Peroxide
Chapter
One
There
are certain sounds that sparks thoughts, thoughts that cause
speculation of death and happier times, thoughts that come to us as
naturally as a breath, but what we breathe is a falsification and a
lie. What we breathe is the silence, the inexplicable pounding of
black in a screaming room, and it disguises itself to masquerade as
the tapping of rain in the window of a childhood home, so that’s
all we believe, because we are in need of a consolation.
The
material we comprehend is nothing real, nothing that provides life or
comfort, but we demand it to do so, because sounds are extroverted
miracles that rescue humans from themselves, from their own papery
thoughts, and perhaps the world will recognize the irony eventually.
And
I never heard something quite as shattering as the gunfire on a
battlefield, because it is born from the desire to murder to prevent
more
murder, and we weave that contradiction obliviously. We are falling
out of line for an expectation of change, and we are fighting
monsters that we cannot see.
With
that idea, I can’t help but wonder if it would be more accurate
to say that this is a war against ourselves.
These
matters make me wish for asphyxiation, for this image of joy is so
skewed that it is meaningless to the blatantly reflective.
If
I die, I want my passing to be narrated by the whisper of a tragedy
that was never actually a sound at all. If I die young, that is.
We’re all destined for the grave, especially now.
For
during this time, the things that we see are black and white —
sometimes, that is quite literal — and we are convinced that a
reformation is among us, but we refuse the prospect physically by not
putting down our weapons.
When
we are at a loss, when unbuttoned uniforms pinned on the deceased are
scattered around, when the blood of our victims paints the meadow
that used to represent peace, we continue to hold blades to our
comrades’ noses to check for breaths of what we come to
understand as nothing significant.
And
just like that, we are dancing with death again. The knife could
slip, could cut, could kill, but it doesn’t, even through
trembling hands, and we sometimes applaud ourselves for remaining
steady amidst the chaos, but we know deep down that it wouldn’t
matter if we did falter, because a massacre such as this does not
pick the prettiest flowers in the garden — no, it steals with
the sweep of the wind those who could not hold the blade still, those
who were either brave or cowardly, but we observe no distinction once
we brush past sentimentality, a chemical that poisons and warps even
the greatest minds.
We
have nothing but hypocrisy on the terrain, but we do not act on it,
and perhaps we could’ve done something about it before it was
too late, though we are already lost with the sounds that we used to
know; and we position the knives once more, only to find that our
mistake has become a tragedy that we cannot resolve.
Then,
we understand the silence.
There
are multiple sounds flitting along in my realm, apparently, swarming
around my head like a mass of bees honing in on a flower —
though I wouldn’t describe myself as such a gift of nature —
and it would seem that my amygdala hopes for me to list them all, or
else suffer the wrath of my own mind’s power. I’ve never
submitted to the pain, not yet, just complied; there’s still
time to learn what kind of danger I will encounter, however.
The
tapping of my pencil on paper is among the noises clinging to my
eardrums, and it’s the only one that ceases temporarily, its
amplifier scratching a bit of the parchment with a witty idea before
returning to its prior duty of monotony. I’m astonished that it
doesn’t grow tired of the bore.
What
an obstruction of freedom that is.
Occasionally,
fright fills my chest up to the brim, spiking my stomach with its
overreacting spears at the shrieking of the swing-set rocking back
and forth without previous warning. Vigilance is a waste, primarily
when it is constant, which it is, in my case; I learned nothing from
the precautions provided by parents and guardians, for it happened to
turn the tables of my emotion control.
Everything
is hectic now.
Then,
fleeing from the inadvertent introspection of the swing-set analysis,
there’s the gentle, the cliché, the start to every story
written by an inexperienced collector of words, such as myself, and
that’s why it fits.
The
caring breeze floats along like a lark in summertime, greeting every
tree obscured by the masses of dirt and unfinished playground
equipment, but they never dare cross me.
Maybe
it’s the peroxide in my hand. Or the pencil smothered within my
fingers. Or the paper stained by hydrogenated liquid. Maybe it’s
just me.
Noting
on the bottle in my grasp, it seems like a cruel irony that my hair
is peroxide blonde — been called out on it, too, by uncaring
psychologists that have been furthermore discarded for my own
well-being — but perhaps I should be more concerned with things
other than the coincidence of my compulsions and physical appearance
merging together.
My
current psychologist tells me to exfoliate my skin, moisturize it
with some sort of lotion that’s supposed to be healthy for you,
but it only stands on my shelf, stationary and smirking, and the
peroxide burns of desert feelings remain.
So,
in a way, I presume my compulsions and appearance aren’t so
different, after all. They both chase each other into homicide.
And
the final sound, one that isn’t regularly droning on, jumps
into existence in the form of a text from none other than the art
geek I call Gerard Way.
My
fingertips drag at the screen, tapping all around and unlocking my
phone in a delayed movement — I keep a password on it,
alleviating the unbridled paranoia in some shape — and the
bubble of words appears in front of my face.
Hey,
Patrick. How are you doing today?
I
smirk. Gerard always asks me this, like he’s afraid of
offending me, which is quite difficult when I’m wrapped inside
myself. I’m not nearly as harsh on the outside.
I’m
fine, I guess. What’s up? Don’t say the sky.
After
a few seconds with no response, my legs become jittery, bouncing
around with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to be free of the
tingling sensation and the panic coursing through my blood.
A
moment later, though, the stress is diminished.
I’m
stuck at an art show, but my mom told me to pick up Mikey from
daycare. I consented, of course, but didn’t realize that I had
this until it was too late. Can you please bring him back home from
Belleville Development Center? It’s okay if not (I can get Ryan
to do it).
Usually,
I hate communicating with people, whether that’s by talk, text,
or call, but there’s something about Gerard that I love, most
likely the patience he has with me.
Yes,
I comprehend that my anxiety will prohibit me from declining the
offer, but he presented it to me, anyway, and I know him well enough
to recognize that it’s sincere.
Yeah,
that’s all right. I can get him. Do you need me to pick up
anything for you on the way?
My
mother says it’s always rewarding to be overly considerate.
Somehow, I don’t quite believe her, even if I should, even if
I’m abiding by her rules.
No,
but thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate
this, Patrick.
I
heave my bag over my shoulder once introducing my possessions to it
again, peering down at my phone and texting with one thumb as I walk.
Art
geek.
I
discover no response.
“There
are a lot of children here,” I find myself whispering as I
slide from my bike. My eyes are expanding in shock at all of the tiny
humans circling the room of the developmental center, possibly
destroying everything in their path as if they were a formulating
tornado.
I’m
just about to turn around and leave in a fit of nervousness when a
boy in a shadowed green apron, soft brown eyes set into his hollow
face, catches my gaze, and smiles.
Why would anyone be smiling at me? Did I do something wrong? Do I
know him from somewhere?
Snap
out of it, Patrick. Psychologists don’t like these outbursts.
He
beckons me towards the entrance, and for a moment, I question whether
or not he’s addressing me, but I eventually step inside,
leaping at the slamming of the door behind me — and now the mob
of children attacking my every limb.
Abruptly,
like being swept away with a storm, my lungs fill with water, but no
one notices it besides me, and that’s the scariest anecdote of
this ailment — they cannot hear me scream.
The
world is so fast-paced, I come to understand, and not even the
inexplicably sympathetic expression of the guy in the apron can
rescue me from the water trapping me inside a place of suffocation.
My psychologist says it’s a symptom of anxiety, the illness he
claims I have because of an event that transpired so far back that it
shouldn’t mean a thing — two years is a long time.
But
then again, I’m still washing my arm with peroxide.
“Who
is you?” one chatters, looking up from his grip on my leg to
observe a countenance crumpled with fright.
“Why
are you moving so much?” another says, child-talk for, “Why
are you shaking?” which sets me on edge; I don’t
appreciate confrontation, even if it’s explicitly innocuous.
“He’s
just so excited to see you,” the worker chimes in, moving from
behind the desk and shooing the children away. “There’s a
set of building blocks on the floor that you can play with. I need to
talk to this nice man for a moment. Is that okay with you all?”
Without
responding, the kids dash over to the set of blocks, flinging them at
each other or building something worthwhile, crying when their
friends knock over their creations.
A
small being approaches, throwing his hands in the air and shouting,
“Bob is being mean to me!”
“Ray,
Lou will be here soon,” the boy addresses a kid with a curly
mop glued upon his head. “You can talk to the other children
while you wait, all right? Just stay away from Bob if you don’t
like him, but don’t be mean back. That’s not nice.”
He smiles, baring his perfectly white teeth and mildly pushing the
kid back towards the crowd.
“W-wh-where
is Mikey?” I am capable of choking out, my entire body
continuing to quiver as the boy awaits firmly.
“Hey,”
he consoles me, brushing a hand over my arm, to which I shy away. He
seems to take the hint, replying, “Sorry about that. Just try
to take deep breaths, yeah? It’ll calm you down.”
“T-that’s
what the psy-psychologists all say.” I stifle sobs for a second
to release a half-hearted laugh; at least I’m trying.
“I’ve
had enough of them,” the worker admits, but undertones of
melancholy lurk in his typical joyful tone. He sounds like my kind of
person — messed up in the head, recoiling from any thought of
interaction, buried underneath impenetrable layers of gloom, and even
if I’ve only known this guy for a few minutes, I want him to
make it out alive.
I’ve
decided that he, at least, should receive a genuine outcome.
“Y-you’ve
b-been to a psychologist?” I stammer, green eyes circling the
room in case some secret agency is spying on us; fortunately for me,
there are no cameras here.
It
seems like the first place where I’ve been sure about that.
Even if I scan the room with a thorough precision, I can never be
sure that there isn’t someone creeping up on me (they could
find a way), but I somehow trust this guy. He wouldn’t spy on
me, would he?
I
predict the paranoia will stage its entrance if I see him again.
Right now, it’s dormant, but it’s more perilous that way.
Alertness is ubiquitous.
“Loads
of them, and they all messed me up more than I had been previously.”
His glare drops low like a weighted branch but eventually springs
back up to meet my own. “Anyway, Mikey is over there, the only
kid with the glasses. Kind of funny, you know, always wearing them on
the tip of his nose like a librarian or something.”
I
nod, hastily refreshing my memory of Mikey’s image before the
boy in the apron asks me more questions about him.
The
worker places a finger to his lips, his focus drifting back and forth
between us. “Say, is he your brother? You don’t look much
like him.”
Obviously,
but why is he so nosy? Humans, always trying to grasp every piece of
information they can, even when it’s none of their petty little
business. Frankly, I would enjoy dwelling in a cave until I grow a
beard the size of my shin and my hair withers into a shining bald
spot that likely hosts the manger of Jesus on top. Anything to
isolate myself.
Not
many people welcome the concept that misanthropy is my force, though
— and where would my peroxide be in a cave?
But
he’s right nevertheless. Eye color, hair color, and facial
structures are all off. While we both lean towards the feminine
terrain of features, Mikey and Gerard possess thinner proportions,
almost like a feline.
“N-no,
he’s my friend’s brother, who is currently at an art
show. His name is Gerard.”
Ugh.
He
didn’t need to know that. Why am I like this? Constantly
spewing out irrelevant details no one cares about.
“Patrick,
no one remembers what you say after the maximum of an hour, all
right?” Dr. Saporta, my psychologist, finds pleasure in
reminding me. Does he think I’m interested in his stock
phrases? Not much.
My
mother says I shouldn’t be so overbearing towards him, that
he’s one of the most versatile therapists she’s ever met
— not that she would be familiar with many, seeing as she’s
as neurotypical as it gets; that, however, brings you into suburban
mom life, and that’s the downside of a clear brain — but
it’s not my duty to like people. In fact, I am most often
fueled by the doctrine of “guilty until proven innocent”.
My mother also says I shouldn’t run by that standard. I don’t
really mind.
“That’s
an interesting name,” the boy comments. “I like how it
flows, the capture and release of the geh
sound,
then the fierce flick of the rawr
bit,
like the tad of courage we can never have, and the abrupt end of the
rd
on the tail of the word.”
The
tad of courage we can never have.
It scares me. He knows. He’s been watching me, hasn’t he?
He is aware of my anxiety, because he planted cameras, and he’s
following me around.
I
need to leave.
Habitually
wiggling my fingers into my bag to draw out the peroxide, I stop
short, pivoting my head towards an advancing Mikey, a building block
held to his hair with some germy kid’s saliva — I have to
force back tears.
“Patwick?”
he chirps. “Is you?”
“Yeah,
Mikey, it’s me,” I respond, crouching down to meet his
gaze but tucking my arm behind my back so that he can’t touch
it any longer. I abhor the way it makes my skin crawl, how
it...breathe;
Dr. Saporta instructed you not to potentially trigger anything, so
snap out of it.
“Where
Geewad?”
The
worker swoops in heroically as I answer, picking out the building
block with the protection of a paper towel, wiping it off, throwing
it back into the heap of toys, and almost assailing a small kid with
a premature fringe, but the apron boy doesn’t say a thing to
me, only observes.
“He’s
at an art show. You know how much he loves those.” I smile, and
Mikey mirrors my actions. “Are you ready to go home?”
Mikey’s
head bobs up and down rapidly, seizing my hand and pulling me towards
the exit without properly thanking the worker.
I
don’t aspire to be consorting with people who have no
perception of manners.
“Uh,
I, um, thank you so much!” I yell as the bell cycles all around
with the swaying of the door, and I am awarded with a sheepish grin
from my new companion — amused, is he? What wonders that does
for my stability.
“Be
careful out there!” the raven-haired teenager returns, waving
his hand in a gesture that signals the departure of any party in a
conversational group. I’m not sure what he means. Am I prone to
injury? Does he think I can’t handle myself? Is someone being
considerate for once?
Questions.
Dr. Saporta doesn’t like them.
The
wind brings a chill of its own, disparate from the thundering
collision of panic attacks, which has me retreating within my sheer
jacket that has never done a thing for me in wintertime; my mother
should invest in a new one, or at least a coat with puffier material.
Then
there would only be one
contingence to worry about.
We’re
gone now, though, but no matter how much I pray to forget the touch
of the children, discard it like a scrap of newspaper, I still feel
the burning, squeezing, choking sensation of their grimy fingers.
I
need more peroxide.
Chapter
Two
Your
home seems to be a mile away when you’re lacking in hydrogen
peroxide. Or time to use it. When Mikey’s around, there’s
a certain itch that materializes in front of you, because he’s
still here, and he shouldn’t be.
But
I have the item to pour on myself.
The
substance is a series of chemicals used to disinfect the skin, to
treat wounds. So far, it’s not working for me yet, seeing as I
continue to experience the burns of my attacker’s touch seeping
into my pores, poisoning me.
The
doctors say it’s obsessive to worry about a sense that lingers
for years, to possess the touch at all. I don’t think it is.
Yes,
maybe it isn’t normal to maintain a growing supply of peroxide
bottles in your bedroom, replacing the fantasy literature that
previously stocked the shelves of the bookcase. Yes, maybe it isn’t
normal to take extended showers until your mother yells at you to get
out, or you’ll go bankrupt from paying for the water bill. Yes,
maybe it’s not normal to pour that hydrogen peroxide over your
arm again and again where your assaulter grabbed you and never have
it seem just right, but normal is boring.
But
I suppose there’s justice in saying that compulsions are too
dangerous to stand for doing away with boredom. I ignore that justice
every time my skin dries up from the chemicals.
Finally,
Mikey’s chatter draws to a close as the screen door on the
porch bangs against the frame, as he steps inside after waving
emphatically to me, but being wrapped up in my own thoughts, that
event occurred almost ten minutes ago, and I have reached my home by
instinct; my legs tend to do that for me, aware that I never pay
attention to my surroundings.
My
feet elevate to accommodate the height of the crumbling brick stairs,
only coming into contact with the middle rectangle of each step to
settle my raging mind, and I twist the knob — once left, once
right — to greet the cordial aroma of lilac rushing around to
tell me a story, almost like bubbly fairies in a film too laden with
special effects.
It
isn’t time for this, Patrick. Get to the shower. Remove the
touch.
“Right,”
I affirm to no one in particular — just sort of an indication
to tug me back to reality — setting myself into motion to
ascend the stairs, this time carpeted with faded white material.
The
wood, hidden beneath a soft texture, creaks with even the minimal
pressure of my toes, and I almost pause to apologize to it, but Dr.
Saporta would disapprove, and I’ve had lots of people remind me
that I’ve offended him far too many times for our relationship
to be productive.
It
seems like he’s taking over my thoughts.
Don’t
say that. You hate paranoia, don’t you?
Don’t
harbinger new ideas. Don’t allow the compulsions to evolve.
Don’t corrupt your mind.
When
I reach my door, I push it open with languid force — let’s
skip describing the ritual with the knob; I hate to think about it,
and my friends have told me I’ve been getting better at keeping
it under control — staring once again at the bookshelf of
hydrogen peroxide across from my frozen body.
I
almost forgot that one of the bottles was removed earlier,
transported to the bathroom after the previous one dwindled, but it
simply won’t do. I can’t
allow
it, at least not in its current pose.
Anxiously,
I sprint over to the case, falling to my knees and adjusting the
peroxide so that the division is straight down the center, like it
should be if there’s no immediate replacement.
“Fuck,”
I sigh, tilting back on my haunches. “Maybe I’m not
getting better.”
Yeah,
you dimwit. You’re planning to take a shower, aren’t you?
“Leave
me the hell alone.”
You
wish.
Arresting
a perfectly clear towel from its spot on my unpainted dresser —
left that way so that it wouldn’t be subject to any
imperfections in the dye — I snap, “Shut up. You’re
not helping.”
And
neither are you.
“You’re
a hypocrite.” I slide out of my charcoal trousers and fold them
neatly to situate them in the square-shaped hamper, then proceeding
with my crimson cardigan and grey t-shirt.
For
once, I neglect the icky feeling of my shifting clothes.
“See?
I am
improving,” I counter the voices in my head, but they don’t
answer. I earn a victory, and they suddenly become dismissive. Great.
Summarily
after the last piece of ostensibly rough fabric has left my body, the
towel fashions a mask for my skin to protect it from the acumen of
the outside world.
“No
one’s watching you, Patrick,” everyone says, but the
voices beg to differ, and they do so with great theatricality,
ensuring that I won’t threaten them ever again.
With
my head swiveling around in every direction to detect anyone’s
possibly prying eyes, I stalk to the bathroom parallel to my
chambers, rounding the corner in a swinging motion as my remaining
hand clutches the ends of the towel to construct a cylinder around
me.
Instead
of turning on the shower and acquiescing the water to beat down on my
back like the drumming of rain on a rooftop, I delay to gaze intently
into the mirror.
I
haven’t done this in a while, taken a look at myself, and the
product is stupendous. How thoroughly my eyes droop into a pool of
purple, into a bruise inflicted by none other than myself by
postponing sleep and conceding the buildup of stress. How sharply my
cheekbones model, throwing shadows onto the lower portion of the
surface from their throne of elevation in regards to my face. How
pale my skin has become, vampiric and reminiscent of Gerard’s
pallid complexion, as if a dot of red ink landing on it could be
mistaken for blood running through snow.
And
not once did anyone comment on it, but I now realize that they sure
as hell must have been worried.
Am
I dead? Is this why I look so harrowed, so gaunt? Did I die two years
ago, when the concept of death was only metaphorical after my
assault? Have I been living a life in hell, and is that why I
contracted such a plethora of issues? Am.
I. Dead.
“Leave
it,” I instruct, snapping my focus away the mirror as quickly
as I formerly snapped a rubber band on my wrist to shoo away
obsessions.
Twirling
the handle of the shower in an action that reminds me of wrenches in
a dingy handyman shop, water pours down in minuscule pellets that
merge together to create a flowing stream perceived only by an
outsider.
I
abandon my towel by my ankles, hastily leaping inside the bathtub and
closing the curtain behind me as a shield. As usual, my eyes scan the
corners for any hidden cameras that may have been installed while I
was running errands — you can never know, can never be safe.
As
I explore new areas of the bathtub, the concoction of hydrogen and
oxygen completely dampens my hair, infiltrates my skin, and this
formula and the peroxide are the only two things of whom I enjoy the
touch, so I permit their entrance.
Instantaneously,
the grasp of the children fades away, swirling down the drain,
through the sewers, soon on its journey into the ocean — or, in
any case, gone from me.
By
now, I’ve grown accustomed to the permanent kiss of fingertips
on my arm, the sole junction that doesn’t wash out and is only
layered with the collision of other humans, though every time it
shrieks, I am brought back to that one day...stop.
The
shower is the most dangerous place for panic attacks.
Get
the hydrogen peroxide, psycho.
I
scowl. “I wish you would stop calling me that. It’s
incredibly ableist and damaging to one’s soul.”
Your
fault, buddy.
“It’s
not
my
fault, though!” I lash out, but my hands extend to seize the
peroxide anyway as my tone lowers. “It’s not, okay?”
It’s
actually amusing, as I see it. You say that it’s not your
fault, but you still have to sit through psychologist appointments to
mend yourself. Hah!
“Dr.
Saporta is fine,” I mutter, unscrewing the cap to the clear
liquid, dribbling it onto a washcloth, and holding it away from the
spray of water. “Sometimes.”
Are
you so sure about that, kid?
“Why
do you address me as ‘kid’ all the time?” I begin
to scrub my arm with the solution, the vigor of my deed reddening the
skin, but I don’t halt for something as petty as that; after
all, I do this almost every day. “You’re me,
and I’m almost an adult.”
If
I were you, then you’d be able to control me.
Imposing
a scarlet streak upon my body’s textile, I retaliate, “Screw
you, asshole. What if I don’t want to control you, huh? Did you
ever consider that?”
I
consider everything that you
consider, because I live inside your brain, but that doesn’t
mean that I am
you. I get the advantage without the tragedy. Now isn’t that a
nice little package?
“Hardly,”
I deadpan. “I end up getting screwed over twice. Once by you,
once by the inequity of this situation.”
I’ve
just avowed the water to hail down upon my back, too frustrated by
the voice in my head’s rambling, its brilliant counterattacks,
but as soon as the rumbling sound waves of the garage door opening
seek refuge in my ears, my fingers protrude from my by side to switch
off the water.
Run
fast, little boy.
I
bend over to snatch my towel, tying it to my chest like a girl —
though I’m a noticeably self-conscious boy — and sliding
my hand over the light to rid the bathroom of luminescence.
My
room seems like a mile away, when it is only about ten feet in
actuality, but with a bound overestimated by my faulty impression, my
feet plant themselves in front of my door, pausing to license my
hands authority to perform its tedious ritual upon the circular knob.
At
the very moment at which I enter my bedroom, a voice echoes from
downstairs. “Patrick, are you all right? I heard a noise,”
it says, to which I scream, “Yeah, I’m good, Mum. A book
just fell off of my dresser, is all.”
Maybe
you should take another shower to repent for your lie.
I
consent.
This
is by far the most time-consuming compulsion yet.
Chapter
Three
Exposure
therapy was the worst decision of my life, but everyone who claims
they are interested in my safety has concluded that it’s the
best way to get me over my anxiety of the public.
To
a certain degree, it’s not like they’re telling me that
it’s just hormones controlling the chains around my mind, but
that’s attributed to the fact that I glare at most everyone,
and they quite simply don’t wish to interact with me; I don’t
blame them, to be honest.
I
suppose the only upside is that I am able to wash down my medication
with coffee, not some bland tap water that makes you hope to vomit
after a few gulps because of how inundated you are by its deluge —
and simply the fact that there is
a
upside, the mere shell of the concept, is comforting to the
continuously anxious.
However,
today is different, with the guilt flooding the chambers of my heart
and accelerating its pounding, and at first, I surmise that it’s
instinctual, considering this is
a
coffee shop packed with people, but after one quick look at the
counter, my hypothesis is immediately altered.
The
boy from the daycare center. The boy with whom I messed things up.
“I’ll
just find another place to swallow my pills,” I decide, turning
my back to the register after drawing in a deep breath.
Before
I can make it out the door, before the clanging of the bells is put
into action, someone shouts, “Hey, man! What can I get for you
today?”
I
pivot sluggishly, a meek grin embracing my lips that perhaps
suggests, “Kill me now,” but my feet order me to march
forward. “Don’t say anything about marching, mind
voices,” I direct, knowing that they’ll transform it into
something correlated to the army and, as a result, the post-traumatic
stress disorder Dr. Saporta swears I have.
“You’re
the guy that came in and asked about Mikey, correct?” the boy
asks, draping a green towel across his shoulder. I notice, in
addition, another emerald apron tied around his waist — does he
wear that all day?
“Heh,
yeah, that was me.” I laugh awkwardly, shoving my hands further
into the pockets of my ebony skinny jeans and rocking back and forth
on the balls of my feet. That’s what people do, right?
The
worker’s brows crease. “Hey, are you all good after what
happened? You seemed kind of shaken-up.”
Shrugging
indifferently so as to not reveal my true emotions (Dr. Saporta says
I’m too apathetic for my own good), I reply, “Yeah, I’m
fine, I guess” — I squint to read his name-tag —
“Pete
Wentz.”
