is dead and only then
will I call the cops and leave.
"I'm not Patrick, Justin," I whisper, "I'm Frank."
He watches me with wide teary eyes, still pulling against the tape fiercly,
"And I've been in Patrick's head from a long time. People always say I'm too...
I'm a killer, Justin. And that's right. I'm a murderer. And a sociopath. The
only love I've ever felt is for a kid who I haven't talked to in years, I think
it's fun to see people suffer. I feel no empathy."
Justin watches me with teary eyes, "And you're no exception, Justin. I--"
I hear the sound of a plate falling to hardwood floor and my eyes look up to
see Ms. Love staring with wide eyes. Before I can think twice, I throw the
knife right at her, aiming for her chest, but I only hit her shoulder. The last
I see of her is when she shuts the door and my knife is gone.
She locks it from the outside.
I quickly grab Justin. He knows and if I don't kill him now, he might tell the
cops and they'll know it wasn't Patrick and then they'll blame it all on me.
So, I need to kill him now before he has a chance to tell everyone else about
me. I would be ruined.
I tug the boy off of the bed and pull him against the nearest wall, shoving him
against it and choking him hard. Tears rise to his eyes as I hold him there,
desperately trying to get him to just die out already. Five, ten, fifteen,
twenty seconds pass. I can hear creaking coming down the hall and a shrill
scream from downstairs. Thirty, fourth, fifty seconds pass. "9-1-1, there's a
boy trying to kill another boy here at my foster home, I need the police and an
ambulance immediately!" One minute, a minute twenty, a minute forty. Justin
goes limp.
I let go and immexiately shut my eyes. Gone.
---Patrick---
The moment I'm back, I know something's wrong. There's screaming downstairs,
someone screaming out over the phone to... is that 9-1-1? Oh god. Oh god, oh
god, oh god. I open my eyes and that's when I see the blood on my hands. The
knife beside me. Justin bleeding, tied up with duct tape, a gag across his
mouth.
"Do you like my work?" Frank whispers in my ear.
"No," I breathe, stumbling back against the bed as I stare at Justin in horror,
"No, no, you didn't. He's not..."
I'm shaking, tears rising to my eyes. Oh god /no/. This isn't happening. This
isn't happening. This can't be happening.
"I did, Patrick. He's dead, check his pulse, my friend. He's dead." Frank
laughs, "I bet you love that sight."
"Stop it," I whisper, shutting my eyes and plugging my ears, "Stop!"
"I can't go away, Patrick. I'm a part of you. You did this. You know damn well,
this wasn't just my fault," Frank laughs.
"I TRUSTED YOU!" I scream, hands shaking and my eyes tearing up, "I TRUSTED YOU
WITH EVERYTHING! AND YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM!"
"Maybe you should stop trusting people, Patrick," Frank laughs, "Look out your
bedroom window, Patrick. They're coming for you."
My eyes widen and I waste no time in going to my room and squeezing the curtain
hanger above the glass. Sirens. Red and blues. I see a couple of cops leaving
their cars with guns and handcuffs, I see a stretcher quickly being brought
into the house. Maybe I could run. Maybe I could run away and never return.
Maybe I don't need to worry about Justin and they'll save him and I could run
so I could never hurt anyone again.
I killed Justin, it was all my fault. How could I? How...
"I would suggest you start running. Maybe I'll hurt more people that way, hmm?"
Frank chuckles, "Give me control for five minutes and I'll kill everyone in
this house right now."
I sob, hands shaking and tears falling from my eyes, "How could you?"
"How could you be so blind, Patrick?" Frank breathes as the cops knock down the
door and hold me at gunpoint. I quickly put my hands up, fingers shaking
violently and tears still falling from my eyes.
"Don't shoot," I breathe, "D-don't shoot..."
The two waste no time in coming around the bed, one still holding me at
gunpoint while the other comes closer with a pair of handcuffs. I waste no time
in bending over the bed and letting him cuff me, still in shock of everything.
Of Justin dead on the floor and the ringing in my ears and the thought I could
trust Frank. The thought that it would be okay if he could come out.
"You knew I was coming for you all along. Why would you ever trust me?"
Chapter End Notes
     And thus concludes the end of book 1.
     Thank you guys for reading, I'm about 2 chapters into prewriting
     Carpe Noctem. I'll start posting once I finish prewriting Kinktober
     2017 and I get started on The Boy at The Rock Show and I actually
     start writing Cockslut. again.
     I hope you enjoyed, please leave comments on what you thought of it,
     constructive criticism is always appreciated as well, or any
     questions you may have will be answered.
     Thanks again for reading, don't forget to leave a kudos!
     See you again soon :)
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