For
whatever strange reason, the peachy complexion of the boy’s
skin boils to the blossoming charm of a rose petal. Why is he doing
that? Am I to blame? From all of those questions, my coating
inadvertently reciprocates the action.
“So
what’s your
name,
then? We need to get on an equal playing field.” Pete winks,
and suddenly my rose petal metaphor is enhanced to the epidermis of
flame.
“I-I’m
Patrick Stump.” The words begin as a stutter but are pulled
loose with an ounce of confidence and a toothy smile from both
parties.
Pete
nods, gesturing to the menu pinned to the wall above him. “What
can I get for you, Patrick Stump?”
Oh,
shit. I was not prepared for this. We are really
in
a coffee store. Wow.
“You
can take your time,” Pete assures, throwing a curt glance
behind me to scout out potential customers, who are, fortunately,
nonexistent in the store. “There’s no one waiting.”
I
release a bout of air, clear my throat, and scan the items to make it
seem, at least to Pete, that I’m putting thought into this,
when I actually order the same exact thing every time I wander in
here — a cappuccino, with nothing else added so that the
barista won’t falter, so that I won’t unintentionally
make a scene and cringe about it for the next five years.
“May
I just have a small cappuccino please?” I request in the
politest of manners, utilizing my “mouse voice”, as my
former teachers prefer to name it, and Pete bobs his cranium up and
down, sliding an ingredient cup into a machine and clicking the
button on its blindingly blue screen.
“What
school do you go to? I don’t think I’ve seen you at mine,
Belleville High.” Pete leans his intersecting arms across the
freshly wiped counter — probably where the green rag’s
purpose originated, though he hasn’t bothered to relocate it
from his shoulder to somewhere else (I don’t work in a coffee
shop, sorry; it’s not like I know where things go).
“Uh,
I’m homeschooled, actually.” It sounds like the cliché
response, at least from someone who quivers at the mention of
sunlight, but it’s nevertheless true.
“Oh,
that’s cool.” Pete’s voice is laced with
despondency, as if he’s somehow offended by my educational
choice, but he eventually perks up after a second. “The people
at school are actually just a bunch of shitkicking ass-clowns. Nice
move.”
My
lip is adorned with the puncturing capabilities of my teeth, and my
eyes curve all around to find something with which to engage a
conversation. “Yeah, it was a nice move,” I repeat in a
failed attempt to spur the speech back to life.
The
coffee machine chirps heartily — not enough to trigger panic,
though — and Pete’s hands migrate to entertain its needs,
disposing of the wounded ingredient cup and chauffeuring my coffee
over to me.
I
tip my head in thanks, bracing myself for the scalding bite of the
creamy substance and miscalculating the time at which it strikes my
tongue, but I’ve been wielding the cup for far too long, so I
return it to its spot on the counter with my mouth still bare.
Gradually,
my taste buds dance with the texture of the coffee, and almost half
of the cup has been dumped down my throat before Pete beckons
sentences from his lips.
“Do
you come here often? I need more friends to see while I juggle
daycare and this job, besides that one old guy who always sits in the
corner and stares at the entrance to the men’s bathroom. Don’t
think he’s a stalker, do you?”
I
lower the coffee from my mouth, giggling. “Yes, I’m a
regular, but why are you concerned with the affairs of this elderly
dude?”
“A
gay
stalker,” Pete interrupts, eyes trained on the man while the
man’s eyes are glued on his aforementioned location. “Same,”
he adds.
“You’re
a stalker?” My eyes bulge, and my drink narrowly avoids being
shot out. People being stalkers is remarkably problematic for my
“paranoia”, or whatever it is that my mother says —
there’s nothing wrong with being cautious.
Cachinnating
at my expression, Pete corrects, “No, I’m gay. That isn’t
an issue, is it?” His eyebrow heightens, predicting the worst.
My
crown rotates horizontally. “No, not at all. I’m, um,
polysexual, so I guess that’s kind of in the same ballpark.”
Pete
is impressed.
Impressed,
that is, until someone I assume to be his manager, a man with a
bright maple beard and matching hair, strolls out from the back,
requesting that Pete stop holding up the line, which consists of no
one at the moment.
“Oh,
sorry, Andy,” Pete atones for his mistake. Is he scared
of
this guy? He doesn’t look like he’d be scared by
anything.
“That’s
Mr. Hurley to you, Wentz.”
Pete
nods, contrition projected onto his bronzed face, and he forages for
a scrap of paper and a pen, both from his breast pocket,
redistributing it to me. He taps the parchment twice with his finger
— blessed is he who refrains from using odd numbers in movement
— and I restrain the black utensil in my fingers.
“You
want my number?” I clarify, skeptical.
Pete’s
head shakes violently in a vertical tract as Andy grows impatient.
He’s
going to exploit you, psycho.
“Go
away,” I whisper, digging the pen into the dry flesh of the
paper.
Pete
sinks his head low to lock eyes with me. “I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.
I just talk out loud sometimes,” I lie, wrapping up my scribing
of the numbers. “Doesn’t really mean anything.”
Pete
appears unpersuaded, but he’s too intimidated by Mr. Hurley to
question me any farther, so he captures the note and stuffs it back
in his pocket.
“I
guess I should be going now. I don’t want to hold up the line,”
I joke, glancing behind my shoulder to find no one, as always, and
waving goodbye. “I’ll be looking forward to your texts.”
I provide Pete with the most adorable smile I can muster.
And
as I toss my empty paper cup into the trash can, I stop short —
I had forgotten to take my meds.
Chapter
Four
“All
right, Patrick, you know the drill,” Dr. Saporta says, his eyes
fixed on the report that I have to fill out every time I visit him.
“The
drill”? Is that some sort of PTSD joke? Make sure he recognizes
it, Patrick, that lots of people who have PTSD served in the army,
and do you know what’s in an army? Drills. Call him out. Do it.
“The
drill?” I stammer.
Dr.
Saporta glances up from his paper briefly to restate, “Yeah,
the drill. Like, what’s going on in your head, Patrick?”
My
jaw clenches. “Nothing.”
“We
both know that’s not quite accurate,” he laughs. “Tell
the truth.”
“What
makes you think there’s something going on?” I shift
uncomfortably in the plush seat across from my psychologist’s,
but nothing is suitable for my restlessness.
“I
know for a fact that there are voices conversing with you right now.
Maybe it’s a one-sided conversation, but they’re present
nevertheless.” Satisfaction sails across his face, and I curse
him for being so cocky, a curse manifesting in denial.
“That’s
a lie, sir.”
Dr.
Saporta holds up the report, waving it around in the air; I want to
tell him to quit it, for the material is crinkling, but I refrain
from doing so, because he’d use it against me — so much
for versatile, Mother.
Command
that man to stop.
“I’m
the one with the diagnostic sheet, kid,” Dr. Saporta parries,
lenses stooping to read it. “Obsessive-compulsive disorder,
psychosis, social anxiety, autism, and post-traumatic stress
disorder.”
So
condescending. Why don’t you fire him?
“Well
it seems like you did the drill for me, so there’s no use and
no outcome, except that you’re a total cunt.” I frown,
counting off the items spoken from the diagnostic sheet without
waiting for my psychologist’s reaction. “Three anxiety
disorders, one psychotic disorder, and the one people always resent.
Fantastic. I hope you understand that I turn away from listing them
for a reason, Doctor.”
Silence
that lasts a few minutes.
“Anything
unusual happen since the last time we chatted, Patrick?” Dr.
Saporta ushers out of his previously quiet form, intrigue dwelling in
his mahogany irises, an intrigue that puts me off.
Without
severing the eye contact between myself and my lap, I respond, “I
met a new friend.”
Dr.
Saporta is taken aback, his brows scrunching in his labor to decipher
my unusual words. “A new friend, you say? How...odd. I find you
to be very anti-social, because, well...”
“You
mean asocial, not anti-social,” I correct. “You, of all
people, should know this.”
My
psychologist chuckles. “Right, yes.”
“I
don’t appreciate being compared to a psychopath or a
sociopath,” I cut him off. “Not because I don’t
have respect for the dilemma that is their personality disorder, but
because it’s imprecise, and I thought you would value my
perfectionism, Dr. Saporta. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Forgive
me, Patrick, for being so inconsiderate,” the man replies
sardonically, sarcastic eyes circling. “But it seems like
you’re regretting sharing the news about your friend with me,
for you’re diverting the subject.”
My
arms cross, right one on top to prevent the concussion of the other
limb and the ethereal mark. “Only because you deplore the idea
of me making companions.”
Dr.
Saporta leads his hands to the air in a defensive stance. “Now
I wouldn’t say that’s exactly what I implied.”
“I
would.”
Dr.
Saporta’s lips tie into a frown, fingers wind through his hair.
“Patrick, I’m concerned about you,” he admits,
oxygen traveling a prolonged journey out of his lungs. “I know
you’re sick of hearing it, but in order for you to get better,
you have to trust me.” Sincerity highlights his features, but
it only looks fabricated.
I
play innocent, gearing my shoulders upward. “It’s not my
responsibility to trust you, Doctor. The contract said I can
trust
you, therefore it is not incumbent upon me to bow down to your
profession.”
Back
slouching in dismay, Dr. Saporta groans, “I wish you wouldn’t
think like that, Patrick.”
“And
I wish I weren’t so messed up in the head, but in case you
haven’t noticed, I’m in a fucking psychologist’s
office!”
Stillness,
perpetuated by static gazes, where cinnamon swirls with chartreuse
and never surrenders their bond for the ginger cradle of eyelashes.
“So...what’s
your friend’s name?” Dr. Saporta finally asks, fiddling
with his hands in the same way he told me not to — disgustingly
ironic.
“His
name is Pete,” I bark, jaw snapped shut and aimed towards the
cherry-stained door on my left.
A
crumble of a grin fastens to Dr. Saporta’s face. “And
what is Pete like?”
“Different.”
A
pause of uncertainty.
“How
so?” the psychologist pushes.
“I
only have three friends — Gerard, Brendon, and Ryan, about whom
I’ve told you already — but beyond them, I’ve
discovered the bitterness of humans often, sometimes even during
random encounters at the grocery store, in some common setting.”
Dr.
Saporta’s quizzical expression indicates a lack of
comprehension, but I don’t allow it to dissuade me.
“But
with Pete...he actually knows what it’s like to grapple with
your own life, and he’s genuine about helping me through it.
There aren’t very many people like that, you know? He doesn’t
make me afraid, and maybe that’s more competent than these
trivial appointments.”
At
first, Dr. Saporta’s visage was vibrant with fervor, but after
my snide comment about psychology, it hangs limp with dejection.
“Must you twist something hopeful into something that ruptures
my science? We were going somewhere, and that’s the problem,
Patrick.”
My
brow tilts, throat hums.
“You
denounce any kind of recovery once you detect it, then you whine
about how you’ll never get better.” Dr. Saporta’s
fingers slither across the walnut terrain of his desk, eyes following
to avoid meeting mine. “It’s harsh, yeah, but you need to
confront it.”
Head
raising to approach my psychologist, I bluntly state, “The
voices have left me alone for the past few minutes. Don’t you
think that signifies at least a bit of comfort?”
“Did
you ever consider the possibility that they’ve left because
you’re occupied with another topic, such as defying me?”
I
smirk. “They would usually be cheering me on. They don’t
admire you very much.”
Dr.
Saporta is simply unaffected — he’s familiar with not
being liked. “Do they influence you to say certain things that
you may not mean?”
“I
thought you hated questions,” I digress, perspiration suddenly
saturating my palms.
“I
hate your
questions
for their hypersensitivity. Answer mine — just this once, if
you’re not keen on doing so later.”
I
worry the inside of my cheek, acquainting my tongue with undiscovered
textures as I tarry in deflecting Dr. Saporta’s inquiry, but he
doesn’t relent. “Every day is a quest to purge the
voice’s reign, but the only expected consequence is me
responding to them in public, when people can hear me,” I
confess. “Other than that, there’s not much they do
besides annoy me tremendously.”
Partial
truths are my forte, but seeing through them is Dr. Saporta’s.
“I
have a difficult time believing that’s legitimate,” the
man challenges, retreating from his desk reclining in his chair.
“Why
do you never believe me? We’re supposed to have a mutual
agreement. You’re supposed to be assisting me. Why
aren’t
you assisting me?” My fingers burrow into the armrest, an
aversion to a gigantic outburst, but it only feels like my muscles
are going to break free and lather blood on my lap.
Dr.
Saporta bounces from his position almost on reflex, arranging his
hands to block me from advancing and potentially endangering anyone,
including himself, though I doubt he’d give a shit. “Patrick,
you need to calm down.”
My
extremities burn for the sensation of pulling my peroxide-riddled
hair, and that is where they end up, though they remove nothing.
“You’re not going to be that clueless boyfriend in those
mainstream high school movies. You’re my psychologist —
now fucking act like it. You should understand that my emotions are
valid, but all you do is sit on your fucking
desk and impart the knowledge that things aren’t working out,
and do you know whose fault that is? Is it mine for being so messed
up, or is it yours for refusing to do anything about it? I’m
your patient, and it’s your job to mend my mental wounds, but
you’re pathetic, unskilled, and patronizing, and you’re
not aiding me in any way.” My breath is jagged after my heated
spiel, requiring shallow and immediate pulses of air, but I ignore
the tingling to encourage the reaction of Dr. Saporta.
He
untangles a sigh from his lungs. “I’m glad you disclosed
with me how you feel, Patrick.”
I
ensnare a hand in my locks, pulling it free after a pinch of
frustration. “Did you take away anything other than that? I’m
not some subject with whom you try to test your psychology skills. I
have moods, and I have depth, and I have everything that you do, even
if it’s blocked by the rubble of a broken mind, so give me a
better fucking answer.”
Dr.
Saporta’s face contorts distressingly, capturing a bubble of
oxygen before continuing. “I’m afraid I can’t do
that, kid.”
“Why
the hell not?” My hands are back at my head again, yanking at
the warped keratin molecules stuck to my skin, and Dr. Saporta’s
eyebrows are as taut as ever.
“Because
you would never approbate it.”
All
I want is to kick something.
Chapter
Five
Electricity
pangs inside me from the argument between Dr. Saporta and myself,
abetting my travel to the rickety swing set in the unfinished park,
and perhaps it’s a sort of empowering type of electricity, not
that I would know would how positivity resonates in oneself, but it’s
so disparate from what I’m used to, and I can’t establish
this early whether or not I aspire to seek it in the future.
Regularly,
a compression of the chest stops by for a visit, masquerading as my
friend, until it induces a simulation of drowning, and in that
moment, I can’t help but wonder if I am actually dying, if that
would even be a problem at all.
Compression
and depression go hand-in-hand, crouching down in a meadow and
poisoning the flowers with their sickly touch as they concurrently
intertwine fingers, and it is a sure thing that no one believes the
powers of either, attributing it to hormones or being out of shape,
when in verity, it is the process of decomposition at work, a process
so foreign to certain people that they discredit it with the casualty
of a step.
But
now that I’ve broken free from Dr. Saporta’s grip, if
only for this week, depression and compression fall to their knees in
strife, but they are silent, for they never surrender — they
are only postponed until a future date when they are most unwelcomed
— and they wait for a clarion call into action, into my brain.
For
the time being, my feet bound joyously to the park, free of the
weights pushing them down over and over and demanding that they rise
again to encounter the same fate as provided before. For the time
being, I take willful note of the birds’ chirping, their
jubilant melody about which no one knows. For the time being, I am
content.
Is
this what it feels like to be neurotypical? It’s a shame they
take it for granted, simultaneously making life troublesome for the
mentally ill. The only difference, however, between the neurotypicals
and myself is that they are oblivious to the pounding twin forces
until they are no longer neurotypical, and they then describe this
ordinance as the tables turning, when it is actually a whirlpool that
they approached too steadily in their seemingly permanent, innate
confidence; there is no tradeoff.
Once
you go, you’re trapped, and you’re defined not by the
altruism of your heart, but by the complexity of your mind, and that
ideology runs like silk through one’s hands, so natural and
desired that it becomes second nature, and suddenly when the silk
rips for one painfully neurotypical person, they break the fourth
wall, and the tides sweep them up so that they might proclaim their
injustice.
But
do they vocalize the predicaments of the previously existing members
of the bottom of the whirlpool? Very rarely do they learn. Woe is
them, I suppose, for their unacceptable ignorance.
That
empowerment lasts until a buzzing in my pocket jolts me back to the
cruel reality of anxiety and heart palpitations, and the questions
that Dr. Saporta abhors flood inside — but it’s not like
I care about pleasing him, considering I stormed out of his office
fifteen minutes before our session ended.
Who
is it? What do they want? Am I in trouble? Have they been watching
me, and is that how they got my phone number?
When
I check my device to see who texted me, panic drills into my chest at
the display of the unknown number.
Hey,
Patrick! It’s Pete, if you didn’t catch that already.
“How
do I respond to this?” I shout to no one, pinkies jabbing into
the metallic chain of the swings. “There’s nothing I can
do for him, so why is he texting me?”
My
expression withers inside the desolate expanse of the park as my
heart prepares for its horse race, visualizing how it plans to
succeed before the actual threat has exposed itself, and I curse it
for doing so.
Another
beep flies from my phone, this time from a recognizable source.
I’m
at another art show (did you know that there’s a real
critic
here?), but this time I didn’t tell my mother I would bring
Mikey back home, though she still needs him picked up. Would you mind
doing it? Brendon and Ryan are both busy doing something else,
probably egging their neighbor’s car, the one who sits on his
lawn in a beach chair and waters his flowers with orange juice.
My
mouth discharges a sigh, perverse to my already moving fingers.
Yeah,
that’s all right.
A
few seconds pass.
Your
aura suggests a lack of enthusiasm.
I
giggle.
You
can detect my aura? And I swear — I’m fine. I’m
going right now, so don’t try to stop me, Gerard.
I
predict the vibration in my pocket is the eldest Way brother
attempting to thank me, but all I can think about is how I’ll
get to see Pete.
I’m
still not sure if that’s a cause for nervousness.
Chapter
Six
My
bike creaks agonizingly as it catches its breath by the store located
directly beside the Belleville Development Center, but I don’t
care for its petty games, for it’s time to rush inside to greet
the beautiful Pete Wentz.
For
the first time, a genuine smile clings to my face without threatening
to detach itself and move to some other person — who most
likely has an abundance of happy days — but it doesn’t
feel like it belongs to me. It’s itchy, uncomfortable, tight,
not tailored to fit me.
Frustrating,
how I reject anything optimistic. Dr. Saporta says we need to improve
this impaired function.
It
helps, though, when Pete’s face mirrors my own and seems
authentically thrilled to see me here. His hair is messier than I had
witnessed it the last two encounters, perhaps because of the ordeal
that is herding children and ushering them away from any dangerous
activities — which may have grown even more risky since I came
here on Tuesday — though his Hudson River eyes gleam brighter
than ever before.
Immediately
after the door swings open, bells clanking together in delight, Pete
saunters over, a certain pep residing in the soles of his shoes. “So
excited about my text that you came all the way over here to answer
it?” Following my frightful stare, he laughs and adds, “I
was joking, okay? You’re fine.”
It’s
obvious he doesn’t comprehend how much terror that text caused
me.
A
steady flow of oxygen departs from my lungs, returning for an item
that it forgot and leaving once more. “My friend — you
know, the one I told you about earlier — has another art show,
but his brother is still here, so he asked me to pick him up again.”
Pete’s
brows draw together like curtains. “I’m starting to
wonder whether or not you two have any friends beyond this mutual
network that requires you to do him favors every other day.”
Is
that a fucking threat?
A
corner of my lips raises slightly, molding later into a full-fledged
glow. “I have you, don’t I?”
Eyes
crinkling as a result of an enormous grin, Pete acknowledges, “That
you do, and as a celebration, would you like to go to the cinema with
me after this?”
Shit.
Movie theaters are of the worst places to be when you’re as
tense as I am, with the mobs of people, the compromising content on
the screen, the general atmosphere. They haven’t been safe for
me since I was injured both emotionally and physically, but that
disposition isn’t so different from anything else.
They’re
a trigger for questions, such as, what if someone touches my arm?
What if I take too long purchasing tickets? What if I have a panic
attack in the middle of the film?
By
the looks of it, you’re having a panic attack right now.
I
wave off the voice that just now returned after an hour of dormancy,
studying Pete’s hopeful expression. How can I let him down?
He’s done so much for me in the short time I’ve known
him, but that’ll all be ruined if I don’t approve.
How
I yearn for the days where a public setting was nothing terrifying,
only one bit in a world of monotony. I used to venture outside often,
talk to the neighbors, invite the urge to pet strangers’ dogs.
Surely that person isn’t too far down?
Ditching
your psychologist won’t help you find it, though, you cowardly
bitch.
Maybe
I don’t want to, then. I’d rather not return to Dr.
Saporta.
“I
have to take Mikey home, sorry,” I surpass, guiding the fidgety
kid over to me with a flick of the wrist, and he falls by my side a
moment later.
“Is
Geewad at art show?” Mikey inquires, tugging on the leg of my
pants like a puppy tugging at a leash, to which I nod, gazing up at
Pete.
“I
can walk home with you, if you’d like, then we could go to the
theater,” the worker offers. Faith floats on his face but is
soon punctured by doubt after I fail to respond forthwith.
Give
him an answer before he leaves you, dimwit. He’s already
hesitating. You don’t want to end up alone, do you?
“Y-yeah,
that would be fantastic.”
You
just lied again, fool. Why aren’t you repenting? It doesn’t
matter if you’re non-religious. You still have to punish
yourself.
This
voice is a hypocrite, pleading for me to attend the cinema with Pete
yet criticizing me for allowing this accompaniment. I wish it were
gone, but it definitely wouldn’t comply with that.
Whatever
mixtures of uncertainty that hovered on Pete’s face are now
vanished, dropping residual pieces of pride and glee in its place.
“Great.”
Mikey’s
incessant fiddling of my fingers has me on the edge of smacking him,
but that would be classified as child abuse and is, in fact, frowned
upon in most regions, not to mention a real turn off — but it’s
not like I need to win Pete over, right?
Well
he’s taking me to the movies, so it’s clear he can
tolerate me for a few hours, which is unfortunately the best I can do
in my situation of constant peril.
“Are
Geewad at house?” Mikey babbles, bending my phalange in an
action that would appear to be innocuous, were it not for the
excruciating pain that it evokes.
Pete
clasps a hand to his mouth upon the afflictive sight but remains
silent.
Wincing,
I sputter out, “Your mom will be there when you get home, but
Gerard is still at his art show.”
“Why?”
Why
haven’t all the children been eliminated from this earth? They
do nothing but annoy, and we’re overpopulated anyway. Why don’t
you taken it upon yourself to perform the obliteration on your own
terms? You could finally be in control.
While
the voice in my head is mostly correct, I don’t award it with
the pleasure of claiming victory. Who’s to say it won’t
bother me further?
“Art
is very important to your brother,” I assure, deviating my
location within Mikey’s flesh prison, to which he responds by
squeezing tighter on my hand.
“Is
Peeh very important to you?” The kid’s eyes are wholly
transfixed on me, anticipating my shaky answer, while Pete’s
are sprinting all around so as to seem like he’s uninterested,
but a glittering expression suggests otherwise.
Mikey
Way is only around four years old, but he’s made me stop and
think, and I’m not clear on whether or not I should be
reassessing my life, my priorities, my decisions.
And
yeah, I suppose Pete is very important to me, even if I’ve only
known him for a few days, because what’s even more important is
to recognize who is good and who isn’t, and with him, it’s
a constant reminder that there is at least one amiable person in this
world, that I am not as alone as I had once thought, and epiphanies
such as those deserve credit for being pivotal events in one’s
career. Those epiphanies are why I’m afraid to die.
Pete
is
why I’m afraid to die.
So
I turn to my friend, whose neck is tilted away to mask the cardinal
complexion of his cheeks, my mouth angled upward on one end. “Yeah,
Pete is
very important to me.”
Finally,
his gaze arrests mine, tears glimmering in his amber eyes, but his
regard is tacitly expressed as one of gratitude and reverence.
“He
your boyfriend?” Mikey chirps, gums shining through.
And
this is where it ceases, though I must attribute to him a fine lack
of homophobia and a replete supply of openness.
“No,
sorry, Mikes. We have to draw the line somewhere.”
Pete
nudges me playfully in the shoulder (by some miracle, the bugs under
my skin have fled), as if requesting that I consider the concept.
“Aww, come on — I think it’s cute.”
Mikey
beams at the cooperation with his idea, which is shut down by my next
caustic comment.
“It
might be cute, but it’s not real, so no one will ever know,”
I deny, shrugging.
Pete
gnarls his teeth into his lip. “Yet.”
“Excuse
me!” I scold, jokingly punching Pete on the shoulder.
I
just don’t want to tell him that it’s entirely plausible.
Chapter
Seven
My
step grazes the outer edge of the sidewalk, my glimmering eyes
saluting my companion's. "Do you think there's anything
worthwhile at the cinema right now?" I question, dismissing a
pebble to frolic in the street.
"Maybe,
but the local nerds are probably taking up all the seats for any
superhero films." A chuckle unties itself from Pete’s
trachea, and his gaze falls to the pavement as we near the movie
theater.
Reflexively,
my vision zooms in on a hoard of people possibly gossiping idly about
what they predict will transpire next in their favorite motion
picture saga, as if it will matter until a year later, and though
this random occurrence shouldn’t be nerve-wracking for anyone,
it is for me — I go to a psychologist to fix it after all, but
recalling how I burst out of his office earlier today, it’s a
productive thing to realize that I’m not on track so far,
perhaps more productive than anything our sessions teach me.
Pins
of sweat carve into my skin, alerting my heart to deploy battle
drummers to pound against its walls in a signal of an attack, and my
brain spirals out of control right before me.
I
wasn’t equipped for this many people.
“Patrick,
are you okay?” Pete’s sudden awareness of my situation
leads me to believe that he’s probably the second coming of
Christ, in my own atheistic way, as we gravitate to the lines of
movie posters bolted to the wall once I regain complete
consciousness.
The
simple presence of one showing replaces the battle drummers with
charming fiddlers, and my finger ascends to point towards the sign.
“What about this one?”
Pete
squints to read the title of the flick so far down the row,
whispering with each syllable, “Suffragettes
of Germany.
I didn’t know you were interested in feminism, Patrick.”
My
hands seek refuge in the stuffy pockets of my skinny jeans, folding
my shoulders together. “Yeah, I guess. Do you have a problem
with that?”
Pete’s
face melts into a smile. “No, not at all. I’m interested
in feminism, too, and was actually really looking forward to watching
this movie. It’s even better now that I’m with you.”
A
stream of air humble for my circumstance topples from my lips, and I
almost forget to recompense Pete for the grin with one of my own, but
he’s evanesced before I can interpret what he just said.
He’s
actually
excited
to be here with me?
“I’ll
go and get the tickets,” my friend clarifies as his hip brushes
the velvet rope used to contain customers, already long gone from me.
“We
can split the pay,” I call back, finally making use of my
hands’ position in my pockets to retrieve my wallet, but Pete
waves it off.
“Nonsense!
You’re my date; this one’s on me. I enjoy being classy.”
A
clump of phlegm pinches my throat at the use of the word “date”,
a word that’s made me nervous for as long as I can retrospect,
mostly because of the flexibility of dating in middle school —
the last period I attended until I withdrew for my own home —
and the pressure that came with it.
What
does a date mean to Pete? What does it mean to me? What does it mean
to other people? And perhaps most imperatively, what does it mean to
Dr. Saporta, who is so immersed in my social life (or lack thereof)?
Stop
thinking about Dr. Saporta so much, or at least long enough to pay
attention to your “date”.
Great,
just what I needed, the voices to return on my may or may not be
date. I was doing better (I swear), or at least that’s what—
No.
You need to stop, Patrick. He shouldn’t enslave your thoughts.
Truth
is, though, I’m worried about his judgement, whether I’d
like to admit it or not. Yeah, maybe this isn’t what my mother
meant by becoming more intimate with Dr. Saporta, but it’s a
step away from isolation, and everyone could concur that such a thing
is healthier than what I’ve been experiencing previously, so
who really gives a shit?
Maybe
you’re overthinking this, dimwit. Anxiety is trouble, even if
it’s geared towards the right things.
“That’s
the most helpful thing you’ve ever said to me,” I
vocalize, head rotating ninety degrees in both directions to check if
anyone saw me talking to myself like the psycho I know myself to be.
And
now my voice’s language has caught on. What a hypocrite I am,
reprimanding the voice for addressing me that way yet doing it to
myself.
Pete
waltzes back a moment later, two tickets strapped between his fingers
as if taking a smoke, and with some magnificent luck (Pete is
Jesus,
after all), notices my discerned facial expression, his soon
reflecting mine. “Are you ready to find our seats?”
Passive
approach. Are you sure you should trust him if he plays that way?
I’ll
always trust him.
Anticipation
lingers in the air like the crisp scent before rain, but the only
emotion suffusing my skin is panic, and by the way my legs jitter
without ceasing, people have started to notice, though it’s not
like anything matters when your world is disintegrating behind your
eyelids, especially because no one else can witness the atrocity with
the same vivid apprehension as the host, and it becomes rather
difficult to express feelings that way.
In
a precarious attempt to calm me down, Pete’s hand almost
restrains my legs before pursuing the blazing fire in my eyes, which
tells him off in the harshest of implicit forms.
Look
what you did, psycho. You just ruined any chance of connection.
“I’m,
um, I’m really sorry, Patrick,” Pete murmurs,
repositioning his hand to glide through his charcoal hair instead.
Absorbing
a strong breath, I restore his hand’s place to its prior
location on my knee, and the timid person is now Pete, his beige eyes
bulging from their sockets, as if asking, “Are you sure?”
to which I nod steadily to glaze over my own ambivalence.
By
the time a few seconds have ticked away on my mental clock, my body
begins to tremble again with the intensity of the tectonic plates
shifting — except beautiful mountains are born from that
action, whereas panic attacks are born from mine.
This
is where your ignorance gets you, dimwit.
Once
again, Pete transforms into Jesus, cognizant of my silent struggle
and unlatching his hand from my leg before I can complain about the
quaking of my bones.
“You
should take care of yourself, yeah?” Pete digs his head low,
laboring to capture my contact. “Don’t let coercion
influence you to do things that you don’t want to do.”
I
don’t look at him, but only after thirty seconds do I realize
that the shaking halted. He’s won.
In
a couple of minutes, dusk smothers the room, and I almost forget my
anxiety. I’m really enjoying the “almost”.
I
was mostly inclined to survive the duration of this film, but anxiety
fucks my life without rest, so why even expect a joyride? What is so
special about right now that excuses me from the relentless nipping
of dread in my stomach?
Is
it the fact that I finally
ventured
to a public place after years of solitude? Is it the fact that I’m
with Pete? Is it the fact that I had come close to a panic attack but
didn’t quite?
Is it the fact that my mind is so keen on presenting me with demise?
The
reality is quite simple: we build our own torture chambers around
ourselves and scream when they won’t let us out, and while
we’re inside them, the construction of a box comes into play
without the understanding that they will soon become our coffins, so
we suffocate over and over yet still expect the gift of oxygen that
never comes.
We
actually
believe
we’re alive, but we place the blame of our following downfall
on other people to remove the satisfaction of our cackling mind for
tricking us once again.
And
besides the cackling, I reckon there is a soundtrack that follows us
humans throughout our life, and we are utterly unaware of how it
proceeds. Sometimes it pulses, and sometimes it is silent, like the
sickening verdict of a heart monitor, but no matter the pace of the
song, we can never hear it until we first hear the shattering of our
hope, when our mind is jealous of our body’s ability to die,
when it desires a demise of its own and is spoiled enough to receive
its wish, fucking us all.
This
music, however, fucks us again, and arguably more so. It tricks us
into believing that we have achieved something tremendous, that our
wait must’ve meant something to the universe, that our death is
a small price to pay for the fluttering melody that becomes clear to
us in a state of misfortune.
It
dabs the tears from our eyes and passive-aggressively demands that we
observe the light show that they make out of them, and once again, we
do not say a word, only thank it for doing such a miraculous thing.
It
is creating art out of our pain, and not once do we question it, but
don’t we humans deserve so much more than locked lips? Have we
not experienced enough hell?
We
injure ourselves without rest, and the music comes along, so we stop
to listen to the beautiful sounds that are so disparate from what we
know, but we never realize that the tune is not so different than the
only other noise we hear — the clanking of chains wrapped
around our soul.
We
are not caged animals, and losing faith in thinking that we were
imprisoned is what made us lose faith in the world,
because life is working against us, and the music frankly wanted a
job.
And
maybe we expected something else from giving up, something other than
the music, maybe our body’s extravaganza of merciful death, but
all we got was the annoying melody that warps our mind into thinking
that it’s long-lost and missed dearly.
Maybe
our brains were trying to protect us, shut out the music until we die
and can hear what it’s been doing for us forever, but now that
it’s free, it knows no bounds, and our brain is struggling to
keep it under control.
Then…it
just stops. Our brain gives up just like we did, and the clashing of
mind against music settles down to reinforce the dainty notes of our
eternal soundtrack.
And
as the end of our song draws near, we understand that none of this
ever mattered, that we can put up with the music for a few moments
longer until we descend into the ground. Suddenly, we also recognize
that this is us giving up in the grandest of manners, and the last
note crashes in like a wave, sharp and unforgiving as a knife.
Then
finally, the music ceases.
I
wonder if I’ll hear it soon, for water now furnishes my lungs
with a blood-stained tapestry at the sight of one simple event on the
face of the screen.
People.
Hands. Reaching. Arms. Shrieking. Silence. Assault. Pete’s
frightened face on my behalf, mine too stunned to react.
A
snake twists around my chest, whispering in my ear and punctuating
each word with a constricting force. “You’re dying,”
it taunts. “You’re dying. You’re dying. You’re
dying.” All I can do is accept it, given my situation.
Tiny
knives clump together on my skin, and a metallic hand materializes
out of the chaos of their endeavors. Before I can brush the
assailants off, its fingerprints claw at me with a hatred whose
origins are unknown, each patch of flesh a dagger set on murder.
“Patrick,
snap out of it!” a voice pleads as spiders pry against my
throat, who lose their balance due to the interminable convulsion of
my body at the expense of Pete Wentz’s energy.
Don’t
listen to him, psycho.
I
can’t breathe, and somehow, that’s okay. My airways
haven’t been clear for over two rotations of the earth around
the sun, and I’ve gotten used to drowning. It’s all the
same.
“It’s
okay!” I scream, kicking whatever I come in contact with and
not bothering if it’s my friend. “Just let go of me,
Pete. Let me die, you godforsaken prat.”
“I
can’t.”
Then
night slaughters dusk.
The
next thing I know, a tangy object is forced into my mouth by a hand
that cares too much to witness me flail around, but also a hand that
has no regard for my preferences.
I
can’t see anything, my vision a blur in an emerald coat, but I
identify the flavor of the candy as cherry, a scourge upon this land.
I’m well-disposed towards the idea of spitting it out and
studying its plummet onto the concrete, but Pete’s already
crying, and I promised my mother I would work on sensitivity.
So
here I am, lacking in visual capabilities but toughing it up anyway,
and I’m beginning to question if it would be more precise to
characterize this affliction as my metamorphosis into an emotionless
brick, but after an acute moment of contemplation, I decide it’s
not so offbeat from what I was previously and elect to drop the
subject to focus on my teary companion.
“You
didn’t have to buy me candy,” I attest, wrestling with
the bonbon swooping through my mouth from each movement of my tongue.
“Yes,
I did.” Pete holds out another piece, this time grape, without
smearing his tears across his skin to conceal them.
I
slant away, crinkling my nose, even though purple is my favorite
type.
My
date forces a sigh from his esophagus, fitting his hands to the
grooves on his hips and preparing to deliver a speech. “Your
blood sugar drops when you’re stressed, and from what I could
tell, you were pretty damn stressed back there.”
Don’t
give him the bragging rights by taking the sweets. He’s just
trying to lure you into a setting of submission.
As
if that isn’t what the voice in my mind does on a daily basis.
“So
what?” I tug on the collar of my granite-flecked hoodie to
scratch an invisible itch, and I honestly don’t care if Pete
can see through my fallacy, because I’m done.
Done
with this movie theater. Done with Pete’s willingness to
assist. Done with myself. Done with all of it.
“I
wish I had drowned.”
Each sound is crushed under my ravenous teeth, the rubble forming
craters in Pete’s visage as it smacks him head-on, and I can
confidently say that he wasn’t expecting such ferocious
intentions from me.
Pete’s
brows cave in. “There was no water anywhere for you to drown
in.”
That’s
not the point, you dunce. You’re almost as psycho as this other
dimwit, and that’s really saying something.
Hysterical
giggles erupt from inside me, crowding the atmosphere of the cinema’s
awning. “Never really is, no. At least not to you.”
My
friend nearly touches me but retracts his extremities at the last
second to instead ask, “Patrick, are you okay?”
Now
dangling from the opposite pole, jagged breaths tear at my throat and
demand sufficient diligence, but all I desire is to escape. “Just
please take me home.”
You’re
dying.
You
know what? That doesn’t matter. In case you haven’t
noticed, I’ve been dying for a while before today, and I just
now lifted my head over the surface. I deserve to live. I deserve to
breathe.
“If
that’s what you require.”
The
only thing I require is life, and having Pete Wentz makes it
meaningful, but I don’t want him to know that, so I only wind
my fingers into the pocket of his jacket and sigh.
I
survived.
Chapter
Eight
When
I asked Pete to take me home, I didn’t destine him to stay, but
I suppose it’s a show for my mother — who always reminds
me to make new friends, as if I leave the house on an occasion other
than to take my medicine — so having him here isn’t so
terrible.
That,
and I’m too anxious to tell Pete to leave, but after a warm
welcome supplied by him to my mom, the idea of hosting him isn’t
as awful as I had once predicted, and demanding that he gets out is
now becoming perverse to my mother’s whims.
Not
that I mind much, but someone could simply wink at my mom, and she’d
be hooked and invite them over for casserole. I’m sure she has
good intentions, though.
Stepping
through the door, the sharp hiss of the winter air is stifled by the
cozy aroma of apple and cinnamon, most likely from my mother’s
favorite soap, and the small woman scurries out of the living room to
greet us.
“Patrick!”
she squeals, piercing my cheeks with her fingertips and moving on to
Pete without questioning why this strange boy is in her house. “I’m
so glad you’re here.”
My
head clicks into an angled stance. “Am I usually not?”
“Perhaps
it’s because you’ve brought someone new.” The edge
of my mom’s rose-tinted lips curves towards the sky in an
action of secrecy, and Pete reciprocates it for fear of displeasing
her.
That
forgetful mother of yours finally figured it out, huh?
I
don’t particularly enjoy my mother’s company, but the
voices are enough for me to adapt to a newer approach. This woman
raised me, and though she might not have done a very good job at it,
it’s still becoming to be grateful.
“Yes,
Mrs. Stump.” Pete’s grin flickers on and off as my mom’s
gaze rotates between us. “My name’s Pete Wentz.”
My
mother’s hand extends in the most elegant of fashions, and
Pete’s ironic nature would suggest that he would kiss it like
he’s also strutting around a sophisticated party, but he
doesn’t, only acquaints his skin with hers and shakes steadily.
“Will
you be eating dinner with us, Mr. Wentz?” My mother strays from
our party to boil water for a pasta dish and appear, at least to
Pete, as though she has culinary expertise; I’ve been living
with her long enough to understand that the best she usually creates
is cup noodles, and even those are from the grocery store.
Pete’s
eyes flash in a signal to me, pleading for guidance, and I nod. He
dispenses a jumpy sigh and answers, “If you’ll have me.”
My
mom’s wooden spoon swirls the sultry water around its pot
absently, humming at my new companion’s reply. “Wonderful.
I’d be glad to have you.”
After
the response to Pete’s proposition has been uttered,
awkwardness slithers on the walls and poisons the prior mood of
jubilance.
“I’ll
call you when dinner’s ready,” my mother proclaims by the
time thirty seconds have gone by, taking a hammer to the unbroken
ice.
My
skull oscillates undeviatingly, directing Pete towards the living
room until my mother finishes preparing the meal.
Hey,
I guess it’s not so bad to be trapped with another person,
especially when it’s Pete Wentz. For a night, though...that’s
a different story.
“What’s
with all the bottles of hydrogen peroxide?” Pete pauses his
scavenging of my room to ask this simple question.
There
is a plethora of answers to this. I could keep them because I get
hurt a lot and need to clean up the wounds (though that probably
wouldn’t pass by him; he’s already detected that I don’t
go outside much). I could keep them because a medical drive had an
unwelcome surplus and decided to give them to my family. I could keep
them because I like to do experiments. Many options to choose from.
My
personal favorite is to say that I donate them to my old school’s
nurse’s office, so that’s what I tell Pete.
I’m
not positive whether or not he believes me, though, with the
quizzical character lurking in his eyes and the compression of his
brows, but it’ll have to do.
“What
were you expecting?” I interrogate a tad too fervidly when Pete
doesn’t relent.
His
nose scrunches up, head swerves to a lesser slope. “It’s
a little abnormal to stock your shelves with tons of hydrogen
peroxide bottles, don’t you think?”
“Why
is that?” My hands cuddle my hips for protection against the
anticipated confrontation in an attempt to reclaim some sort of
dominance.
“First
of all, you don’t even go to that school anymore” —
Pete’s accusing irises contract under his furrowing skin —
“and second of all, why the hell does the nurse need that many
supplies? It’s a high school, not a survival island.”
That
may be true, but only to a small extent, because as many deaths occur
within that four-year range, if not more, and for the longest time, I
was sure I would be one of them, and I was utterly convinced that I
wouldn’t be remembered, because like a survival island, no one
cares, and everyone’s only goal is to step on others to achieve
the superiority that always lounges in people’s teenage
mindset, the kind that never comes yet doesn’t matter after
college.
But
even so, I wouldn’t stand a chance anyway, because I’m
fucked-up, and other people recognized that and acted as though my
life wasn’t already hell just so they could terrorize me
further, and I don’t blame them, because it was somehow better
than what I was doing to myself.
It’s
like a migraine, how you bang your head against the floor to block
out the other strings of pain that are pulled tauter with each
second, and now I’m kind of missing the company of those
high-schoolers, because they were the ground that buried the
migraine, and now they’re absent, so the excruciating condition
has returned.
Through
this, they were living an irony that cackled on the other side of the
mirror, not comprehending that they were doing the exact opposite
thing that they intended, which is actually
helping someone.
For ages, they have been exposed to the barbarity that they have no
objectives of denying, and they pretend to uphold that standard so
obliviously that they don’t know they’re performing.
And
I’ve always been against that falsehood, so I was punished for
it, and now I’m homeschooled, so that survival island is but a
memory, suppressed under other equally as malicious ones, and the
students have moved on with their lives, enjoying the haze of being a
junior, and I’m here, also a junior but defined by different
means, and the distinction is clearer than before.
So
if high school is
a
survival island, contrary to what Pete argued, I was killed by my
opponents long ago.
“Why
do I have so many bottles of hydrogen peroxide in my room?” I
reopen the discussion, molding a canteen of the substance to my
fingers. “It’s because you often get wounded on a
survival island, and you need something to dry up the blood.”
A
sense of gloom pokes holes into Pete’s visage. “And this
is it?”
I
smirk. “This has always been it.”
Pete
laces a noodle around one prong of his fork, not caring to do
anything with it, just staring at me as I narrate a fable of the last
time I went outside before meeting the person who’s sitting
right across from me at the table. His gaze is substantial, entranced
by my unassuming words and caught so thoroughly in my eyes that I’m
not certain a knife could separate the connection, but I don’t
aim to try, though it grows worrying after a while.
Why
is he looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong? Is he
actually appreciating my presence? How could that be so? Why am I so
whimsical? When was the last time I faced reality?
Silence,
or you’ll mess up the story, dimwit.
My
mother’s focus is not nearly as fixed on me as Pete’s,
but it slides in at a close second. Part of me genuinely thinks that
she’s interested, but the more practical part knows that she’s
just searching for an excuse to have me down here, and because I
waste all of my time huddled in my room, tales such as these don’t
drift into her ears as often as she would prefer.
My
voice halts suddenly, for a reason not yet deciphered, and the
surrounding citizens beg me to go on in a numerous amount of
expressions — puppy dog visages, clinquant irises, backs
hunched by the decree of intrigue gathering in their complexions.
Why
do they care so much? Is it a cruel joke, the vindictive punch-line
being that I no longer go outside?
You
think so negatively. That’s why you’re a psycho.
I
continue, not because I truly desire to do so, but because I’m
endeavoring to prove the voices incorrect.
Standing
up for myself is the sweetest revenge.
My
mother’s nails caress the linoleum surface of the counter, an
act that she once described as a nervous twitch, so naturally, panic
traipses through my heart. A prolonged moment drags its feet through
the sand before she starts. “Patrick, I’m not trying to
criticize your choice in friends, but…”
Oh,
here we go.
“Are
you sure Pete will help you get better?” Her expression is
palpable, her eyes shadowed by the nearing storm crawling by the
windows.
“Why
are you so concerned with my friends? I thought you were all about
getting me outdoors.” It comes out more defensively than I had
hoped for, but I can attribute that to my emotions constantly
dangling over the edge.
Pete’s
vision never falters from his spot near the dishwasher, aggressively
caressing plates with a sunflower sponge, so it’s plausible to
say that he’s not listening, but even so, the omnipotent
feeling of paranoia does not cease; it never does.
My
mom’s tone scales down by notice of my safety measure. “I
wasn’t quite saying that I don’t want you to get outside,
but I’m just taking precautions. I’m sure Pete is a
wonderful guy, but if you become incredibly dependent on him, that’s
not good for either of you.”
“What
makes you think I’ll become dependent on him?” Residual
pieces of my volume dance in Pete’s ears, but he doesn’t
turn around to address them.
“Nothing.”
Patricia Stump’s lips fold into a thoughtful pucker, closing
the matter.
Fingertips
wind through my hair as a gust of wind leaks from my lungs. “You’re
lying, but you’re my mother, so you have to. If you were really
interested in me getting better, you wouldn’t be so damn
ambiguous.”
She
doesn’t respond, pondering through the clatter of the dishes
how her own son became so messed-up, and honestly, I have no fucking
idea, but I roll with it like everyone says I should, because at
least I’m not living on the streets, and at least I have a“caring”
parent, and at least I’m not dead, but I frankly don’t
accept settling for the things I do have, because the things I do
have mean nothing significant when you look at them closely, and it’s
time someone other than me understands that — but you know
what? No one will, because I’m isolated within myself, drawing
blankets across my back and hiding from the world, and once again,
I’m the aforementioned messed-up son, and now even my own
mother knows it.
My
mother’s face echoes despondency in the way it declines so
completely. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m just trying to
be a good mother.”
“Don’t
make this about yourself,” I snap, and she reels back in
surprise. “Sorry, I...I just want to have a good night with
Pete, okay?”
My
mom nods.
“Thank
you.”
Pete’s
body swivels to approach us, shooting his hands into his pockets
stiffly. “I finished the dishes.”
My
mom’s focus sweeps back to me, as if confirming something.
“I’ll be going out soon to get groceries and...do other
things, I guess. Be good.”
A
devious look wades in Pete’s eyes. “Sure will.”
Chapter
Nine
Everything
was going fine — or at least as fine as things go for someone
like me — until one point of pressure wrecked it all.
Pete
and I were enjoying our time while my mother went out, relaxing by
the singing flames and maneuvering board game pieces to advance our
plans, and our actions were tender amidst a world of judgement, so I
was prepared to cherish the moment, but I should never expect such
things from myself.
I’m
sure Pete didn’t plan on contacting my arm — accidents
happen; everyone knows that — but it still retained the same
impact. Like people tell one another, an apology doesn’t heal a
broken leg.
To
a normal person, someone touching your arm would be nothing momentous
and would probably be brushed off with a brisk “oh, sorry”
before they go on their merry little way and forget about it five
minutes later.
But
I am most definitely not
a
normal person, so here I am, crunched on the floor of the bathroom
after excusing myself with the lie of needing to use the toilet, a
half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide quivering in my hand as it
bleeds onto my arm, and I frankly couldn’t care less, because
this is what I’ve been doing for two years, and it feels as
natural as swallowing a breath. Ceasing the action would be the more
dangerous option, but it’s taken a while to explain that to
psychologists without them promptly interjecting to assign a cavalier
diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The
peroxide deposits an unquestionably hospitable aftertaste, and that’s
one thing that I need after months of neglect. It’s presented
itself as my one true friend, even going so far as to challenge the
voice in my head, and I’ve acknowledged it to be accurate.
Other people are wary about the subject, but they clearly haven’t
been living inside my mind for long enough to determine what I do and
do not need for myself.
So
with that mapped out, I observe intently as the clear substance
dribbles out of its bottle, tap-dancing over my skin as it supplies
parting gifts of its own body on its way to the next area. The image
is so vibrant that it hoists a smile onto my chapped lips, if only
for a moment, before it bustles away at the sight in the mirror
procured when I stand up.
I’m
the everlasting vampire figure that I witnessed the last time, but
it’s the vampire figure with auspicious foundation makeup
amassed on my face. I look somehow happier,
but all I desire right now is to wipe it away, strangle it in the
drain of the sink to discount its existence, and I almost pound
through the glass to trap it once the structure repairs itself, but I
wouldn’t want Pete to go search for me at his note of the
noise.
I
conclude it’s better to focus on the peroxide — and what
an interesting liquid it is. I take particular notice of its
fluidity, how it flees from my arm, how it dries up the skin once
deciding to stay, how it can go anywhere but has its destination in
mind.
I
wish I could do that — run away with the freedom to go back —
but this is life, and it only evokes destruction.
I
hadn’t comprehended how much time I spent in the bathroom until
a sharp knock at the door demands a bath of hydrogen peroxide beside
me, a curse word rolling out of my lips, and a sudden state of
hysteria.
Instead
of the person entering, their melodic voice inquires, “Patrick?
Are you doing okay in there?”
Don’t
say anything. Don’t let him in. You’re a psycho, yeah,
but you can’t let him know that, not if you don’t want to
be alone.
“Patrick,
I’m coming in if you don’t answer me.”
Don’t
respond.
The
creaking of the door fiddles with the lock system, and Pete’s
perturbed form steps through with a timid clutch on his wrist.
“It’s
impolite to intrude, you know.” My gaze never departs from my
chemical activity, only pursues it without a fear of chastisement
from Pete, because someone interrupting my compulsion doesn’t
mean that it can’t resume later, and not even the possibility
of making a friend is powerful enough to override the immutable
system.
“I
apologize for being so tactless, but—” Pete stops short,
processing what I’m doing to myself. “What is that?”
I
glare at him for the first time since we met, but if we continue
acting this way, it won’t be the last. “Hydrogen
peroxide, you fool. What does it look like?”
Pete’s
bones rattle under his clothes, but he deflects my comment outwardly.
“It looks like you’re doing something that you shouldn’t
be.” Glory leaks from his skin and spills into the pile of
peroxide on the floor in an agile manner.
It’s
a shame he’s so arrogant. I thought you two would work out.
“What
do you mean?” Teeth churning their own material, I add, “I
do this all the time. It’s no big deal.”
“Considering
you lied to me about going to the bathroom” — Pete allows
one prolonged glance of shame at the puddle of disinfectant before
addressing me again — “I think it is
a
big deal.”
My
shoulders buckle under the pressure of replying, eyes resort to
staring at my battered shoes. “You don’t know what it’s
like to need to do this, Pete,” I mutter. “You don’t.”
The
door blinks at the command of Pete, and he curls his knees up to
match my position on the tile. “Then why do you
need
to do it? I won’t condemn, I promise.” His attention is
still directed towards me, even after drawn-out moments of waiting
that now migrate to kids with fewer problems.
Tears
claw at my face, and I spread their soot more evenly across so that
it seems like they disappeared. “Because there are fingerprints
on my arm that won’t go away, and I swear, I’ve tried
everything — scratching, washing, burning — but nothing’s
worked as well as the peroxide.”
“Do
you know where they came from?” Pete’s tone is a
recumbent hum, splashing onto the walls like blood —
conspicuous and just as alarming — and whatever solace that
retreated previously has now brought crumbs.
“It
started two years ago (when I was still as disarranged as I am
currently) with a friend and a mistake, which can be said for
anything dubious, now that I think about it.” My diction snaps
like the flimsiest crayon in the box, but a captivated expression
from my companion glues it back together...partially. “The only
thing I seemed to know was that I wasn’t okay, Pete. I wasn’t.”
Pete’s
hands lunge for a square of toilet paper to capture the crisp leaves
cascading from my eyes, and the first drop upon the surface is like
blood upon the snow, like rain upon the ground, like acid upon flesh.
“And
D-D...my friend was the only one who made things better, but I was
getting worse, and I couldn’t rely on him for everything. You
can’t do that to someone.”
Porcelain
fragments of grief construct Pete’s visage and chip away at his
prior mask of delight, which was so benefiting to see for someone as
lost as I am, but it’s gone now, and truth is the only viable
craftsman.
“I
was hallucinating more and more, and it felt like I was fucking
dying, drowning under doubt and regrets and melanoid waves, and I
didn’t want him to have to fish me out and resuscitate me, so I
left. I fucking left him, and at the time, it seemed like a fruitful
plan, like I was somehow saving him from the starvation of loss, and
even after he screamed that I was throwing him to the wolves, I
didn’t listen, because the only thing worse than suffocating is
watching someone else suffocate, and he wasn’t strong enough
for that.”
Why
would you tell Pete this? He’s going to leave you, just like
you left the other fool, and you’re going to die again. Who
would be here to host me, huh? You ungrateful dimwit.
“I
was on my way out the door, and…” My eyes stitch
together tightly, recalling the event and shuddering.
Dr.
Saporta wouldn’t like this.
“He
grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go. And yeah, that doesn’t
seem like a lot — it doesn’t even hurt — but that
wasn’t why it stung. It was the first action of many, which
included him locking me inside, him yelling at me that what I was
doing was wrong and immoral and brutal, him saying that we could sort
things out. But you know what?”
Pete’s
head rotates back and forth with the speed of a snail, bracing
himself within this time to hear the final punchline.
“We
never did, and now I’m left with these scars, while he’s
off doing whatever he wants, because I was too goddamn scared to say
anything. I have to attend countless psychology meetings for the PTSD
he gave me and the OCD that his touch
gave me and the psychosis that started this all and the social
anxiety that made me petrified to stand up for myself and the autism
that separated me from everyone but him in the first place, and it’s
still not enough to fix me.
“He’s
free, and I am a fucking animal, trapped in a cage that I made for
myself under the belief that it was his fault, and nothing ever
changes in a life like this, so if hydrogen peroxide is the only safe
haven since his company, if it’s the only thing that keeps me
alive, then you’ll accept it like the kind of friend that you
advertise yourself as.”
Silence
snatches the color from the room, chilling it from the lack of
energy, but I suppose that’s to be expected. I ruined it all.
“Thank
you for telling me,” Pete finally whispers. I anticipate
another moment of quiet after his comment, but he has more to say.
“Though you have to realize that this isn’t good for you,
Patrick, indulging in your compulsions.”
Fingers
fight for my hair, asphyxiating in the thin, dry strands. “You’re
just like the rest of them, always telling me not to do things, not
to act a certain way, not to be myself, but this is my life now, in
case you haven’t noticed, and the peroxide comes along with
it.” A soft, miffed chuckle skates out of my mouth. “I
thought you were beyond this, Pete, but I guess not. You’re the
reincarnation of my psychologist, and I hate it.”
Stuttering
in the form of closing and reopening occurs on Pete’s bronzed
terrain, eyelashes folding over the lower tundra with a mission of
conveying shock. “I try not to be your psychologist, because
that isn’t how friendship is supposed to run.”
“That’s
what everyone preaches, yet they never seem to follow by that
example.” My jaw compresses, narrowly crushing my teeth under
the force as my vision flicks to the opposite lateral.
It’s
riveting to stop and examine the features of it — the silky
blue that embraces the wall, the splattering bumps from average
building, the absence of complexity with the simple, straight
structure — but Pete’s still gripping my uncited focus,
and it appears that he won’t let it go.
I
give up and confront him.
“I
want to help you, Patrick,” Pete assures once recognizing that
I’m listening (though not intently).
“But
I don’t want to be helped,” I murmur, toying with my
extremities.
Pete’s
vision lulls to a position aimed towards me, an earnest air diffusing
around the room. “Well I won’t warrant that.”
Chapter
Ten
“Patrick,
what’s wrong? You’ve been avoiding me all night.”
My
spotlight transfers from selecting a movie on the shelf to my
frazzled acquaintance, whose hands levitate in the air to express a
demand. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t
play coy,” Pete barks anxiously, and after an astonished scowl
from me, his tone slopes down. “Sorry for being so aggressive,
but there’s something wrong.”
You
can’t admit anything, or he won’t leave you be.
Maintaining
a safe stance from the vacancy of cameras in my room, my perspective
stains the disc of an opened film package to refrain from meeting
Pete. “There’s been something wrong for as long as I can
remember. There’s nothing different about right now.”
“I
bet you say that all the time, yeah? And then you complain about no
one understanding you, no one helping you.” Pete’s
fingers skate through his dusty locks as a sigh rolls from his lungs.
“Well I’m trying, Patrick, and you need to let me.”
My
arms collapse on each other. “I don’t need to let you do
anything. They’re my
issues,
not yours, and even if you have an abundance of them yourself, that’s
irrelevant to me.”
“Yeah,
I do
have
an abundance of issues, and I’ve had to employ numerous
psychiatrists to fix my fucking bipolar brain, none of whom have
worked as well as the medication they gave me, so I know what it’s
like to struggle, and I am cognizant of the fact that it’s not
as pretty as society makes it (on the occasions that they acknowledge
mental illnesses at all), but there are always going to be people who
can relate with you, and I am one of those people, so please...if you
value our friendship, tell me what’s wrong.”
You
can’t tell anyone anything. You already decided this, dimwit.
You said you wouldn’t let people see inside your brain. They’ll
manipulate you.
My
tongue assails the rim of my mouth, pushing against my teeth to pass
the time, while Pete is still as worried as ever, eyes creased with
frustration. “Bipolar disorder, huh?” I elect to say,
diverting the subject.
A
strand of hair shuffles out of Pete’s view. “That doesn’t
matter.”
“That’s
what I always say, yet you try to force things out of me, but here
you are, saying the exact same thing. Give me a moment to assess how
hypocritical that is, will you?”
“I’m
just trying to assist you,” Pete whispers, gaze tethered to the
floor.
“There
is this voice in my head, and they don’t want your assistance.
I have to listen to them, not you. They’ve always been here for
me, and you’re just some kid from a daycare center that just
happened to notice I was panicking and retained knowledge of a remedy
for it. You’re nothing special.”
I
can detect the spears piercing Pete’s face, and his temple of
self-esteem deteriorates into a murky dust, all because of a comment
that I’m sure he’s heard many times before. He shouldn’t
care that I’ve finally said it. I’m nothing special,
either.
“Do
you have a name for this voice?”
You
just insulted him, and he only cares about what I’m called?
Typical fool.
I
pause and think. No, I’ve never considered what the terror that
haunts my mind is named, and I don’t really care, as well, but
Pete’s anticipating an answer, and I’ve been ghastly
towards him, so the best I can do is comply.
“Etep,”
I declare without thinking, but it soon processes as a valid choice.
Pete’s
brows faint closer to each other in bewilderment. “Why Etep?”
“Because
it’s your name backwards, and Etep is the complete opposite
from you. You’re kinder than they are, smarter and more
worthwhile, even if I won’t confess to it regularly, so it’s
fitting, isn’t it?”
Don’t
compliment people. They get too clingy.
But
it’s true, so I’ll narrate it, and I’ve never had a
sense of what I should and shouldn’t say, so it really all
blurs together, and this is no exception. Pete Wentz is beautiful.
“Etep,”
my friend repeats, mulling it over. “Thank you.”
I
wonder how finally addressing the voice in my head is cause for him
thanking me,
but I respect the gesture, and a smile unwittingly pulls at my lips.
“You’re welcome.”
A
metaphorical embrace flows between us, and Pete’s throat
shivers eventually, rumbling, “So why have you been avoiding
me?”
Shit.
We had shared an intimate moment, and he’s back at my neck
again. The allure is all but diminished from the room, the aura
sickeningly emaciated and hell-bent on wounding us — or just
me, because Pete is the one with the harmless query, and I am
disastrously trapped in the crossfire.
“I
shouldn’t have told you what happened to me.” It’s
remarkably honest for someone such as myself, and I note it as
progress, but I shouldn’t be rejoicing in this moment, for
Pete’s visage is ambushed with disappointment.
“And
why is that? It’s important for friends to articulate their
feelings, and it’s a consequential thing for humans to corner
them inside themselves without acquiescing them.” My
companion’s head propels back and forth with his fingers
snagging the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to be
even more of the wreck that you portray yourself as, and the only way
to escape that fate is to open up to me. I want you to know that I’m
here for you no matter what.”
“Fine.”
A burdensome shipment of breath embarks from my mouth. “I told
my story as if it were D...my friend’s fault, but it was me. I
was the one who tried to leave. I was the one who cried at simplistic
words thrown at me. I was the one who almost said something to my
mother — I didn’t, but I could’ve decimated it all.
It was my fault, not his, and I fucking spoiled everything.”
The
urge to grab my hands and tell me something that needs to be heard
bangs against Pete’s face, but it doesn’t shatter the
glass. Only the words evade the barrier, crying, “It will never
be
your fault, Patrick. That guy fucking hurt you,
so don’t you dare blame yourself. What he did was illegal and
unethical and more immoral than he said your departure was, and
there’s no one at more of a shortcoming than him. You’re
fucking amazing, and don’t you debate that for a second.”
Tears
demolish my solidity, but I don’t give a shit anymore. Too many
years I’ve been locked up with the key thrown down the
trashcan, and letting loose to just sob without judgment is a
wonderful concept.
Pete
won’t care. He’s known the same terrors, and maybe that’s
why he appeals to me so much, and I can’t decide whether being
just as disarrayed as him is a beneficial component of our
relationship or not, but Dr. Saporta isn’t here to vote on my
opportunities for once, so I might as well enjoy my time.
But
even so, Pete is wrong. The event was entirely my doing, and I’ve
known that for two years. It’s nothing new, not like a phase.
It’s forever, marked upon me with an infected needle and blood
red ink.
Ambivalence
composes a silent tragedy on my skin, accentuating its performance
with an arduous rainfall, and I struggle through its volume to choke
out, “You can’t really think that all it takes is for you
to say it for me to believe that it’s the truth.”
“Touch
your arm,” Pete orders, saluting his subject.
“What?”
Pete
nods at my bicep to clarify. “Touch your arm where your old
friend did, and just feel its complexities. Don’t evaluate what
transpired, only the vantage point from a third party. Did you
grab
your arm?”
My
head wobbles to contradict.
“That’s
right. Your friend did, not you. He awarded you with post-traumatic
stress disorder, with obsessions and compulsions, and none of that
was your fault.” Pete’s eyes dig a grave for my denial
into my soul to make certain that I understand. “Now touch your
arm.”
Grudgingly,
hesitant fingers coast across my palpitating limb, the sensation
introducing icicles and winter storms to the surface, and I
surprisingly don’t get strangled by its capacity like I
suspected I would.
“See
that? Your
touch is real, not your friend’s. His legacy ended two years
ago, and I can’t find him here with us, so he’s
definitely not holding contact with you. I know that you never
certify your arm a passport into freedom, but you just beheld a
credible taste of connection, and I’m so fucking proud of you,
Patrick.” A beam circulates Pete’s demeanor, splattering
liveliness on the walls.
“I’m
not sure…” My lip suffers the sting of my teeth, nearly
extracting blood, just because I’m an equivocal dimwit.
The
boy giggles, banishing my comment to replace it with something more
cheerful. “My new life goal is to assure Patrick Stump that it
was clearly not his fault,” Pete announces, shaping his hands
to his hips. “And I always achieve my goals.”
Chapter
Eleven
There’s
something oddly comforting about scrolling through your contacts one
by one. Perhaps it’s like emphasizing to yourself that you
actually have people that care about you just a little bit, people
that you can ring whenever you please without panicking about not
saving their number, and that’s something distinctive to
someone with social anxiety.
But
that comfort dissolves when Pete Wentz is watching you and presses
the call button on Brendon Urie’s page, someone who happens to
be the worst person you could prank, because he ends up unwittingly
pranking you back with even more velocity than you had contributed to
your
plan, so it’s basically like screwing with your own army in a
battle on your path to defeat.
There’s
no use trying to fight it, though, because Pete realizes none of
this, and if I tried to explain it to him, Brendon will have picked
up the line before I can finish, and thus the chaos ensues promptly
afterward.
With
the homosexual’s flamboyant personality, there’s no
chance in hell I could hang up on him, because he’d call me
back a million times until my phone drains in battery life and I
curse the very metaphorical heavens that sent down this atheistic
man-whore, whose most rampant plague is calling himself a gay lord
every five seconds, so I brace myself for the impact that Pete will
never comprehend before he meets the guy.
My
phone’s screen signals the connection between my friend and the
apparent gay lord with a reputation for prostitution, stomach
lurching with dread.
“I
don’t think you know what you’re getting into, Pete,”
I warn, glancing up at the guest from my location on the floor to his
spot on the bed.
“That
makes it all the more amusing,” he counters.
“No,
I mean you really—”
“I
got the Cheez Whiz!” a muffled voice proclaims from the
alternate end of the line, its origin probably looting through a
cabinet in another room.
My
nose coils in perplexity. “The hell?”
“He
probably accepted the call by accidentally crushing the phone under
his elbow or something, and this is just the collateral,” Pete
surmises, lifting the device to his ear in a labor to expel more
information on the cryptic Cheez Whiz.
An
extended moan insinuates our ears, like a mix between an ox and a
dying boar, neither pleasant, and our senses demur.
“Or
this is him just pranking us back,” I negate as more of the
sounds tiptoe in pentagrams around us.
Pete
visibly cringes, an action that usually doesn’t arise outside
him, being all docile and such. “What’s wrong with this
Brendon Urie guy?” His brows convolute intensely, like they’ll
somehow aid his study of my flaming queer of a friend, but I have to
admit — not even I know what’s going on inside Brendon
Boyd Urie’s head, and I’ve been familiar with him for
over ten years, but there’s something unique whirring in there
(probably why he has such a massive forehead), something that none of
us can reflect, meaning I’ve given up trying to decode his
messages, which probably just have gigantic (yet exceptionally
realistic) dicks drawn on all of them, so there’s not much
worth competing overall. The teachers fucking hated him for being so
enigmatic.
“It’s
been said that his social life is bigger than his forehead,” I
present bluntly, focus taped to the phone. “Aye, Brendon!”
No
response.
“Ryan
Ross is heterosexual!” I try, a deceptive grin lathered over my
face.
“The
fuck
did
you just say?” the “angelic” tone of Brendon Urie
demands, the static from his increased volume dropping from the
phone’s speakers.
“Glad
we got your attention,” Pete thanks, leaning closer to me to
relay the message effectively.
“Who
is this?” the teenager interrogates with an astonished flair in
his inflection. “Patrick Stump, I didn’t know you were a
prostitute.”
“No,
Brendon. That would be you.”
“Shit,
that’s true.” Satire dejection dangles from Brendon’s
words, but he dismisses them to move on to another subject. “Anyway,
what’s up?”
“Just
so you know, this is Pete Wentz from the Belleville Development
Center and the coffee shop near my house, and what’s that whole
Cheez Whiz thing?”
The
reply returns fairly quickly. “Oh, that’s just Ryan. He
likes to eat Cheez Whiz and milk together — I honestly have no
idea why, because it’s pretty fucking disgusting, but he’s
cute, so I allow it.”
“Ryan?”
Pete mouths, and I send a “Brendon’s boy toy” back
to him, to which he laughs softly.
It’s
almost like you have a friend, psycho. That’ll never happen, of
course, but it’s funny to see you try.
Not
now. Get the hell out of my mind. All you do is bring destruction.
Hmph,
it’s almost like you’re describing yourself.
That’s
the thing about psychosis, though — it doesn’t cease for
pastimes, only interrupts it to convey its terribly dull reports, as
if I care at all; I should get back to my friends, not fret about
what’s going on inside my head. I have all the time in the
world for that.
“Is
there even the slightest chance that you’re not crushing on
Ryan Ross?” Though Brendon can’t see it, my brow hikes
farther up my forehead.
“Hell
no. Are you new here?” he cackles.
“You
should tell him how you feel,” Pete advocates, enticed.
A
roaring noise bounds against the phone line, and Brendon’s
words flee in a more startled manner. “Yeah, I should, but my
mom is home, and she doesn’t like Ryan to be here, so I gotta
scat.”
Snickering,
I shift my grip on the phone. “Classic.”
“Peace
out, rainbow trout” is all I hear before Brendon supposedly
tosses his device onto the bed and sprints into another area to alert
his not-boyfriend to the compromising situation.
The
scraping clamor of perforating a window — which is surprisingly
comical — is audible from our position in my bedroom, soon
chased by the gliding of legs across a wooden frame and the wrapping
action of sealing the aperture.
After
about a minute, the connection presses a finger to its mouth, and the
life absconds from our signal, spurring a discussion between just
Pete and me.
“Being
thrown on a bed really reminds me of sleeping arrangements,”
Pete digresses, clasping his hands together.
For
a moment, I predicted Pete talking about how being thrown on a bed
reminded him of a morbid love letter he read once, but that’s
thankfully not the case.
“Yeah,
let’s sort that out.” My voice is rather controlled for
someone about to have a heart attack at the probability of Pete’s
prior statement, but I’m certainly not complaining. “I
can sleep on the floor.”
“Nonsense,”
my guest nullifies. “You’re the host, and this is your
royal mattress of divine slumber.”
An
unintentional giggle strokes my lips, but Pete appears to think it’s
the most adorable painting he’s ever seen, so it remains
without regret. “Are you sure?”
Pete
nods, a natural smile cemented to his gentle veneer. “But of
course.”
My
face contorts with the burden of making a decision, and I vocalize,
“Eh, you can have it. The floor’s cozy enough for me.”
Pete
dips his head diagonally, baffled at my eagerness to relinquish my
serene setting for the solid ground. “Are you
sure?”
“But
of course,” I mimic, with even the smile represented perfectly.
“If
you insist.” Pete mocks peevishness, but anyone can recognize
that he’s bubbling with gratitude beneath the first layer. Can
you believe I
did
that? Wow.
I
withdraw a downy blanket from my closet, where Brendon Urie escaped
at the age of ten years old, shocking his parents quite thoroughly
and causing mass carnage among the heterosexuals, and I fold the
fabric across a pad from under my bed.
Once
I’ve finished assembling my mattress, Pete registers that as an
authorization to amble under the covers, and my actions pursue him a
few seconds later.
“Good
night, Pete Wentz,” I greet underneath the aegean cloak, a
simper hidden for the reign of eyes peeking out of the duvet.
“Good
night, Patrick Stump.” Pete’s voice is thick like honey —
and just as sweet — and the light from the lamp beside him is
collared by the dominance of temporal obscurity.
Then
night absorbs the heat from the air, stashing a frigid blast in its
place, but that’s trivial with heaps of blankets strewn upon my
body, and the warmth of my companion is the sole discussion within my
thoughts.
And
in the morning, no one is to know that my back conformed to Pete’s
chest for a few hours, because that frankly isn’t crucial. The
only thing that matters is that I got a conducive refuel, and if it
was in my friend’s clutch, so be it. It’s my
bed,
after all.
Chapter
Twelve
Watching
Pete Wentz scrub tables in a mundane coffee shop would seem, at least
to any regular person, like an incredibly boring activity, but it’s
already been mentioned that I’m not a regular person, so I’ll
enjoy myself as much as I possibly can.
The
aspect of not having to worry about anything is a plus, too. The only
slightly troubling occurrence is when the bell by the door wails for
attention — the noise itself is terrifying, but the fact that a
new person has entered is an added bonus — though other than
that, peace is the supreme ruler.
Pete’s
hands circle the tables with close concentration, and through this it
becomes evident that he values his job excessively. I wonder why that
is, but my mother has made it obvious that asking people’s
introspective intentions isn’t socially appropriate, so I don’t
say anything.
Instead,
my eyes bounce over his actions, hollering from an elation that
probably shouldn’t exist (but nevertheless does) as the auroral
ambience glitters around our heads and breathes as we would through
our noses.
So
mesmerizing is Pete’s work that the droning of my alarm
narrowly avoids being silenced by my captivity, but at the last
moment, the snooze button is bulldozed by my frantic fingers.
“What
was that?” Pete inquires, charcoal locks swinging around Pete’s
forehead as if from coarse jungle vines.
“My
alarm,” I confess, lips abbreviating with a nervous expression.
“Do
you have to go somewhere?” My friend’s face is
masterfully illustrated with chagrin, colors clashing as if fighting
a war for artistic control upon a terrain of matchless creativity and
splendor, a war that they will never win, because the vibrance has
been overrun by shadowy remorse.
“To
my...psychologist.” It’s an ordeal simply to launch the
words out, and perhaps I shouldn’t be so grateful to myself for
performing a basic human function, but the appreciation is still
ubiquitously present.
“Have
a good time, and do your best, yeah?” Pete really
wants
the best for me...
I
nod hastily so that my actual emotions won’t chew through their
leash. “I’ll try.”
A
heartfelt smile is the last thing I see before the door separates
Pete and me, and what a pleasant closing act that is.
“You
seem agitated.” The words tickle Dr. Saporta’s vocal
chords with the intention of being portrayed as a dull statement,
confined to a minimal range, and they’re more than unnerving.
“How
so?”
The
man surveys me up and down as if to make it seem like he collected
more data. “Your feet are tapping, your hands are squirming
around, and you keep glancing at the clock. Do you have somewhere to
be?”
A
sly smile details my face. “Just here.”
The
psychologist pushes further. “Then do you have someone
to
see?”
“As
a matter of fact, I do. It’s Pete Wentz, about whom I told you
before.”
Well
you seem joyous.
Adversity
tears a hole in Dr. Saporta’s countenance, speeding through
every bit of durability. “You mean right before you slammed the
door in my face after walking out and disrupting the other patients’
sessions?”
My
mouth’s inspiration runs dry, and Dr. Saporta views it as an
opportunity to ask one of his “philosophical” questions.
“Do
you know your enemies, Patrick?”
I’ve
always found it appalling when people would ask me this, because I
thought by now they would’ve grasped the status of my mind and
how non-linear it is, how knowing your enemy is by far the most
befuddling thing one could require of another. The topic itself is so
specific, as if enemies aren’t always circling around like
vultures, waiting to strike at the most random times, which are the
most relevant to them in some inexplicable manner.
So
no, I don’t know my enemies, but I anticipated more from him.
But
Dr. Saporta is a jerk, and whether or not that has already been
established is of no importance, because the fact has been thoroughly
etched into my mind, the only one who seems to know what it’s
doing, and because I’m so lost at sea, I concluded a while back
that the best option is to follow my brain, considering other ends
aren’t so available as I had once thought, and judging by the
way those voices hold such an authority over me, it’s not like
I have much of a choice but to comply, and they’ve made
themselves pretty clear that they’re the only things present
and that they won’t be leaving anytime soon.
At
least I’m not alone, though. I wonder if I should be
celebrating. Dr. Saporta definitely wouldn’t, but it’s
not like I give a care after describing him as a jerk.
I
believe it’s fair in saying that he’s done more harm than
help, even if my mother would disagree with her last breath, but
she’s not the one who experiences first-hand what it’s
like to need a psychologist in the first place.
I’m
notably fucked up, and that’s something I have to understand or
else suffer an impenetrable layer of ignorance hanging over me, but
no one else seems to, only shrugging it off after assuring that I’m
just like the rest of them — or better yet, just someone with
minor differences that I can overcome by believing in myself; if they
were true friends, they would recognize that believing in myself has
never proven effective, but someone with the audacity to advise that
remedy is far from a true friend anyway.
And
relatively, one would assume that a patient and their psychologist
must have a significant bond that excludes phrases such as those, but
there is no separation between normal people and people who require
treatment. We’re all just humans, which entails emotions, and
erasing them is somewhat ironic, because maintaining vigorous
emotions is most likely what landed the patient in psychiatric care,
meaning that they should possess a stronger judgement on the person
most suited for their needs.
But
I didn’t receive my choice — my mother chose for me —
so I might as well answer Dr. Saporta’s query.
“Maybe.”
“Well
is Pete one of them?” Dr. Saporta pries, irises fluttering with
an interest unfitting for a psychologist towards their patient.
“He
challenges me.” And for the most part, it’s true.
Pete
Wentz isn’t afraid to counter me, to remind me that I’m
not the only person in this world from a perspective other than my
social anxiety’s, while other people are terrified of me,
maintaining a cautious distance like I carry a pathogen that will
give them Ebola or something, never questioning me, and for the
longest time, I viewed that as a benefit of being so jacked up,
because I wouldn’t have to talk to people, and they wouldn’t
have to talk to me, but in reality, it’s not healthy to be
sheltered from the world. Pete knows that I am a person, and people
have a substance beyond their cognitive stability, which I don’t
as a result of perpetuating that aforementioned mentality, and it’s
beautiful just to feel.
I
am a human. I have emotions. I have friends. I have other humans that
are made of lots of the same atoms and genes and structures that I
am, and Pete has made me aware of the fact that I’m not so
abstracted as I had one thought.
“And
do you view that as a flaw in your relationship?”
Pete
Wentz challenges me more than anything I’ve ever encountered,
and I am extremely indebted to him for it. Previously, I counted that
as a flaw, but it’s axiomatic that I was completely wrong, like
I am with most things these days, and I’m emerging from my
shell a tad more each second — revealing myself to the more
disreputable of people, however, could be cataclysmic.
“No,
I can’t say that I do. He’s made me think on many
occasions.”
Head
tilted, my psychologist concurs, “It’s always good to
think.” Dr. Saporta’s sunflower-tinted pencil drums with
shallow whispers on the diagnostic sheet, the one that makes me
hesitant to visit this office, orchestrating a steady, monotonous
harmony that attacks my ears with its balanced perfection; someone
such as him doesn’t deserve excellence, not after everything
he’s done to my mind, repercussions that can’t ever be
reversed.
“Thinking...it’s
been a risk for me, though,” I grant, appointing an aimless
mark of burgundy to my skin so that it may wallow around and vacate
at its leisure. “My thoughts are messy, especially when I have
voices laced within them, and I’ve found those anecdotes to be
frequent.”
Dr.
Saporta’s hands mesh together, like a net to catch my constant
shade. “That’s why we’re here, Patrick.”
My
windpipe is then fractured by an incredulous laugh splitting away. “I
thought we were here so that you can tease me about how crazy I am.”
“You’re
not crazy—”
“Then
explain my hallucinations! Explain the person in my mind! Explain my
paranoia! Explain why I heard you talking to my mother about sending
me to a fucking mental hospital!” My breathing requests pulses
as hollow as the ocean in which I hope to drown myself, the nebulous
depths of the New Jersey coast, but it’s all so far away now,
suppressed by other memories of hardship and sin.
I
desire to return to it, to feel the dismal water slipping through my
fingers as a metaphor of my life slipping away like it has been for
two years, and just know that nothing will ever matter anymore,
because I’m practically dead anyway. This has been clear as the
sea which I never want to observe, because it advertises the lies I
fall for temporarily, and I hate the aftermath of realizing that they
were never tangible.
“You’re
not crazy,” Dr. Saporta repeats, peering down at his fingers
looped in a gesticulatory cage of flesh.
My
head’s genuflection defies him. “You can’t turn me
against something I’ve known for a while, the harsh opinions of
the people at school and at home and in public, because they’ve
been ingrained within my mind, and they’ll be here forever, so
you have no place to tell me that I’m not crazy — you’re
just one person amidst a world of people who contradict your
statement, and you’ll soon understand that your ideas about me
won’t mean a thing later, because you’re transitory, but
I bear the judgment for as long as I’m alive, and with the
current state of things, that period won’t be long.
“Your
job is to guide me through this rough time, but you’re
receiving a bad grade as of now. Step up your game, Saporta, or you
won’t have a patient to help, but you will
have a funeral to attend.”
The
impact of my speech is pronounced on Dr. Saporta’s regularly
neutral visage, his brows contorting with mixed emotion, his mouth
thinning like wearied hair dyed a salmon hue. “If you’re
having suicidal thoughts—”
“No,”
I cut him off, beryl oculi burning with candid heat into my
psychologist’s copper ones and not once aiming to liberate
them. “I’m having contented thoughts, and I can impute
that to a special someone. Pete Wentz is not my enemy, and he will
never be.”
The
sounds of the room desert us, punching through the walls to evade the
futile doctor perched on the desk until he crushes them within his
grip to transport them back to the area. “Well that’s
settled,” the man expounds rather dully.
Once
again, you’ve made a mistake.
Chapter
Thirteen
Sweltering
tears trample my skin as they’re bombarded by the breeze from
the door when it’s shoved open, and the world suddenly isn’t
so exquisite anymore.
The
birds’ tongues have been severed, then deposited into a roaring
flame so that they may no longer sing. The trees are stationary,
their roots’ purpose finally discovered as one to hold the oaks
in place. The air screams in anguish for a reprieve that is more
permanent than it hoped for.
You’re
going to a mental hospital, psycho, right where you belong.
I
fucking know, but I know after the middle-man told me. My own mother
wants to lock me up, as if that’s not what I’ve been
doing to myself for five years, and she didn’t even inform me
of the plan. Am I not entitled to my own future?
Ever
since I was a kid, I dreamt of what life would be like as a young
adult, and not once did I consider what it’s like for me right
now. Not once did I think I’d be forced into daily medication
and doctors. Not once did I think I would hallucinate voices in my
head. Not once did I think I would be under continuous surveillance.
Not once did I think I would be sent to a mental institution.
I
familiarized myself with football teams and school dances, with movie
nights and laughter. I didn’t ask for this.
And
through all of the pandemonium catapulting around the mind that
turned out much different than I would’ve desired, a
crimson-haired lad of eighteen approaches me, a smile chiseled into
his feline lips that soon disappears due to my obvious strife.
Gerard
fucking Way, the life-ruiner as a result of his chronic grin —
and the last person I’d expect to see standing outside of a
psychologist’s office at four in the afternoon.
“Hey,
Patrick!” the teenager greets, sliding his hipster frames
farther up his slim nose with the same fingers he employs to shake my
hand, not bothering to mention my tears throughout the journey,
because I’m sure he recognizes that I’ll never open up to
anyone.
After
the formality, my fists condense and camouflage in my pockets,
awaiting the direction of the conversation. “Is there a reason
why you’re here? I don’t mean to be rude, but my friends
usually don’t show up after my psychology sessions.”
Who
are you kidding? You don’t even have friends, you psycho.
Gerard
clasps his hands together to signal the call into discussion. “Ah,
yes, right, sorry. Seeing as it’s winter break, I’d like
to invite you to my lake house in Caribou (that’s in Maine,
just in case you were wondering).”
The
Ways aren’t particularly rich, surfing on the spectrum of the
middle class, but they managed to score a deal — whose
specifics are beyond me — and won the house, but Maine is a
couple hours away, so the property hasn’t been utilized often.
Now
Gerard’s unearthed the perfect chance, but my requital isn’t
so proclaimed in my demeanor as it should be.
“You’ve
been such a great friend to me, with picking up Mikey from daycare
and being amazingly supportive of my art, so I wanted to thank you,”
the guy elaborates, fortifying himself to hear the final verdict, but
the ambition flickers on and off. “What do you think? Are you
coming?”
My
stomach twists into an immovable knot, but a compromise is speedily
regurgitated. “Can my friend come?”
I
had predicted an uneasy expression from Gerard, but all that’s
projected is surprise. “It’s fantastic that you’ve
met someone else, and as my mother always says, a friend of you is a
friend of me.” The boy laughs jovially. “Of course he can
come. Do you want to text him?”
I
fetch the phone from my pocket, unlocking it with a sheltered
geography near my chest so that no one can see what I typed.
Searching through my contacts until I find a one named “the
neighborhood gay kid”, I draft a brief message to him, vague
enough to keep him intrigued.
Hey,
Pete. Please meet me by the coffee shop in ten minutes or so. I have
something to ask you.
At
the sign of the text’s voyage, Gerard’s face glows with
yet another beam, and I somehow never grow tired of seeing it. The
beam alone is enough to douse me with titillation.
This
trip is not only a fun time with friends, but it’s a respite
from my mother, from my old classmates, from my doctor.
“I
should probably text my mom, too, but you can pack your things. After
I tell Pete, my new friend, about the trip, we’ll go to your
house when we’re ready.”
Gerard
nods, smiling again and dashing off to prepare for our vacation to
the lake, rendering me alone and outside of a sketchy psychologist’s
building.
I
divert my phone’s usage to write a message to my mother.
Gerard
invited me to Caribou, Maine for the rest of holiday break. Sorry
that it’s not the mental hospital, but it’ll have to do.
I
slam the send button before I realize what I’m doing, but it’s
already too late, so I attempt not to introduce any fresh guilt.
My
mother’s text is displayed a moment later.
I
don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick, and
frankly it’s scaring me, but if you want to go to Maine with
Gerard, that’s okay by my standard. He’s a nice kid.
Innocence
is the most onerous emotion to fake — only a select few can
master it — and so far, my mother isn’t doing a very good
job of it. So many holes have punctured her depiction that it
represents nothing at all, and now that she’s presented this
terror to me, she will never be able to pull it off.
It’s
not like I haven’t known this about her before, though.
She
did
tell
Dr. Saporta that she was considering checking me into a mental
facility, and I heard her say it. There’s no eluding this one.
I
can’t bear to analyze the text any further, so I shove my phone
deeper into the pocket of my jeans.
And
with that, I set out for the coffee shop.
Pete’s
perpetuating his job of washing the tables when I arrive, but that’s
all paused when the chirping of the bells alerts him to my ecstatic
figure shaking from excitement in the doorway. His spine elongates as
he jogs slightly towards me, equipped to embrace me but doing so
implicitly in case I panic in the middle of his workplace.
“Did
you get my text?” I inquire, the breath snatched away by the
exertion of my sprint to the shop, or maybe just being so close to my
friend.
Pete’s
lips part to unveil pearly teeth set amidst an ocean of rose. “Sure
did. What did you want to tell me?”
“This
guy who used to be in the grade above me at school — Gerard,
the art geek whose brother I had to return home — has invited
us to his lake house in Caribou, Maine for the remainder of our
break.” My arms cuddle my chest vertically, vibrating with
fervor.
The
room thins as I wait for an answer, condensed to a planing line of
nothingness, and the only three-dimensional figures are us.
Fanaticism hammers plaques above the register to assert its authority
over me, enslaving my emotions in favor of itself, and yet the
imperceptible clock strides forward without misgiving.
When
Pete doesn’t amplify his disposition towards the subject, I
ask, “So what do you think?”
And
that’s where it gets tense. Pete’s hands squirm by his
side, eyes trace the edges of the amber walls, gathering his
thoughts. “Um, I…”
I
somehow take the hint, even though I’m fatally awkward in
social settings. “Pffh, yeah, of course. You don’t have
to come. I just assumed—”
“Patrick,
don’t beat yourself up over this,” Pete chuckles, a
recent countenance of jocularity snapping his trachea into shards of
obsidian. I aspire to study them, but that’s apparently not
appropriate for the mood, according to my mother, but ever since I
overheard her considering a place at a mental asylum for me, her
trust is insignificant in my mind.
“Then
are you going?” The expressions of a puppy plunder my eyes’
prior storage of prospect to install the modern appliance titled
begging, and Pete is smitten enough to play along with it.
Embers
of many mentalities scald Pete’s skin, but after a few seconds
of upholding my pleading method, the guy finally cracks. “Okay,
fine. I’ll go, but only because you’re so damn cute.”
Through
my lips’ broad extravaganza of zeal, I get down to business. “I
have an emergency bag packed at Gerard’s house, so we only need
to go to yours, and then we can drive with Gee to the lake house.”
That’s a solid route for me, but for my companion...not so
much.
I’ve
never witnessed so much fear in my life.
Chapter
Fourteen
Pete’s
neighborhood is so dingy that I’m astonished he lives here.
Rubble
from unfinished houses relaxes in peculiar places (or otherwise,
places it shouldn’t be), which has probably clogged up too many
pathways to count. The scent of trash wafts around the entire
community, rotting even the previously festive trees.
Even
the people look threatening, with their dirt-encrusted faces and
ragged clothes, a sneer the only clean thing on them.
Normally,
there would be no rancor between the citizens and me, but the times
they’ve almost hit me with stray objects is too high to list,
and my sole ambition is to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Pete
is pensive, smothering his shoes in the dirt to distract him from the
suspicion of my thoughts, and there’s a very coherent emotion
that is generated as a result.
He’s
ashamed that I’m here. That must’ve been the cause for
his hesitance to visit Caribou with us, because in order to pack his
bags, he needs to visit his house, and this dump of a place happens
to be his neighborhood.
“There’s
nothing wrong with you living here, you know,” I clarify amidst
the shrieking of vultures in the sky — which, now that I
investigate my surroundings to a greater extent, is the only
perpetual beauty in this location. “Poverty can strike at any
time.”
A
sarcastic smile flocks to Pete’s face (and now that I’ve
been to his habitat, it’s an outlier among the other residents
— tidy, hygienic, nothing like the grimy mess that I’ve
hastily grown accustomed to). “We have plenty of money, enough
to survive well, but that’s not the issue.”
“What
do you mean by that? If you have money, why are you dwelling here?”
None of this makes sense, and the urge to extricate my hair topples
onto me as a byproduct of the stress.
“You’ll
see.” And just like that, Pete’s eyes inflate with
trepidation, cast back down to his feet once more.
I
can sense that Pete’s willing to open up, but an interruption
arises out of the blue. “Freak!” it roars, punctuating
the harsh words with stones pitched our way. One of the more precise
objects strikes me directly in my upper arm, poising its cadaverous
teeth over my skin to bite and retreating to the ground after its
lucrative suicide mission.
“Who
the hell are those people?” I demand, feet trembling with the
proposal of its destination. “Why do they hate you so much?”
“Just
your local bullies, nothing much.” Pete’s breath hitches
over his words, and it’s tangible that the toll was more
emotional than physical, but I can detect the manifestation of a
bruise lurking under his complexion — and cackling about the
event, because his body thinks it’s what he deserves for
allowing his mind to reign.
It’s
not his fault that he’s tormented by himself. It can’t
be, and that’s what those bullies don’t understand.
Metaphors apparently aren’t enough for them, because Pete’s
been torturing himself for a while now, but it wasn’t yet
physical until now.
“Why
aren’t you doing anything about it?” I know I
could
never confront them, being all socially anxious and basically dead
inside, but Pete’s soul lodges in courage (more specifically,
the tad of courage I can never have), and he’s been snuffed out
enough to deliver a sign to him that this isn’t right.
Or
that’s what I think, for Pete isn’t doing a single thing.
No plans, no words, no reactions, just the grey tones of his
neighborhood, and he’s lost inside them.
I’m
not.
I
cup my hands around my mouth without contemplating the ramifications,
but it’s me breaking free from analysis paralysis. “Hey,
you peasants!”
Pete’s
features writhe upon his visage, absolutely aghast, while his tone
bathes in frenzy. “What are you doing?”
“What
you couldn’t.” I pivot to address the kids once more,
their forms frozen into the earth. “What makes Pete Wentz such
a freak? What characteristics confide in him that don’t confide
in you?”
The
boys halt in a struggle to process my rant, as illiterate as
newborns, and I consider that a chance to distribute the punchline.
“Well
for one, he doesn’t throw fucking rocks at people!”
Pete’s
lips graze my ear in an overshot, limbs heavy, voice burdened.
“Patrick, stop this. You don’t know what you’re
getting into.”
“I
will not. This needs to be said.”
In
my debate against Pete, the kids have advanced to ten feet away, an
indication that I should wrap up my speech before I get socked.
“Care
to defend yourself?” one with a sandy fringe stipulates, head
cocked like the gun he probably hoards under his bed.
“Fuck
off, Spencer,” Pete groans, armed to playfully punch him in the
side, but from the menacing gleam in the boy’s cobalt irises,
he refrains from doing so.
Spencer’s
limbs link across his chest, tongue glissading over his gums. “Not
until this twerp tells me why he’s being such a bitch.”
I
ignore his comment to squint at Pete cynically. “You know these
cunts?”
“Well
we do
live
in the same area.” The rumples in his countenance suggest a
desire to focus on the bullies, and I need to conclude my rant
anyway, so that’s where our attention reclines.
“What
you gotta say, man?” the other boy asks, stroking once the
premature mustache spread across his philtrum.
“Jon,
don’t encourage him,” Spencer mutters, but I don’t
surrender.
My
hands fissure into the dense oxygen, formulating sentences capable of
wounding. “I’m saying that you can throw rocks at us all
you want. We may even die, but that doesn’t concern you, and
neither does the benefits of attacking us. Because there are
no
benefits, and harassing us won’t affect you in the long run.”
The
aura is swathed in silence, and my hand yearns for Pete’s
shoulder.
“It’s
time to go,” I declare, dragging him along with me. “See
you around, peasants.”
I
would’ve suspected Pete’s shallow breathing is an outcome
of my verbal assault towards the friendly neighborhood peasants, were
it not for the affliction occurring as we near a scrappy old RV
parked in the lot.
Nothing
memorable bedecks the vehicle — it’s as denigrative as
the rest of the community, perhaps even more so — but fabrics
of skepticism bandage Pete’s hands to a position that is even
more unrelenting than before.
“Is
this it?” My nose catches the breeze of the dumpster’s
aroma, even though there are no dumpsters in sight.
Pete’s
fingers flounder by his lateral. “Are you disappointed?”
I
shake my head, smiling. “We already discussed this, and no. To
each his own.”
Shrugging,
Pete complicates, “It’s not exactly like I would’ve
preferred this to something nicer, but yeah — to each his own.”
At
least he’s calmed down.
The
door whimpers as it’s brushed aside, intending to cause the
loudest commotion it can muster, and an empty beer bottle is chucked
at our heads.
“Get
out, you roach!” a slurred voice cries from the room next to
the entrance. “No solicitors allowed!”
“Joe,
quiet, would you?” Pete scoffs, kicking a plastic wrapper from
his path in disdain. “It’s just me.”
The
area smells like the deepest pit of hell, and I’d know from
attending a high school for a year before withdrawing into myself, a
specific humidity that encourages me to crawl into a hole and
suffocate. There are no decorations scattered across the metal walls,
but rubbish practically screams to be extruded in one of the many
waste baskets, and my hand skitters to a stop right above one before
Joe can ask why I’m wrecking his RV.
“As
if that’s any better,” Joe mumbles, scooting his hand
through his greasy Jew-fro.
“Would
you stop being such a shitface for one moment so that I can ask you
something?” Pete’s voice is as elevated as I’ve
heard it, a snake diving into his throat to poison him.
Joe,
however, seems adapted to the volume, proceeding with, “What is
it, kid?”
Pete
abducts a faded navy backpack from its dreary slump on the couch, the
furniture equally as faded, tossing a t-shirt inside carelessly. “I’m
going to Caribou with Patrick.”
“Is
that in Maine?” Joe croaks as Pete continues his search for
clothing items and leaves me in the doorway. The “deer in the
headlights” feeling remains to exist, even though Joe’s
attention poses to attract Pete.
My
friend holds, supplying Joe with a sarcastic pinching of the brows.
“Look who studied geography.”
“You’re
so ungrateful,” Joe wanders, flicking to the floor a piece of
broken glass that he had been fiddling with. “Did you know that
about yourself?”
“You
remind me almost every day.” Pete’s jaw stiffens, oculi
hide. “Well it’s not my fault that I’m a fucking
orphan, but it’s your
fault
that you don’t make life comfortable, even for your own needs.
All you do is get drunk and sell drugs, and it’s not like I can
do anything, because I’m not even eighteen yet, and if I tried
to speak up, you would threaten me, but you’ve been threatening
me all the time, so it’s not like it really matters anyway.”
Before
I can register what’s happening, I’m scampering out the
door, heart raging against my rib cage, while Pete swings a jacket
around his shoulders in his pursuit of me.
“You
little—”
The
aperture secures as Joe is hindered, with the chilled air the only
priority on our minds.
“Let’s
go to Gerard’s house,” Pete offers, impeding my
consternation, and all I can do is stare at him.
The
trip to Caribou is not nearly as troubling.
Chapter
Fifteen
In
the shelter of Gerard’s van, the temperature was pleasant,
donning a cozy status of seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit with the
accessory of our body heat, but that’s stolen away immediately
after we step outside the car.
The
area could’ve easily been mistaken for the North Pole, and I’m
actually astounded that there aren’t any elves trooping through
the dense piles of snow, but elves of another form, beings floating
along the winter breeze, bite at our cheeks on their way down the
mountain, ushering the tint of blood to the surface of our skin to
view its performance.
The
weather website wasn’t kidding when it deemed Caribou one of
the coldest places in America.
Trees
promenade across the jagged terrain of the bluff, wind flooding
through the needles as if a flute and chiming a natural melody of the
high elevation, an indigenous tune that sails through the birds’
feathers with the tranquility of a breath and deposits cheer below
their wings.
The
old man of a house looming above us whirls a shadow against the
flurries below it, demanding that the flakes’ brothers detach
themselves from its wooden structure, that they are not its
insulation.
I
stifle the eagerness to laugh.
Only
the clicking of the trunk being slammed down distracts me from the
frozen sights, Gerard suddenly tossing my duffel bag into my
protected hands as his car keys jingle within his fingers, coated in
the black fabric of his skeleton gloves.
I
never really understood why Gerard bought those, but he’s
always been fascinated with death and all things Halloween, so I
suppose this is just a component of his obsession.
In
my delay, Pete has passed me and is carefully tiptoeing up the steps,
shabby from the moisture of the snow. “Are you coming?”
he laughs, departing his watch of Gerard twisting the key into the
knob to gaze upon my shivering figure.
The
words spur my legs into action, trudging confidently through the
ground pommeled by snow since the beginning of the season. Delight
whisks in my stomach, increasing when the door is pushed open by
Gerard as I ascend the stairs.
My
friends scoot aside to make way for my excitement, smirking to
themselves at the accomplishment of animating me so fully and
observing as my eyes twirl around the grand foyer like in a movie.
The
property is entirely wooden, typical of the mountain lodges high up
in the clouds, a lifeless fireplace directly across the entrance,
just pining for a flame to dance inside its brick walls. A loft
hovers over the sitting area, apertures to other rooms sculpted into
its base next to a winding staircase lowering into the pavilion.
Windows illuminate the space with periodic beams of sunlight
intruding through the snow, and plush chairs are littered around the
area for small talk. Tucked away below the loft are more rooms,
portals as maple-stained as the rest of the home, otherwise plenty of
space for many activities.
My
focus is on the house, while Gerard’s is on my amazement of it,
as it should be — this is Gerard’s building, so he’s
seen it before, but Pete hasn’t, yet he’s staring at me
like I’m a diamond set against the sand.
“Isn’t
it beautiful?” I marvel, cheekbones priming in a broad smile.
Gerard
provides Pete with a one-sided look — secret, sarcastic, and
amused by our tacit connection — but Pete has no idea what his
new friend just did.
“Absolutely.”
Gerard’s
hazel irises flip back and forth between Pete and me, sharing the
moment with us. “So this is all nice and lovely, but you need
to pick your rooms, or else you’ll have to sleep outside.”
No
one here fancies being buried under an avalanche that will surely
thunder down the mountain in some strange superstition of Murphy’s
law, so in our hysteria, we bump into practically everything in our
path as we dash towards the hallway.
Try
not to sleep in the snow, dimwit.
A
dimly lit room by the end of the corridor whispers subliminal
messages in my ear like that one rap song that I try not to listen
to, and despite the cringe-worthy connotation, my feet find
themselves being hauled towards it.
It’s
not like I’m complaining though, as the location is perfect for
my obsessive needs, hastily pairing with the associated compulsion of
swiveling the handle left and right before entering.
The
scent of the area isn’t so disparate from the rest of the
house, only slightly dustier from not being occupied in a while (for
all I know, this could be the second time the Ways have visited here,
and what an honor it is to be one of the premiering guests) but a
mere candle could spice things up without a thought.
Strawberry
would be my preference, but I’m not sure how well that would go
down with Gerard, who smacks strawberry-flavored candy to the dirt
upon sight. It’s linked with happy memories, though, so he may
be more relenting.
Nevertheless,
the slight tinge of lint is enough to force my fingers to my nose,
gulping puffs of air through my mouth like the people I write off as
“mouth-breathers”, which are apparently frowned upon on
society, according to my mother and the television.
Think
about something else before you pass out, okay?
I
nod externally to satisfy my mind, lobbing my duffel bag onto the
blue-quilted bed in the middle of the room, a walnut board bowing
overhead and accompanied by multiple paintings of Caribou scenery.
My
imagination meanders inside them, visualizing myself firing snowballs
at unsuspecting victims, strolling through an arctic square, and
enjoying myself for the first occasion in a long time. It’s
nice while it lasts, but a hammering noise from the room down the
corridor flicks me straight in the forehead.
Bursting
through the door (but remembering to complete my ritual), my socks
slide over the alder surface below me, unbothered by anything around
my speeding body but the final destination. My mission is going well,
until a force nearly knocks me off my feet, were it not for the acute
reflexes of none other than Pete Wentz.
He
tilts me upright, cheeks blazing from embarrassment, stammering, “Uh,
sorry about that, Patrick.”
I’m
muted for a minute, olive eyes calculating. “It’s all
right.” My attention never roams anywhere other than Pete’s
face, still flushed from the excursion.
After
my acknowledgement of the apology, the sounds burrow into the wooden
planks of the bunker, chattering quietly to one another about how the
youthful silence is faring at its job, but the banging of a fist
against a wall elicits their return.
“Get
ready, bitches,” Gerard yells, sass infused in his gait as he
unveils his entire form from behind the structure. “We’re
going clubbing.”
Pete’s
nimble hands labor to loop the cerulean tie around my neck (since I
am so inexperienced, having never left the house for social
gatherings), endeavoring with unbridled sympathy to perfect it, as if
I care whether or not it’s one centimeter out of line.
Gerard
granted me one of his spares, along with a black vest that he managed
to find in his closet at home, and though he’s taller and
broader than me (which can be said of almost anyone, to be honest),
it’s a stunning fit.
By
some heavenly chance, dark dress pants and a pressed white shirt were
packed in my emergency duffel at Gerard’s house and fled to the
mountains with me, so as I examine myself in front of the mirror by
peeking around Pete’s body, who is relentlessly stationed at my
neck with the tie, it’s a never before seen version of me.
And
I’m determined to like it.
“I
don’t understand why we have to dress like this,” Pete
complains, brows bundled in a sable heap as he concentrates on
twisting the blue fabric.
“Gerard
is a classy lady.” My lenses lock with my other pair as I
speak, fabricated in the mirror to make it seem like it’s
actually me, which is oddly like the surveillance of whom I’m
so frightened.
Don’t
think about that, psycho.
A
wordless smile converges on Pete’s coral lips, limelight
chained to me. “Apparently. Maybe it’ll earn us a good
reputation there.”
“We’re
not going back, are we?” Alarm crowds my oculi, calmness
dispersing to under my feet, where it is promptly crushed unwittingly
by my sensible shoes. “Even going once
is
enough for me.”
Pete
laughs, finishing the final touches of my tie and tucking it into my
vest, a grin scheduled as the closing act. “We don’t have
to if you don’t want to,” my friend yields, shrugging
neutrally as he, too, observes me in the mirror.
“How
do I look?” I pose wildly, transporting myself to a peculiar
online parody of something serious, but Pete is entertained.
“Absolutely
wonderful. You’ll make the people at the club jealous.”
He winks.
Shuddering
through a veneer of peacefulness, it’s all I can do to endorse
my composure. You can’t just break down on people without a
warning, and I have no motives for obligating the sentences to
emancipate themselves, so I lock my mouth like I’ve been doing
forever and tell myself it doesn’t matter, because Pete would
argue with me about how it does,
in fact, matter, that my comfortability is superior to an unnoticed
panic attack in the middle of a public crowd, but he would be wrong,
and you’re frankly not supposed to correct your friends, or
else you won’t have them anymore, and I’ve spent enough
time alone, so it’s just a debate of perspective now.
So
I smile and wave, the formalities, and prepare myself for the club
and the terror that will ensue.
Chapter
Sixteen
“You
don’t look very gay.” The bouncer’s expression is
incised distinctly on his bronzed skin, unwilling to let us pass, but
my companion has other ideas.
“You
don’t look very polite,” Gerard retorts, brushing the man
aside and stepping into the dark club before he can object.
Your
friends are going to get you into trouble.
“I
don’t care,” I whisper through the shadows, the blare of
the music sheltering my words so that no one may hear them.
Electronic
beats thud against the velvet walls of the club, mingling with the
stench of sweat and alcohol from the sour (and possibly drugged)
beverages of the drunk patrons, and glasses drained of their mature
substance reflect the coruscating lasers of the strobe lights, which
would be murderous to an epileptic person due to their disorderly
vehemence.
At
the end of the summer, though, I promised myself I would take note of
people in addition to my surroundings, and though Dr. Saporta was
biased towards that concept, it’s a proactive thing anyway, so
I dignify myself by tolerating its guidelines.
Most
of the lesbians have congregated to a lounge in the corner to attend
a tipsy game of spin the bottle, except instead of kissing when it
whirls towards them, they pour large swigs of beer down their necks
and begin to giggle passionately. I haven’t met any of them,
but I worry for their safety.
Two
thirds of the gay men shimmy on the dance floor, some so intoxicated
that they’re imagining a partner beside them, while the other
third is either stumbling around in a disoriented state, or they’re
sober enough to recognize that they’re devoid of an
acquaintance.
From
the way my eyes circle the room with infatuation, it must seem like
I’m interested in at least one person in this bar, but the only
people in here that don’t scare me are Pete and Gerard. These
people don’t understand that, however, and one of them almost
invites me to dance until Pete’s menacing glare tells him off,
and the man backs away with a quite horrified tremor in his gait.
Pete
preserves a guarded watch on me, glancing around to see if any
homosexuals will approach me again and ask for a dance or...something
else. I consider it unnecessary, as I’m short and unstable and
ultimately out of place, but the consideration is appreciated with
multiple smiles sent his way sporadically.
Almost
instantaneously, Gerard is swept away by a short guy in a leather
jacket, gripped by the hand in an act of jurisdiction, but from the
facetious smile on my friend’s face, no protest is discernible.
And
with that event, Gerard has officially strayed from his plan of
sticking with us. My palms don’t sweat from betrayal, rather
anxiousness from now being a party of two, even if Pete is the best
person with whom to visit a club.
In
a matter of minutes, we’re situated at the bar by request of
Pete Wentz as he orders two waters to remain modest and not out on
the street, a knife in our backs from a drunken mistake, and the
clear liquid is catered soon after.
Stuffiness
blankets us in flashing clouds around our heads, congesting the space
more so than it had been since the opening hours, and I can’t
help but wonder if the frosty climate of the exterior would be
snugger.
But
as I say, when it is hot, we wish for it to be cold. When it is cold,
we wish for it to be hot. When it is just right, we find other things
to worry about, imprisoned on our own heads, the torture chambers
that have become familiar to us.
On
the contrary, I don’t give a damn anymore, because I’ve
been living life through bullshit, falling for it over and over
again, and that itself is painful enough, so I might as well treat
myself to my favored weather.
Just
as I’m about to tap Pete’s shoulder to suggest that
option, an unhinged figure slams into him, disrupting my path.
“Hey,
Pete!” it yells, slurred speech expelling saliva from its
unintelligible sounds, and I wouldn’t have identified Gerard if
not by looking at him — but even then, it’s a struggle.
The
older Way brother’s scarlet hair is matted to a forehead
swaddled in perspiration, drenched strands occasionally plummeting to
other areas with his capricious movement. In alliance with his tilted
glasses, his tie has been removed from under his vest, ticking back
and forth as he sways and chuckles for no reason other than to
display how wasted he is. And through all of this absurdness, he’s
wielding that fucking shit-eating grin.
“Is
there a reason you stumbled into me like that?” Pete demands,
brow curving into a hook.
“Just
w-wanted to” — Gerard blinks furiously, collecting his
thoughts — “s-say I’ll be with Frank Iero...this
dude.”
“The
one that basically kidnapped you?”
Gerard
simply winks, tripping over his shoes as he retreats to this new
friend of his, abandoning us once again.
“Hope
he’s having a good time,” I comment just to add something
to the conversation that has been left just to us.
And
for some cursed motive, I forget Pete’s smile to zero in on the
faces assembling near me, warped to resemble the aggressive beaks of
crows programmed to attack. Their screams cause discord with the
music, thunder standing back-to-back with clear skies, pitches
duplicating bullets in a revolving pistol with the main goal of
killing my sanity — and it’s prosperous.
There
are so many of them, and the cloud of stuffiness is more than I can
handle. It mutates into water laden with arsenic, labeling itself as
nothing more than a childhood friend, so I accept its remedy only to
later comprehend that my insides are liquefying and smoldering and
dying along with me, and there’s nothing to stop the process.
No
evidence is to decide what’s causing this, the only thing I
know being that I’m drowning, but I’m drowning obscurely
with no one to save me, and my pleas are but unsubstantial calls into
the wilderness — irrelevant, miniscule, enveloped in the harsh
fabric of a rag down my throat that only serves to drown me further.
Blood
climbs towards my mouth, planting knives into my gums as support for
feet crafted out of fluid and hatred for its host, and with each
centimeter it conquers, rays of black burn into my irises until
they’re all I see, but it’s like living through nothing,
and I hate that — I hate this.
They’re
only people at a bar. But they’re watching.
“Aren’t
you cold?”
That
should be the least of Pete’s worries after I almost died
inside the club, but I nevertheless respond with a curt nod. It’s
not like he knew what happened, only witnessed my frantic tugging at
his collar with the absence of an adequate supply of oxygen and acted
intelligently. There’s no cause for praise, but then again,
he’s the only one that actually cares about me, so if salvaging
my bruised body from the depths of the ocean is what he did, it’s
important in a sense of perspective.
But
to answer Pete’s question, yeah — I am
cold,
and I’ve been shivering for the entire time we’ve been
outside of the club, but I didn’t notice in my haste to merely
fucking survive
this terrible war against myself, this terrible war that prowls only
behind my eyelids so that no one can see it, so that they can just
label me the kind of crazy that I already know I am.
Though
it isn’t valid, what they say to me, because they’re not
the ones trailing pellets of hemoglobin behind knives gleaming with a
smile, but only inside of a metaphor because they’re too scared
to do it in real life. They’re not the ones thinking they’re
trapped in a sealed room when anyone else could twist the knob to
free them, the lock having never existed at all. The superior fact is
that I’ve never adhered to their warnings of my insanity,
because in assuming that they can’t affect me more than I
affect myself, I refuse to acknowledge their claims, and it’s
in this paradox that I temporarily subsist.
Pete
says none of these things that I’ve heard from the
lackadaisical fools of society, meaning he isn’t as toxic as
Dr. Saporta would like me to believe, and his kindness thrives in
simply asking if I’m cold.
“Yes,”
I reply, talking to a ground as concrete as any part of Western land.
“I am very
cold.”
Without
speech, the zipper to Pete’s jacket tumbles down the slope of
his torso, separated from its symmetrical half to be rejoined around
my slender shoulders.
The
operation showcases the unkempt t-shirt flung onto Pete at the last
moment, much to my surprise — I surmised he had changed into
something nice, but that’s apparently not the case.
Pete
regards my bemusement with a sheepish partial rotation of the lips,
debating whether or not he should uproot the coat from me because of
my perceived distaste, but his fretting is suspended at the entrance
of inconsolable quivering.
The
tables have turned, and I have every intention to do something about
it, so my arms snake around Pete’s back in a failed attempt to
insulate him, and if he didn’t persuade me otherwise with his
contented sigh, I would’ve let go, a meek wringing of my hands
the only thing to keep me company, but the moment is preserved by an
unbreakable casing of friendship.
A
couple of minutes twirl around us, marinating in comfort and
exchanged breaths of joy, before Pete murmurs, “May I hug you
back?”
Instead
of being a normal human being, decked with readily accessible consent
in all the correct proportions, my friend’s question is more
than just that, a motivation to pursue the dreams that have danced in
my brain for many hours.
The
dreams materialize as a kiss, pressed upon Pete’s lips with the
impulsivity that I don’t reject for once. It hums with the
jubilance of a child, buzzing along, fashioning a tune in its path.
It inhales the bittersweet fragrance of rapport and knows that Pete
Wentz is the prime choice, and this is a manifestation of truth.
Because
in a room full of art, he is at home, and it’s been sculpted
into my mind that he’s the only one that will ever matter.
He
is the one trading a fever with me, the one whose heartbeat matches
my own in a rhythmic chorus with a tempo as electric as the Earth,
the one whose rose lips are sewn to harmonize with mine perfectly,
and a melodic song is what they indeed produce, lacquered by covert
tears, faithfully shed by the scorn of those who ever doubted that we
would make it past summer.
But
we did, so our heads are raised without a care, and through this
triumph and this strife and this devotion to one another, I’m
suddenly not so cold anymore.
Chapter
Seventeen
I
kissed Pete fucking Wentz, and my mind is hell-bent on making sure I
am cognizant of that, igniting every crisp document of prudence with
a black fire screaming inside me.
But
what my mind doesn’t know is that with something like this, you
can suppress it. Whatever. You can shove it deeper into the closet,
as if you haven’t been doing it for years already, and you can
allow yourself to forget.
But
you never do, so you keep coming back and find the coffin you
buried,
the coffin that isn’t able to be opened anymore, but you
nevertheless retain the persistent urge to know what’s been
hiding inside, so your fingers crack from your effort to pry the lid
off, and in the unlikely event that you actually succeed, it’s
as empty as the void in your soul.
So
basically, we’re all screwed in one way or another. The people
who remember are haunted, while the people who forget are constantly
itching for more.
I’ve
understood that method forever, yet I’m still confined within
my arms to a bathroom stall whose lighting plays peek-a-boo
intermittently and dangles mania in front of me like a string to a
cat, and therefore my anxiety is everlasting.
My
hydrogen peroxide isn’t capable of being stored inside my
pockets, and my obsessions are as dynamic as ever, so a damp paper
towel will have to suffice. It’s not the real product, though,
so my vision is attracted to everything else in the room while it
rots.
Subdued
voices nurse the patrons’ ears, some opting for a slurred
pedagogy, some consummately sober, all far too shrill for my
fondness, but it’s similar to engaging in a conversation —
at least for me, because psychologists claim my conversations are
often unrequited.
Shoes
waddle in a muffled exhalation, circling the room so that they’re
invariably visible below the plastic walls as they complete the task
they entered this place to do, somehow mocking me for lingering in
here with tears mauling the floor in prolonged intervals of five
seconds.
And
it becomes a game I play as I wait for my emotions to be flushed out
in the form of deoxyribonucleic saltwater, wide eyes chasing the
pellets of my own production as they languish in the smooth tile and
mimic my prior death.
Unlike
me, however, they behave with indomitable grace, plunging their arms
into elegant twirls and bows, and they transform death into a work of
theater. They make dying look beautiful, even when it is not, and it
converts suicide to my taste, dipping me over the edge of a cliff
with a smile kindling my lips, because it’s my desire
transfused in someone else’s actions, and I’m finally
earning my wish.
Death
is a perplexing concept, and though I jokingly shame Gerard for
feeling the same thing, the captivation often sojourns in me, too.
Every time my eyelids eclipse my curious pupils, visions of graves
and falcons and awe sashay through my trail, but they never fracture
my bones, never paint my shadow with blood.
Rather,
they transport layers of crystal streams to my aching figure and
soothe my brittle heart with tender fingers contrived from
silhouettes just as fearful as I am, and they cherish the fact that
I’m fucking alive, because like me, they are bloody, bruised,
and broken by the voice in my head that orders flames to lick their
flesh until they’re as dry as skin washed in hydrogen peroxide,
and they have battled by my side since their birth out of fallen
leaves — a birth that sentenced the visions to death but
didn’t, for they were cunning enough to diagnose the sound of
swords being unsheathed and ran for their fucking lives.
But
alas — where have they gone now that my tears represent the
leaves from which they sprang? Perhaps once they saw the DNA soaring
from my eyes, they decided it was time for them to do the same, so
they split away in a lurid fragment and obliterated their own leaves.
Now when I close my eyes, all I see is a sneer and a vacant road, and
it’s like befriending the kind of death that’s
disagreeable to the optimists.
Because
of the visions’ unwillingness to stay with me, I’m still
isolated in a bathroom stall for many minutes after I last
acknowledged my location, and the tears continue to evacuate with a
perpetual intensity that I can’t seem to govern.
That
brings me to my next point, noting upon the fact that governing tears
is trivial when you have death on your side. The feat is that I’ve
learned there is a way to present suicide as charming: make sure no
one sees it happen. You’ll be safe then, buried in an enigma
once the tears have been annihilated, and it’s ensuring someone
will care for a little bit. It’s ensuring they’ll glorify
you, praising even your flaws when they were the things that got you
killed in the first place. It’s ensuring they’ll
glamorize the decease of teenagers, while simultaneously oppressing
those who were just like them, as if they need more funerals on their
schedule. It’s ensuring they’ll curse your grave for
occupying space that could’ve been utilized for their beloved
war veterans that probably died from typical heart disease. It’s
ensuring they’ll hate you deep down, with the worst part being
that they won’t even confess to it. It’s ensuring that
you’re better off in the ground.
Informing
Dr. Saporta that I don’t experience suicidal thoughts is
becoming more of a strain to my fidelity, but it’s necessary,
and even though that’s exactly what he calls my compulsions in
relation to myself, it’s nevertheless viable.
It’s
not like I’d physically mangle a gun until it’s centered
around my temple, because the people from school would be required to
attend my dreary funeral teeming with the citizens of Newark that
frankly don’t care and just want to watch a football game, and
my death should symbolize more to them than an obstruction, because
this is the one and only final passing, the passing that prevails
outside of my thoughts, and my chaotic world has been silenced for
it.
And
then the last tear before I run dry slips from my parted eyelashes
and cascades to the floor, where its ankles contort and beckon death
to its beauty, proving that it’s not so armored as the world
expected, and for once, I’m disappointed because of that.
The
tear’s silk dress is tattered and riddled with holes, whose
texture is that of the stars, and the being trips dishonorably on the
mess in an attempt to pirouette one last time. Blood digs a trench in
its pallid face, illuminating entirely the delineated lips who are
loyally glimmering white from the reflection, and towards me its
lucent eyes glance, pleading inaudibly for deliverance.
The
water modifies a whimper to a ripe howl that pierces the tile
cradling its minuscule form — treachery of the domestic
variety, which is arguably the most painful — and its whole
body eventually collapses to the floor with the whisper of a yelp
cleaving to its lips.
It
can no longer dance for me.
Checking
the clock has never been my specialty, and by effect, time evades me
on a constant basis, but it’s most definitely been a century
since I arrived in the bathroom — I at least understand that.
Pete
must have been searching for me as my eyes were distributing its
fluid children, but the last time he burst through the door of the
bathroom, he ended up lecturing me on why hydrogen peroxide is bad
for my skin and my mental health, and it may have been more
remorseful for him than for me.
However,
I just fucking kissed him a few minutes ago, and that’s a
reason to stress about me even more than earlier, because someone
such as myself doesn’t purge guilt as easily as others, and
he’s aware of it.
But
why should I be guilty for kissing him?
Because
you have social anxiety, dimwit.
Social
anxiety or not, Pete brought me back to the strawberry fields with
the flavor that clung to his lips, and it was like tasting the
childhood we were never given, the childhood we contrarily deserved,
the childhood that reeked of flagrance, because we were children,
yes, but we were children of rue, and only we knew how monstrous that
was.
Pete
knew the most out of us all, so as an anecdote of sedition, he
glossed his lips with the aroma of strawberries, using only his
middle finger as an applicator, and he gave no fucks. To any person
whose brain is injected with happiness, strawberries are but the
fruit they consume at the dinner table every night, but to us, it’s
a force that clashes against the stench of disease, and Pete Wentz is
undeniably our savior, if only to the ones who are familiar with him.
On
the flip side, Pete’s nowhere to be seen, but that’s due
to me not scanning the room enough, as well as the staggering amount
of homosexuals clogging up my senses and naturally prohibiting me
from doing so.
Gradually,
the blockage clears to unmask the tenuous lateral view of Pete Wentz,
clustered by a glass of something a little stronger than water and
aiming to submerge his regrets in alcohol — though, by the
equilibrium of his posture, it’s his first shot.
Energy
surging through me, my dress shoes stride forward to accost my friend
until a hand tangles my arm inside its tenacious grasp, barren of the
incentive to surrender.
The
affinity is uncanny, the brawn definite, the shape of the slim
fingers adept, the feelings evoked grim, and I’m not even
obligated to turn around to catalog him, because an indelible mark
such as the one on my arm is an identification itself.
But
I whip around anyway to face those fucking
sapphire
eyes that never scrapped a single tear for me, those sapphire eyes
the color of the water strangling my lungs, those sapphire eyes that
puncture me every time they penetrate my security with a simple stare
that shouldn’t mean anything but does, because I’ve known
it all too well before.
But
it’s gone; it has
to be,
because the mental entombment was immune to any resurgences. I
fucking buried those memories and stomped over the dirt — I
know
I
did, so why the hell are they showing up? Why am I choking?
Those
memories were snuffed out a while ago — two years, to be exact
— but with the mere glistening of impeccable teeth, the
harrowing images flood in one by one.
“Hey,
Patrick!” the man greets, a height to his brow. “Remember
me?”
Chapter
Eighteen
I
was fifteen years old when I died.
There
was no warning label packaged with it — the occurrence just
fucking transpired, and I was expected to keep up with the number of
knife strokes from a promise engraved into my stomach, but how
can
you ask that of someone? How?
I
didn’t notice the streaks of crimson upon me at first, because
I was too hypnotized by the bastard named Dallon Weekes, and there
was that damn smile that just fucking shackled me to him, and I
convinced myself that I actually wanted to be there with him, instead
of safe in my home, and I likely caused my own murder.
He
should’ve been my arch-nemesis, but he wasn’t, and I was
fucking insane for thinking that he was anything other than an
abuser.
Truth
is, Dallon injured me in ways I cannot describe. I was already messed
up when I met him, but was okay with that, because at least I was
taking care of myself, which I embodied when I endeavored to leave
him, and all of this seems like a palpable encouragement that it
wasn’t my fault, but that will never be so, no matter what he
did to me, because he may be an abuser, but he was an abuser with a
purpose — my psychologist says that’s the same mentality
he finds in other victims, but it was evident that it was reality.
So
I selected my poisons carefully, with an open palm towards the
desolate sky, perusing the insignia of the various pill bottles and
devouring every moment to study the effects it would have on my body,
but it’s not like I actually considered that, because I was
ready to die in any shape.
Hydrogen
peroxide unquestionably budded as the winner, and now I’m
hooked on my own demise.
But
none of it really meant anything, because Dallon Weekes was my only
drug. He was the only one that could get me lost. He was the only one
who interpreted that he couldn’t possibly understand to every
level. He was the only one that could make me feel like I was alive
while fucking killing myself, and maybe he shouldn’t have done
so much for me, but he did, and I stuck around for a while because of
it.
Very
soon, I was unintentionally addicted to a metaphor, to a person that
was always distant yet adorned with a magnified version of himself
that was skillfully presented to the world, and every distinction
between a monster and a blessing was hurled into the drain,
considering I was too polluted by Dallon’s charisma and too
muddled by my own head to oppose myself, and an awful lot that did
for me.
In
my defense, throwing myself away like that seemed like the right
thing to do. I was young and troubled and very much like I am now,
and I would be the same if that event
never
developed, but in no way am I thankful for it.
True,
I wouldn’t be where I am today, but today entails panic
attacks, entails monotonous meetings with a psychologist, entails
destruction with every blink of an eye, and today I am confronted by
my attacker for the first time in two years, and he constrains me to
offer a challenge.
And
here I am, floundering in those sapphire eyes that meant too much to
me for it to be healthy, and a smile plays on Dallon’s lips as
if nothing ever happened at all.
“It
sure has been a long time,” Dallon spectates, towing a hand
through his sepia locks and glancing around briefly before his gems
alight on me. “What have you been doing?”
Nothing
drips from my mouth, overshadowed by the shrunken position of my
oculi, but as Dallon’s expression tempts a response, I agree to
it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
My
attacker leans in, bewildered. “No?”
I
censor the urge to slap him across that fucking perfect face of his,
clamping diplomacy over my jaw. “You know what you did to me.”
A
chuckle recedes to his lungs. “Do you think about it often?”
“Every
single day.” I protract the words in hopes of adding solemnity,
but nothing submerges Dallon’s perennial joy.
“Don’t
you think that’s a little
obsessive?” When my countenance radiates sternness, he
includes, “Just a little?”
“Yes,
it is, and do you know why?”
Dallon’s
face knots in hyperbolic reverie, but his head rotates back and forth
a few seconds later.
“It’s
the fucking obsessive-compulsive disorder that you
caused
by grabbing my arm the way in which you did, and it’s
irrational, but it’s your
touch that contaminated me, and I’ll be like this forever.”
Dallon
elects for the scientific side of things, countering, “Isn’t
that curable?” He didn’t even research my doom.
My
foot bruises the carpet, russet material padding the grooves in my
shoes, and salivated rage springs free. “Do you think
it’s
fucking curable?”
My
assailant condenses a finger to his garnet lips, envisaging prior
occurrences. “You know, you’re more aggressive than I
remembered. You didn’t curse much, and now you’re on full
volume.”
“And
do you know whom I blame for that? You.” My teeth wound the
interior of my mouth, aggregating the enmity to within my flesh. “I
thought I
was the one who left you to the wolves, but it was actually the other
way around, and these circumstances ended up worse than I predicted.”
Dallon’s
shoulders boost higher. “There’s nothing wrong with
seeing an old friend.”
“Yes,
and that’s an opinion originating from the man who couldn’t
even bear watching me walk out the door. It means nothing.”
“It
must mean something, because here you are, whining about shit that
happened two years ago.”
My
loafers asphyxiate my attacker’s, contrition but a side note.
“Fuck you, Dallon Weekes.”
Sarcasm
blooms in his sapphire eyes, a laugh trailing behind. “Oh,
honey, you already did.”
A
shift in the ambience cackles from the rafters, swooping down and
interrogating, “Patrick, is this guy harassing you?”
My
body flings around to address the unexpected Pete Wentz, and though
my priorities were directed towards him a few minutes ago, Dallon is
at the summit now, but I nevertheless lie, “Not at all.”
Dallon
is impressed, brows insouciantly tipped to portray his emotions. When
I lied to him during our relationship, I was able to surpass his
dulled sagacity with the ginger flick of a tongue, but now that he
knows I’m cheating my friend, intrigue sharpens his wit —
though he doesn’t testify against me.
“Then
you should invite him to sit with us at the bar.” Pete’s
lips crimp in a friendly grin. “It’s good for being
sociable.”
I
say nothing, welcoming my downfall once again.
“So
where are you from, Dallon?” They’re already on a
first-name basis — sickening.
Observing
as my friend becomes intimate with my abuser definitely wasn’t
penned on my agenda, but it’s not like I can inform Pete of
that, so a scowl soaks in my drink as I wait for the hell to elapse.
Dallon
sloshes his whiskey against the walls of his chalice, head erect to
construct contact between Pete and him. “New Jersey —
Newark, more specifically.”
Excess
substance shuffles down Pete’s throat in a mellow roll as
nostalgia impinges on the mahogany color of his irises. “Really?
We’re also from Newark.”
Dallon’s
eyes hold a certain snap to them, an escape of anaphylaxis hovering
on the horizon for whomever gazes into the orbs, and his returning
smile pinches his lips. “It’s really nice down there,
especially in summer.”
For
the first time since the commencement of the conversation, Dallon
ogles my trembling form with a subtle glimpse, where panic ferments
in my entire body except for the pupils, who are convulsing with
unfiltered animosity.
Summer.
That was how long our affliction lasted, until a foggy day in August
gagged our hilarity with the sharpest knife in the drawer of Dallon’s
home that fumed formaldehyde from the roof, the only place that gave
a damn about people like us, and as we smoked cigarettes in a pitch
black storm, giggles sputtered from our lips, and it was obvious that
we had made it through hell.
But
what came later counteracted it. However, Dr. Saporta would feed me
to the lions if I relived that day, so all I can do is mince Dallon
with my internal vision and protect my stomach from the churning
rhythm of dread.
“Now
it’s as cold as the arctic, and summer is such a foreign
concept.” Dallon’s voice caving with dejection, he
annexes, “Always is so alien, though.”
“Didn’t
take you for a poet,” I growl, perspective centered in my
water.
Dallon’s
hands slink towards mine, embraced by soot-chapped leather and eager
for reconciliation. “I suppose hanging around you does that to
a person.” His cobalt stones arrest my attention, weaving a
rigid net from hesitance as we delve into the bitter past.
I
shy away, because I’m a fucking coward, and Dallon Weekes is
not mine to fall for, but he somehow thinks he is, which makes it all
the more perilous when I refuse his company.
“Anyway…”
Pete continues, miffed by our scene. “Would you like to hang
out sometime, Dallon?”
How
can I die if I’m already dead, right?
A
wink breaks from my abuser’s eyelashes, insensible to Pete,
reprimanding me, and a smooth “yes” tiptoes from Dallon’s
manipulative tongue.
An
unsettling anecdote zooms by, analogous to my rendezvous with Pete at
the coffee shop, where my friend’s hand captures a pen to
scrawl a phone number against a random napkin abandoned on the bar.
Dallon
quells the pleas of the paper by encasing it in his pocket,
cheekbones perching high on his face. “I’ll see you later
then.”
That’s
what he said two years ago — and he was resolute.
Chapter
Nineteen
Out
of all the things I should be pondering, the topic of Dallon’s
gloves is the one that snares me, tosses my mind into oblivion with a
prompt giggle and the release of an autonomous finger.
The
ceiling staring down at me is a cue to goad my mind into thinking
about the gloves — their texture, their gloomy color, their
audacity to slither across terrains such as the bar and abduct my
attention so thoroughly.
Dallon
told me once that he hated wearing gloves, as they made him feel like
a criminal who was supposed to shepherd their touch into a meadow of
surreptitiousness, and he never thought that he could carry out
something illegal, not in a million years.
But
now that he did, it’s appropriate, and the gloves are the only
things that cloak the intrusive fingers who caused it — it’s
almost like he’s ashamed.
No,
that can’t be. He knows what he did, but...when I saw him at
the bar, he was oblique in a misconstrued air of presumptuousness,
and that’s his approach wrapped into his new personality, so
whatever secrets mummified in his mind are now only dwindling.
It’s
a pity Dallon refuses to remember the extirpation he inflicted on a
world that was comprised of just me, a lonely drifter until this guy
immigrated to my perception, because my life practically revolves
around it, and when my fellow citizens celebrate the gyration of the
Earth around the sun, another gyration alleges to be more
significant, and I accept its requisition.
The
simple fact is that this event consumes my time, my social life, my
sanity, and it’s a bittersweet taste that I nevertheless
swallow, because I have to do so in order to spare the people around
me from the terror.
The
same people I try to save maintain an aversion towards my kind, but
Dallon never did, and maybe that’s why this individual drag on
a cigarette was particularly arduous to breathe away, but then it was
like becoming asthmatic when he began to torment me, and my inhaler
was hidden under the tender floorboards in the spot right below
Dallon’s foot, where it was left for dead.
But
still, the mystery of his hand-wear remains in the atmosphere, and I
might ask for some gloves of my own.
“Where
are your mittens?” My hands furl around the threshold,
apprehension galvanizing my fingertips as they gouge into the oak.
My
friend is situated on the couch near the fireplace, the crackling of
the flames hollowing his ears as a simpering rose lights his cheeks.
Pete’s
vision departs from his book as it balances on his thumb, disengaging
his legs from under him. “My mittens?”
My
feet scrape the floor, an anxious tilt in my gait. “Yeah,
didn’t you bring any?”
“Did
you not?” Pete shifts further, withdrawing his finger from the
middle of the book to devote his engrossment to me.
“I
probably left them at the club.”
Pete
is unconvinced, but he knows better than to investigate me. “Check
my bag. It’s in my room.”
Without
a word, I abscond from the area, leaving Pete in startled
astonishment before he can call back to me about how someone such as
myself could be so foolish.
By
some luck, I am drawn towards his room, the nearest to the threshold
from which I entered, and the knob incarcerates my will to avoid my
compulsion, so it’s flicked once left and once right before I
close myself inside the strawberry field of Pete’s room.
His
satchel lounges on the wooden tiles, zipper and flap diverging from
halfway around and revealing a plethora of colors from products
within the bag.
My
extremities whisk through the items, exposing variegated clothing
pieces, dirtied scraps of paper, and leaves collected in the turmoil
of vacation — but none of the pills Pete claims he takes.
Forgetting
my prior duty, I crush the flap of the bag on itself and scamper from
the room, the door agape from my haste. My socks walk their fabric
across the floor, accompanied by the electric force of friction, and
my breathing wobbles with my physique, readjusting in the threshold
again.
Pete
descries me near the wooden frame of the aperture, brows raised from
his book. “Did you get the mittens?”
“Did
you get your pills?” My respiration elongates the air, frisking
with the colors surrounding it, and the man’s expression melts
into one of foreboding.
“Patrick,
what are you talking about?” Pete is generally calm, except for
a fidgety rainfall of fingers on his knee.
“You
said you take pills, right?”
My
friend’s face spills into the ink on the page, as black as the
words pounded into the paper. “Patrick…”
I
boycott a resignation, clarifying, “You professed that the
pills are the only things that work. Now where the hell are they?”
Pete’s
view flickers around the room, scavenging for anyone creeping behind
the curtains. “Is Gerard here?”
Teeth
lacerating my lip with an injurious anxiety, I reply, “No, he’s
at the store.”
A
flower of ambivalence wilts in Pete’s stomach, but it’s a
flower amidst a garden, so that blossom is worth very little in
relieving nervousness. “Okay, come and sit down.” Pete
lures me towards him, and my head nestles into his quaking shoulders
without proper deliberation.
A
lone tear stumbles down my cheek, grappling for a switch to end it
all. “Pete, I don’t want you to ruin your life like
this.”
“Shh,”
he coos, boxing me in a fluttering embrace. “Don’t worry
about it.”
Don’t
waste your time on him. He almost touched your arm.
“I
will
worry
about it, because I’m tired of you pretending that things are
all right, when they’re really not.” My doe eyes loop
their fixation on the boy whose arms harbor my emotions, but that
harbor is breaking, and a storm is stirring in the skies. “We’re
all screwed up in this place, and maybe that’s okay, but
starving yourself of medication is going to make you more than just a
head-case, and the people around you won’t be able to figure
out how to help.”
My
speech ticks through Pete’s thoughts, kissing flames onto every
structure and burning them to the ground with a signature of beauty
printed in the ash. “What if I don’t want help?”
“Everyone
wants help.” My visage is sketched like the desert sand —
somber, melancholy, and arid. “We just don’t care to
admit it.”
Antagonism
pricks Pete’s Hudson River irises, and it soon dominates his
entire cognition. “When I said the pills worked the best, I
didn’t say they were favored.”
I
recant my previous nepotism towards my friend’s embrace,
praying that he didn’t espy my infuriated quivering, and my
hands itch for something stimulating so that I won’t tear apart
my relationship, but they eventually flat line in a bursting spark to
make way for my rant. “What, would you rather shoot up with
cocaine? Extinguish all your problems with a powder that doesn’t
give a fuck about you? Because if that’s what healing means in
your context, you’ll be dead within the minute.”
“I
don’t want to die. I just...I want to live, you know? I want to
feel my own heart, love someone who is gentle and kind, but those
pills forbid me from doing those things, so then what? That
is
called dying.” Pete’s touch evaporates within his hair, a
sigh trailing behind as a conditioner. “But yeah, I know
drugs
that waft poison will intravenously swallow me from the inside, and I
don’t sit around waiting for that day, because I value life and
all its benefits, and prescriptions are the ones stomping me out, not
my natural mind.”
My
fingers jab into an eyelid united with the skin below, attempting to
make sense of this whole thing. “Pills are supposed to
alleviate your symptoms and brighten your mood, not renege on their
promise of restoring your cheer.”
You’re
going to lose friends for being such a smartass.
Pete
secures my hands in his own as some sort of solace, so that at least
one part of me is near him. The size of his pupils fluctuates
inquisitively, locking my focus to them as he speaks. “Patrick,
I stopped taking my meds when I met you, and do you know why that
is?”
My
head is bowed to study our connection as it whirs back and forth in
an answer.
The
man compresses this tether between us in an act of reassurance,
continuing, “Because I saw potential in you — potential
for a friendship, potential for a wild expedition, potential to make
me feel
for the first time in a while — and that was fucking glorious.”
A smile inspirits Pete’s countenance, a liberation that sings
of splendor. “I cannot describe how elated I was when I saw you
in the coffee shop after you picked up Mikey from daycare. You
must’ve been pretty damn special to evoke those emotions. Truth
is, you’ve always been special, even if you never knew it, and
if you say I’m going to die, I want your image rooted in my
eyes.”
“God,
now I’m crying,” I laugh, soiling my thumb with the
saltwater concoction. “I’m too weak for my own good.”
“Crying
isn’t weak,” Pete contradicts, shaving the residual water
away. “Crying is a sign that you survived — and damn,
that’s fucking courageous.”
I
intercept my friend’s hand in the air, implementing a
stationary latch on it as I cower away. “Yeah, I
survived,
but you’re
not
going to if you keep this up.”
Pete
enforces nothing to wriggle free from my grasp, only shrugs around
it. “It’s not like I have anything to lose.”
“You
have me,
right?” I pry. “Tell me you didn’t forget that
there are people who care about you.”
Pete
then worms out of my bonds, panicked. “No one cares about me.”
“I
do, and as a result, I’ve noticed that your hands shake when
you hold things, that your script is always slightly rough and vapid.
I’ve noticed that when you write, you scrawl things across the
paper, because if you took your time, it still wouldn’t look
perfect. I’ve noticed that you dry the tears of others before
you dry your own, because you know what it feels like to suffer. All
those things I love about you will be gone if you don’t take
your goddamn pills.
“You’ve
already sacrificed your body by refraining from medicating yourself.
Now don’t sacrifice your mind by thinking you’re in this
alone.”
A
print of a grin traces the edge of Pete’s lips, introducing
positive ideas to his array. “Maybe I’m not.”
On
this occasion, I’m the one to squeeze our hands together. “I
know
you’re
not.”
Pete
unrolls a flow of breath from his trachea, declaring, “This is
what it’s like to feel, Patrick.” My friend’s limbs
slice through the area, beholding the magnificence of nature, of
being awake. “And trust me — it’s miraculous.”
A
giggle somersaults off of my tongue as a kiss sprouts on Pete’s
raven hair. “You’ve experienced enough for now,” I
dictate, inhaling the strawberry fields again. “Will you
finally take your pills?”
Reciprocating
my action, Pete applies a kiss to my own peroxide locks and promises,
“I’ll consider it.”
And
with the current state of things, that’s enough for my
standards.
Chapter
Twenty
My
fingers fondle the length of the oak wall, shrouded in the black
fabric that Pete did, in fact, store in his bag, and it isn’t
as worthwhile as I had envisioned.
I
predicted vibrations of suppressed memories curdling in my fingers,
and though they’re ghastly, they’re necessary, and like
Pete, I just want to feel — feel the jagged texture of the
walls, feel the erosion filing my skin, feel the reality of knowing
why Dallon chose to wear those gloves, even when drinking a beverage
with condensation adhering to the sides.
No
one does that, not even me, and I consider myself the worthiest of
employing archaic and abnormal methods to soothe my restless mind,
but now the gloves are protecting my flesh with the utmost security,
and I almost hope to wear them more often, but that would remind me
of Dallon, and I’ve had enough of him.
This
is only an experiment. I’m not...I’m not trying to die
again.
But
even so, milliliters of water swish in my lungs and subtract oxygen
from the equation, and even though it is slight, it’s
phenomenally imperative that I attend to it before I drown, yet I’ve
drowned many times before, and this is the rainbow after rain because
of its gentility.
And
despite the connotation of these gloves, I tear them from my body
with disdain, banishing them to the floor so I won’t have to
look at them.
I
am nothing like Dallon Weekes.
We’re
reclining in the living room when the echoing screeching of the door
reduces the beams of sunlight to nothing more than an unimportant
detail.
The
aperture eases open, a shrill voice punishing the person to whom it’s
directed, but judging by its wavering tone, the volume isn’t
often exercised.
“Gerard
Arthur Way!” a woman shrieks, marching into the room with her
fingers pinching her companion’s ear. “Can you believe
what he did?”
Pete
and I trade befuddled expressions, soon projecting them onto the two
people entering the place.
“Let
go of me, Lindsey,” Gerard complains, feet inching away while
the rest of him stays stapled to the woman next to his crouched
figure.
Her
lips, padded by a bright red similar to autumn leaves, part to
justify her case. “I saw this man cutting flowers from the
garden I planted when I came here last.” She turns to him,
brows stressed. “You know how much I love those tulips.”
Gerard
continues to squirm in his friend’s grasp, speaking through the
cruelty being engraved into his body. “Relax — I just
wanted to give them to Frank.”
In
Lindsey’s excitement, her hands release Gerard’s ear and
primp for some gossip. “Who’s this Frank?”
“Some
kid he met at the club.” Pete’s hair folds over his
extremities, eyes meandering around the room. “A lot like
Stockholm syndrome, if you ask me.”
Lindsey
pivots towards the man next to her, trimming her hands to her hips
accusingly. “You went to another
gay
bar?”
“Does
he have a reputation for this?” I chime in from the end of the
couch.
Lindsey
addresses me with a withered sigh. “That’s where he took
me for my fourteenth birthday.”
Gerard
smirks, but after a prompt smack to the head, he protests, “Hey,
we had a good time!”
“No,
we did not. That guy who smelled like urine kept trying to talk to
us, and we only got in because you pretended to be too drunk to
function, so the bouncer just pitied you.”
Gerard
simply shrugs, defeated, and I use that as an opportunity to inquire,
“So who are you?”
Lindsey
exiles the wrinkles on her ebony skirt to the void, responding,
“Gerard’s cousin, though most of the time I’m just
his overprotective mother, because he can’t seem to do anything
correctly.”
Gerard
starts to riot, but the woman hushes him. “I’ll make some
lunch,” she declares, skirt billowing as she exits the room to
prepare sandwiches.
Pete
rises, shouldering Gerard as he migrates to another place while he
waits for lunch. “Are you sure
she’s
not your mother?”
A
river of breath scuffs the eighteen year-old’s lips, hand
jostling his hair. “I don’t even know anymore.”
“Make
sure to invite Frank over!” Lindsey yells from the other room.
As
Pete departs with a straightness to his walk, he suggests, “Why
not bring Dallon, too?”
Wonderful.
I sure love that Dallon Weekes fellow, so much that it’s like
drowning.
“When
is lunch ready?” the newly introduced Frank Iero moans,
propping his feet up on the coffee table and hoping that Lindsey
doesn’t stomp in here and slap them away.
“Maybe
if you actually got in here and helped, you could eat sooner!”
the woman quips, voice extending from the kitchen.
I
would’ve registered it as a joke, but Frank seems pretty intent
on devouring millions of sandwiches, whom he proclaimed as his
favorite food, his one and only true love, so he ascends from his
chair without an objection to go and assist Lindsey.
And
now that the air is devoid of one person, that allows space for the
notice of one particular man, clad in thin suspenders and gloves just
as dark, a smirk tinting the edge of his pink lips without a worry of
repercussions for acting so arrogantly.
He
dabbles with the unlit cigarette suspended at the cliff of his mouth,
ruminating, “That Frank guy seems like a good kid.”
“You’re
the kid. He’s older than you,” I bark, fed-up with
Dallon’s tangential observations that only he cares about but
thinks everyone else does, even though palpitating eyelids and focus
drifting to anywhere but him.
He
hums in a prolonged tide as he develops an accord. “By one
year.”
“A
year is a long time.”
Dallon
slants towards me, as if proposing a challenge. “Two years is a
long time.”
“And
by definition, three years is a long time,” Pete rambles, brows
puckering. “Shall I continue with four?”
“I
just like counting sometimes,” Dallon rescues, lolling on the
chair again. “It’s interesting, how the numbers fit
together and retain that certain merit to whomever beholds them,
don’t you think?”
“My
math grades have been on a rollercoaster since ninth grade,”
Pete chuckles.
The
cigarette trundles in Dallon’s attenuate fingers, being studied
by the person possessing it. “Yes, I abhor mathematics. The
numbers are fascinating, though.”
The
cushions near Pete ruffle as he stands, smoothing down his pants as
he pivots towards another room.
“Where
are you going?” I demand, tugging at his shirt as he passes me
so that he remains stationary.
A
laugh escapes Pete’s mouth, subconsciously condescending in
nature. “To the bathroom — relax.”
“Don’t
be clingy.” A sneer elongates Dallon’s bleached
complexion, and it’s awarded with a socially unacceptable hand
gesture, but he simply giggles, amused by my ferocity.
I
don’t aim to supply Dallon with any more ammunition to gun me
down, so my extremities unwind from Pete’s clothing hesitantly,
my anxiousness now quivering within my feet.
As
Pete’s frame disappears behind the wall, he assures, “I’ll
be back soon, if you’re concerned about my wellbeing.”
Cynosure
flitting over a crinkle in his glove, my attacker refuses to
acknowledge Pete visually. “Stay safe,” Dallon warns as a
compromise. “Don’t fall in.”
And
drown.
Promptly
after Pete is whirled away to another portion of the house, Dallon’s
face gleams with a business-like stare.
“Why
are you looking at me like that?” My bones budge under my
jacket, anticipating an icy comment from the man reposing in the
chair across from me.
“You
do the same.” When my demeanor implies denial, he adds, “Come
on — it’s obvious. You hate me almost as much as you hate
yourself, and everyone can see it.”
I
fiddle with the seam of a couch pillow, fitting it between my
phalanges and sliding it out a moment later. “I didn’t
think it was that clear.”
“Well
it is, and people are going to start asking you about it.”
Dallon’s words are draped in acerbity, decorating his ominous
character with the precision of a blade.
My
eyes circle around, shadowing my figure with a pillow that I’ve
stopped playing with long enough to relocate. “I’m sure
you’ll love the attention.”
“That’s
not the point.”
“Then
what is?” I roar, until my voice is subdued at the thought of
Lindsey, Frank, and Gerard hearing from the kitchen. “Because
all you seem to do is craft your sentences with a pinch of sarcasm
here, a dash of animosity there, and I’ve given up trying to
decipher whether or not you’re legitimate about what you say to
me, because you act as though reconciliation is on your mind, but you
speak as though it’s the farthest thing away.”
Building
an empire of egotism, Dallon twirls his cigarette between a slim
finger and its partner, musing, “Reconciliation is an
intriguing matter, now isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,
but why the hell would I try to reconcile with someone like you?”
A
leering smile brands Dallon’s face, disgracing him as a
lascivious criminal who can’t be trusted. “Because I
meant something to your petty brain, if you don’t remember, and
you don’t relinquish that because of a few psychologists who
tell you that it’s beneficial. You never listened to anyone
except me, and though you’re bombarding my apparently terrible
head with hatred of the past, you’re still sitting with me when
you could be making lunch, and that’s a fantastically
infatuating thing. You want
to
be here, because you absolutely crave our time together.”
“That’s
a lie.” I leap from my chair, but Dallon restrains me with the
posing of a finger.
“Is
it?”
“O-of
course,” I stammer, descending into the cushion once again as
confusion fogs my contemplation.
Dallon’s
hands pressure the armrests, climbing and dissociating from me. He
pauses by the door, sentencing the cigarette to its last ember as it
tumbles to the floor and closing with his final words. “Once
you sit down and weigh your options, you’ll come to understand
that I’m not quite the villain you think I am.”
And
then I’m alone.
Chapter
Twenty-One
The
voices have gone away.
I
don’t know how, but the stagnant blight of Etep is but a
memory, passing with an odd expression and a pang of fear before it’s
devoured by the sink, and I don’t know whether I should run for
my life or stick around out of curiosity.
I’m
convinced that both would entail my defeat, but with the state of
things, it appears as though Etep is the one to be defeated.
Now
that Dallon has shown up, inflicting a fervid sort of rage upon my
normally docile composure, Etep is sidetracked by attempting to
eliminate the new contender, and he hasn’t done a very good job
of it.
He’s
just disappeared completely, not even capable of trying his best, and
my steadiness is gradually increasing with each minute he’s
absent.
I’m
confident in saying, however, that he’ll be back, and he’ll
sure as hell be angry with me for betraying him, as if regaining
access to my own mind is some kind of treachery that he simply can’t
stand and will have punished by execution.
But
then where would he live if I’m decapitated? With me, abruptly
shoved into the ground with a scarcity of dirt piled atop my chilled
body and my dismembered head tucked gently under my arm as if a
basketball.
Because
Etep has made it quite conspicuous that he never leaves, so with this
knowledge, it’s fair to say that he’s only dormant,
refueling himself before he strikes with twice the blow to my sanity,
but it’s not like I can be bothered to be responsive towards
it, because he’s been smiting me since the dawn of my
post-traumatic stress disorder diagnostic meeting after the event,
where things were only heating up, and if he has the audacity to
declare his superiority over me on our first encounter, there’s
no doubt that he’ll observe the Napoleon complex further,
tearing my grasp on life to smithereens with the lack of artwork to
glamorize them.
The
real artwork, I come to understand, is not the scraps of destruction,
because I’ve professed my hatred for that mentality many times
before, rather the idea that Etep is a metaphor for Dallon, and as I
brood on that, it becomes more and more legitimate, until it emerges
with a blinding glory as the only absoluteness.
Too
often are we raveled in affairs we don’t understand, but they
seem charming enough for discussion, so we give them a go, and that
was me for two years, but now I’ve finally understood why this
shit is spinning around me.
There
can never be a cessation for pleasure. It’s always either Etep
or Dallon, mental or physical, and there’s no judging which one
is worse, because I’ve been abused by both, and people just
write it off as either a symptom or an attacker who was never jailed
because my case is somehow superficial to their biased jury ruling.
And
because of that negligence, I’ve ceased my uproar for a
friendlier stance whose only purpose is to promote my likeability as
I cluck at how poorly it’s working, because I’m still
defiant, and I’m still irritable, and I’m still the mess
that I’ve always been, but at least a lick of pessimism has
been composted — or that’s only what the psychologists
enjoy, in which case bedeviling them is the least of my chores.
My
mother instructs otherwise, but she’s no use as well, seeing as
she aims to send me to a mental hospital, and it’s not so much
the environment of it but the stigma associated with the place,
because not everyone is aware that receiving help is okay, that it’s
taking care of yourself, and a mental institution only represents a
madhouse for serial killers that must be shunned from society, and
it’s a tragic ideology.
There’s
no evidence to claim that I wouldn’t fit in with the people
there, though, but with the departure of Etep, things are looking up
for my health.
Crumbs
of bread leap into the water, fleeing their life of cohesion and
joints to their family to live their own destiny, and for one moment
I debate jumping into the frozen lake to join them on their quest,
but I’d die of hypothermia before I could get a job, so I
decide against it.
“The
ducks look happy today,” Lindsey remarks, tossing a chunk of
transmuted wheat to the feathered animals, with a simpering shade to
her cheeks.
True
enough, secluded parties of ducks float around, utilizing the wonder
of small talk with the others like them and chirping jubilantly
without a specific route, just leisurely drifting with the wind to
wherever it takes them.
“If
you keep feeding them, they’ll never leave,” I caution,
dividing the bread anyway, sort of like a pastime to stimulate my
restless limbs.
“Who
says I want that? We’re high up, and we don’t have many
people here, so why not use animals to keep us company?” The
breeze brushes against Lindsey’s crimson lipstick, toying with
her sloppily pigtailed hair in the process and dispersing strands of
black to the sky around the beaming woman.
My
shoulders tense, then relaxing in a human gesture that I’m
required to exploit. “I suppose that’s a fair opinion.”
“Gerard
also hates ducks, so having them around is an added bonus,”
Lindsey includes, the blanched teeth saddled within her mouth being
unmasked. “I’m still not over my fourteenth birthday.”
“It
seems like you had a good time, though,” I jest. “I don’t
know what the problem is.”
My
new friend’s limb protrudes to assail my clavicle, a giggle
following. “The idea of two fourteen year-olds in a gay bar
doesn’t scream safety.”
“Pete
isn’t screaming safety, either,” I aberrate, dampening
the aura of our conversation. “He hasn’t been taking his
pills.”
Lindsey’s
sharpened brows cave inward, suddenly distressed. “Why not?”
A
sigh launches from my lungs, hand blending through my platinum locks.
“He went on this whole emotional spiel about how they remove
his emotions, and he apparently hates that.”
The
scarlet rows on the woman’s face gather in disturbance,
pondering, and she eventually rebuts, “Well wouldn’t
you?”
“I
have too many emotions,” I invalidate. “I go to a
terrible psychologist for them, and I probably earn more when I’m
with those ‘doctors’.”
“Psychologists
are trash, in my personal opinion,” Lindsey agrees, tapping my
knee in consolation. “I ditched all of mine. My motto is to
guide your own life and stay out of danger while doing so. It
excludes all those pests that call themselves doctors.”
My
shoulders organize themselves in an upward position, wrangling the
circumstances. “Pete also fired his psychologists, and now he’s
not taking his medication. I’m not sure where it’s
getting him, because he’s definitely in danger, and his
moodiness is showing. He’s leaving rooms a lot as if it’s
a casual thing, but it’s not like he brought anything in his
bag to do.”
“You
should ask Pete about it,” Lindsey suggests. “Friendships
are based on trust, and part of trust is relaying how you feel.”
“Feeling
is what Pete says the pills take away.”
“Then
you have to give him an emotion so powerful that not even the pills
can silence it.” Lindsey’s chocolate eyes tunnel into my
own, confident in her advice and willing me to judge it the same. “I
feel positive that you’ll be able to do it, Patrick.”
“What
makes you think that?” My head swerves to the side to avoid
connecting with Lindsey, just like many times before. “I can’t
even control my own emotions.”
Her
hands cross into each other, like those psychologists whom we both
hate. “I find that it’s easier to be honest with other
people than it is to be honest with yourself.”
“Just
like it’s easier to punch down your own walls than it is to see
others do the same.” The words course from my mouth with
streaks of twilight insinuating the crepuscule skies, decimated by
the lowering sun.
“Exactly.”
Lindsey’s tone emanates a mellow disposition, doleful in its
undertones and murky in the mutilated reeds that conceal the river
grass, and she includes to her portfolio a clever “you’d
rather die before you see someone else so much as scratch
themselves”.
“That,
or you’re just searching for excuses to bring about your own
funeral.” My eyes embroil Lindsey’s with a thoughtful
concentration, and it suddenly dawns on me how much she and Gerard
are similar.
Their
noses, trimmed up in shape, are always seamed with the firm strings
of a smile, and those strings also pleat their fawn eyes on their
quest to vanquish the entirety of the two’s faces with a
jocular grin and a grain of sass to further their personalities.
Their dynamics are different, with Lindsey portraying the sort of
mother archetype and Gerard the free spirit, but their harmonization
is a unique breed that would seem, at least to others, as a clashing
force but is actually only a deviation of the norm, and as I’ve
proclaimed countless times before, normal is boring.
And
Gerard Way and Lindsey Ballato are far from boring.
But
soon, Lindsey’s smile fades for the gloominess of my
conjecture, allowing, “That’s a possibility, I guess.”
My
breathing shivers, thoughtful. “I need to be sure, or else my
anxiety brain won’t leave me be.”
A
minuscule giggle dances beneath the rising moon, the fragrance of
night permeating its sender as her hair replicates the dreary
background. “Anxiety is a mindfuck.”
I
requite the laugh, concurring, “Preach.” Instantaneously,
however, my mood draws as dim as the evening air, spiraling into the
earth that buzzes under my legs.
The
wind exhales in operatic cries, dismissing our static conversation
for the hiss of frost against our cheeks as it marvels at the rosy
color it paints, yet we’re settled evermore within the trees, a
blanket lodging our quaking shoulders to reject the biting
temperature.
“Anxiety
gets boring after a while, though,” I criticize, tightening the
curtains hanging around my shoulders and steaming the air with a
misty breath, a natural cigarette that illustrates my vision with
smoke assembled entirely of my will. “But it’s always
present, and it sucks.”
“More
credible words have never been spoken, my friend.”
And
as dusk grazes our lashes, my fright is everlasting.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Nothing
moves in the cottage under the Caribou skies.
The
fire is but a heap of ash and embers whose flames were stolen by the
thief known as the moon, and a rigor varnishes the wooden strips of
the floor with a curt hush to the activities of the fluttering
drapes.
No
one is to know what schemes Pete Wentz is fulfilling in the isolation
of his bedroom, but the night is a snitch and whispers a tale of
foreboding into my ear before it’s stifled by the protection of
the walls.
And
as my toes tattoo a burlesque onto the panels of lumber beneath them,
the faint clicking of my friend’s plotting is audible under the
slit of his door, where quieted beams of light splinter the wood and
alert me to the danger progressing within the confines of the area.
The
melancholic droning of tears down one’s face declares itself as
the paramount ruler to any form of acumen feeding into Pete’s
cognition, and it shows by the vigilant lock holstered inside the
knob and the muffled theatric of sobbing excavating the hall.
My
fist stands at attention by the door, unsure of its motives, however
helpful, but after an agitating pin against the ground in the shape
of something more portentous, impetus is a drug produced a gallon at
a time.
To
my astonishment, the lock was never fastened at all, forgotten in a
hurry to schedule one’s own massacre, and as I enter, I’d
rather the lock be sealed with superglue than confront this scene.
A
monster of a being grovels in the space near my feet, an assortment
of pills brandishing swords meant to injure the person who has
already injured himself enough, and not a flash of remorse fashions
his murky demeanor.
“Patrick,”
my friend warns, back eschewing me for the mercy of his drugs. “Go
to bed. That’s where everyone else is, and I know you love
fitting in with the crowd.”
My
response wavers on the ledge of my tongue, not yet verbal arms
outstretched to balance itself, just to fall back into my mouth and
plummet down my throat.
“Frivolous,”
Pete mutters, a spit dredging his remark. “That’s what
you are.”
A
laugh spears my lungs with the intensity of this matter, shocked.
“And what about you? Wasting your life on the pills you insist
on hating?” My head droops in disbelief. “This isn’t
what I meant when I told you to take your meds.”
“Then
what did
you
mean?” Loose ends of malice disproportion Pete’s
generally easygoing personality, combing a shadow through its waters.
“If you want the best for me, don’t be so fucking
ambiguous.”
“It
isn’t my fault that you overreacted to a simple opinion!”
And
in that moment, my companion’s body rotates to present a
masterpiece of prescriptions, spelling out the sole word no
in
medicated beads of spite that embellish his true inclination towards
humanity, which is deeply outlined in his abrupt disheveled hygiene.
As
I analyze the production, Pete’s breath converses with mine as
the flecks of gold in his irises become visible — and
wondrously beautiful — and the silence is captured for the
longest duration imaginable, but I break away, flustered.
I
attempt persuasion from a different aspect. “Why were you
trying to overdose?” My voice is the size of a mouse,
scampering around the room in hopes of discovering an adequate
reaction but returning fruitless.
All
Pete does is stare out the window while its blinds are still crumpled
over each other, as if he could make something out of the thin slices
that board him from the outside world, because an effect is the exact
opposite to what he’s earning with the dismal hum he provides
to everything.
“Why
is it important to you?” Pete’s sentences bang against
the covered glass with his focus still solid, and I almost march over
to him to see what he’s so fixated on if there’s a veil
over it, but he would most likely cast me aside with a brutal
grabbing of my arm, and a panic attack would draw a spotlight to me
when it should be readily pointed towards my friend.
“It’s
almost like you want to die,” I scorn, wrists chaffing my hips
with the fierce velocity at which they pace to distract me from the
shame of this situation.
“Well
we humans tend to find people who are like us.” Pete’s
neck swivels to address me, an eerie glow slicking his eyes. “So
it seems we’ve both got a problem.”
“I
already have a psychologist. I don’t need this, especially
after you said that isn’t how relationships work.”
A
slight pounce commands Pete’s shoes, just enough momentum to
startle me as he quips, “And you
said that everyone wants help, and a psychologist has a doctorate in
repairing peoples’ twisted minds, so I’m pretty certain
we fit the criteria.”
“Psychologists
aren’t our friends, Pete.” My stare is as still as the
night, strong in a way that I’ve never been. “I thought
you knew that.”
“Psychologists
are the ones who tell me to swallow my meds, though I find it cute
when you tell me the same.”
“You
never listen.”
My
friend shrugs absently. “Yeah, but it’s still cute.
You’re cute. But those pills — they are not cute.”
Sins tremor in Pete’s eyes, pragmatic about one aspect of this
debate.
“Do
you think I give a shit about whether or not you like taking your
pills?” My brows cramp, appalled at my friend’s
complaints. “Because I don’t, but I do
care
about keeping your heart beating.
“The
way you refrain from medicating yourself, you…you make dying
seem like something skillful in denouncing any sort of solution, but
that’s so unhealthy for you.” A sigh swings from my
windpipe, depicting my insurmountable stress. “And I know that
you don’t owe society anything, especially your existence, but
you better stay fucking alive for all of our sakes.”
No
response, only the pensive scowl of my friend who’s walking the
road to death.
“Will
you do that, Pete Wentz?” I press, desperation on the cusp of
wrecking my soul’s faith.
The
man acknowledges me with a subtle hint of poignancy in his eyes, and
a word a friend never wants to hear is uttered. “No.”
The
malevolent wind tosses my step as it pays close mind to the tears
wandering my face with an awestruck expression plastered onto its
palette of frigid air that beats me up with every passing second, but
after a few moments, the death feels nice, like it’s what I
deserve.
The
concept that everything is my fault has been pounded into me since
birth, and it’s finally caught on.
And
perhaps the person who caused most of that self-hatred will have
something to offer me with the cigarette chatting with him in rings
of smoke and accompanying the witty grin dangling from his nose.
When
he sees me, though, the mysterious ambience is pommeled.
“What
are you doing?” Dallon’s inflection is flavored by
bewilderment, severing the bond between him and his cigarette as his
back straightens from leaning on the house.
Dallon’s
tie is crinkled under his fleece jacket, peering over the v-neck of
his sweater and viewing its faded surroundings with a fresh vantage
that no human could decipher, and his hair, usually gelled in
elaborate coiffures, is as unkempt as I’ve seen it, styled by
the tumultuous breeze, and even his eyes — those sapphire eyes
— aren’t onerous to look at, because they’ve been
dulled by a burden sleeting on their owner to the point of a dusty
layer upon glass, and it’s all coated in irresoluteness.
The
man looks so fucking innocent that it’s difficult to remember
how much he hurt me, how much my life dotes on the suffering, and
I’ve become so cavalier to this scent that it barely means a
thing what he did.
Even
so, I could never love someone like him, yet it seems that my
promises are off the table considering the vexing circumstances, and
before I know it, Dallon’s pressed once again into the wooden
structure of the Caribou house, an old friend’s hunger glossing
his lips.
The
affair is painful, and Dallon’s breath reeks of decomposition
from a familiar blade, but it’s what I need, so our mouths are
synchronized with the tears of dissolution and not a drop of regret,
even though there should be a rainstorm of it.
The
problem is that it feels so right, so natural, so much like the past,
and it’s anyway eluded me that the past is the thing chaining
me to psychologists and pills and anxiety, but terror has become
glamorous in this clutch, and we’re both just scavenging for an
excuse to relive it, so no one questions why I’m suddenly
kissing my attacker and why there’s no objection to the action,
because it’s consensual in the matter that we’re simply
laboring to collapse.
There
aren’t any people here besides us to witness our decease, and
we could be dying forever, but I’ve had enough.
I
peel away with a snarl tangling my face, berating both of us for
being so foolish with the recognition that it was mostly my doing,
and to evade the miffed countenance of Dallon Weekes, my ambition
turns towards the water.
“Where
are you going?” my assailant calls, fear taxing his volume, but
I block out his pleas.
There’s
a lake near here. Maybe I can envision myself drowning again.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
When
I kissed Pete, I was in a bathroom stall for an hour with the
intentions of sorting through the variables, but with Dallon, it
seems like nothing special, and it’s perplexing how my friend
is a load and my attacker is a casualty, when it should be the other
way around, or at least be equal in the troubling field.
But
it’s not the kiss I’m fretting about — it’s
the aftermath and what transpired before that caused it.
Speaking
of the cause, I should be with Pete to make sure he doesn’t
kill himself on the pills he says he doesn’t take, but he would
probably continue with his endeavor and barely pity me when I observe
his death, but then again, he wouldn’t want me to miss the show
either.
So
in a state of indecisiveness, I find myself sitting by the lake,
submerged in the snow without a jacket to absorb my heat, but with
the status of my soul, it’s not like I have any heat for it to
absorb.
And
I’m perfect fine (for the most part), so seeing a drunk Frank
Iero stumbling into my path and crashing into the ground beside me is
quite the shock.
A
half-empty beer bottle wades in his hand, towed around by jittery
phalanges, and his hair is even messier than Dallon’s. “Hey,
Patrick!” Frank squeals, underestimating his sonority.
“Um,
hi, Frank.”
I’ve
never spoken to this Iero kid one on one before, for he was always
with either Gerard or Lindsey, endeavoring to appeal to both of them,
and I’ve been the meek guy in the corner that no one dares talk
to because they’re afraid of hurting me, so those roles haven’t
been compatible yet.
“So
how are you?” A pinched smile fits Frank’s visage,
stereotypical of teenage girls ready for gossip.
“I’m
doing well, except for the fact Pete’s about to fucking die,
and even after I knew that, I kissed Dallon.”
Frank’s
expression is miffed, partly because I snapped at him, partly because
he didn’t realize Pete is in danger, and partly because
everyone can tell I hate Dallon. “Well why did you do that?”
He appears genuinely confused, and I somewhat pardon him, primarily
because he’s drunk and insensible.
My
vision circulates the pillow terrain of my hands, made soft by the
lotion I refuse to apply to my arm but continue to apply elsewhere.
“Because I couldn’t control my emotions.”
Frank
pats my knee reassuringly, the best he can do in this intoxicated
perspective. “We all have those days. You just gotta get
through them, and then you’re a-ok.” A proud beam shades
his pale face, unsure if his advice was helpful, but he’s
interpreting it with his own judgment, regardless of whether or not
I’m still broken down.
My
head whips around to glare at this Iero fellow, unnerving for him and
fueling for me. “But those days aren’t everyday
for other people.”
“Are
you constantly tormented by it?” Frank’s words are
dedicated to his feet, rinsed in scruffy tennis shoe materials and
splattered by snowflakes.
“Basically.”
“Try
alcohol,” Frank recommends, beer luging down his throat.
“You’ll feel great.”
I
flick his bottle delicately, examining it for a conclusion of “why
the hell would I do that?”
Frank
shrugs. “It’s what I do.”
“And
you’re drunk.” I cock my head, disapproving.
“Fair
point.” More beer rides a toboggan down his neck, sliding
around while he attempts to speak. “But I’m not quite
drunk.”
My
brows arch, an aqueduct for the ebbing snow surrounding our frozen
figures. “Oh?”
Reflection
establishes its trade on Frank’s rouge lips, playful in nature.
“It’s a memorable kind of veneer.”
A
scant chuckle blows out of my lungs. “Being known as the town
drunk isn’t as memorable as you’d probably like it to
be.”
Frank
disagrees with a mere turning of the skull. “You get some
intriguing information when people think you’re passed out.”
My
arm juts out to smack my new friend. “You deceptive bastard!”
Frank
better not have been watching me since he came, or else my paranoia
will understand no boundaries. I thought I was doing well with
keeping my fear on the down low, but this...what if he installed
cameras around the house?
I
kick my questions from their throne of pretentiousness, calming my
mind temporarily. “Even if the information is enticing, I’m
not risking an alcohol addiction.”
“Whatever.”
The remnants of Frank’s drink are shoved into his mouth, and
the glass fidgets in his fingers once vacant of a beverage. “Your
loss.”
“Not
really,” I negate. “Pete’s still rotting, so I’d
rather not have two of us dead.”
A
sigh unwinds from Frank’s esophagus, troubled and frustrated.
“You need to stop worrying so much about him.”
“Excuse
me?” I clear up.
Frank
slackens a bit, illustrating his perception of the case. “Yeah,
I don’t want to have to arrange his funeral, but I don’t
want to do the same for you when you die of stress from managing
Pete’s emotions instead of your own.”
Panic
sunders my stomach, fabricating shredded scraps of phobia that act as
another force who won’t leave me alone. “But—”
Frank’s
hands position themselves to soothe my consternation. “Patrick,
it’s all right to take care of other people, but you have to
take care of yourself first and foremost.”
My
body shivers under my clothing, uncomfortable in this anecdote of
pressure. “What if I don’t need to?”
Exasperation
flosses my friend’s hazel eyes as he grapples with aiding me.
“You said you didn’t want two of you dead, so don’t
let that happen.”
I
face away from Frank — lying’s easier that way. “You
seem so confident that it will.”
“With
your rebellion, it’s probable.”
Now
that Etep has been banished from the kingdom of my brain, I take it
upon myself to procure alarms when accosted by tyrannical people such
as Frank Iero, and dodging him is part of the procedure. If he won’t
believe my side, then why bother with him? I know what I’m
doing; I’ve survived that way, and even if barely, it’s
enough, because at least my life isn’t completely riddled with
Dr. Saporta’s bullet holes.
“I’m
tired of people controlling my life!” I shriek, spooking Frank.
“I was born to do as I please, but apparently now that I’m
all messed up and shit, that gives people the right to treat me like
a pet!”
“Patrick,
that’s not—”
“Don’t
you dare.”
My tone is icier than the climate around us, and Frank comprehends
that, too, reeling back for fear of my rage, and his fear
unexpectedly drives me for more anger.
But
it feels strange, like this isn’t how I’m meant to react,
because it’s obvious that I’m wounding Frank, determined
by the quivering ocean in his irises, and I’ve never purposely
done that before.
Yet
Frank doesn’t seem like the person to be timid often, but
perhaps it’s the unpredicted volume of my lexemes that command
such a response from him, though either way Dr. Saporta will not be
thankful.
I
haven’t conversed with him since we traveled to Caribou, to
this house with many mysteries hiding in the people who reside here,
so he’s most likely scared shitless at the thought of his
absence and the impact it will have on me.
I’ve
discovered that there actually isn’t an impact, because I’m
absolutely fantastic, but that may be a false truth with the recent
occurrences, but no matter how disoriented I am because of those
events, I’m still sitting in the snow with a nervous Frank
Iero, and Pete Wentz might as well be dead.
I’m
a terrible friend for accepting that, but any real friend would know
it’s plausible, too. Even an enemy can decode Pete’s
moodiness as a petition for the grave — it’s not like
they’ll give a fuck, but they’ll understand what’s
happening nonetheless.
Maybe
I do
aim
to leave Frank in the ice and tend to Pete like a helpful companion,
but Frank is still as tenacious as he was when I first shouted at
him, and I can never suppress the magic of a puppy dog gaze.
So
I crumble.
“I’m
just saying you don’t know what it’s like to be
reprimanded for things you can’t discipline, what it’s
like to never own your mind to instead cede it to a militant voice,
what it’s like to hire an amateur of a psychologist who thinks
incorrectly that he can solve your problems, what it’s like to
drown at the sole mention of a person, what it’s like to kill
yourself and be resurrected for more torture without consent.”
Tears polish my eyes, amputating any trace of balance, and I prepare
for the final punch. “You will never
know.”
Through
this all, Frank is also prepared for his
final
punch. “And you will never know what it’s like to go to
rehab, what it’s like to be paired with a cellmate that tried
to fucking stab you, what it’s like to always be monitored by
people who only pretend
to
sympathize with you, what it’s like to feel yourself slipping
away when approached by the thought of alcohol, what it’s like
to know your health is declining but not seeing how that could be
worse than the facility you’ve been in for a year, what it’s
like to never see the daylight in a literal sense, what it’s
like to escape a metaphor for the harsh reality.” Contrary to
my speech, no tears occupy Frank’s eyes, rather a stone
engraved with a soft screw
you.
“Now you
will
never know.”
And
suddenly that beer derives a function in my mind as Frank rises to
flee this caustic adventure.
“I’m
not drunk, Patrick,” he states with his back cackling at me.
“Because I’ve experienced enough of that sensation.”
Points: 13625
Reviews: 82
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