Light My Way Back Home •Patrick Stump+Fall Out Boy•

Chapter Seven: Beautiful Scars On Critical Veins

Can I just say thank you all so much for supporting BMBTL and LMWBH and basically all of my books?? BC honestly I'm just a bored 15 year old that should be doing my chemistry homework or writing that English essay that I've put off bc I have dan howell level procrastination, and seeing you guys enjoying the stupid stuff I write makes me really happy.

And btw, this sequel will absolutely not be cliché, and will hopefully surprise you with the worst kinds of unexpected, so always be prepared and look out for foreshadowing.

||Cole Wentz|| First Person||

It's that time of the week again.

Or mainly that second time of the week. I can't be sure, the days are blurring together with work, therapy, taking care of a baby, writing music (because for some reason Fueled By Ramen expects me to start actually putting out some stuff), and wedding planning.

Talk about stressed out, huh?

And here's the thing; I still can't believe that Patrick increased the amount of my therapy visits to twice a week, and it infuriates me. It's like, wow, she's that fucked up that she needs to see a psychologist twice a week just to make sure she doesn't go ahead and pull her car into the opposing lane or slit her wrists and try to drown herself again. It's not fair that I'm this mentally unstable person to everyone just because I screwed up once or twice.

But it's reasonable to believe that.

It's been precisely a week since Elisa Yao was murdered. The police came by a few days ago with an envelope, a copy of the video Derek took so we could watch it. I still remember sitting there, staring at the television screen the video was hooked up to. Broadcasted in High Definition. I almost vomited- scratch that, I did vomit watching because shit, he killed her like some sort of wild beast. It's like it wasn't enough to put her through the agony of being shot three times, but to slit her throat in front of the camera while addressing me was what sealed the deal that I was to puke. It was scary, no lie, and it threw me off for a while because I just watched the girl that used to hate me die.

The thing that will forever remain with me though is what happened after. Derek put the knife to her throat and slit it, and yes, I was vomiting at that moment because this wasn't CGI or any of that special effects bullshit- it was real. Her hands clawed there way up to her throat as she choked and cried and tried to stop the blood flow. Just before the light left her eyes, she managed a strangled cry with an animalistic glint to her eyes. "RUN, COLE!"

Patrick remained emotionless throughout the day, not talking to anyone except to Maya and to me when necessary. I mean, I gave him the space he needed because, crap, Elisa Yao was his ex girlfriend. She was the girl he loved, for as short a period of time it was.

So here I am now, sitting in the stupid Psychologist's office. I need help, yes. I'm unhinged and at this rate, my parents and Patrick's are taking to watching over Maya more and more because they're worried that maybe Patrick and I are unfit, too young. I pull my legs up to my chest, my black Converse resting on the smooth leather of the Lazy Boy sofa beneath my body. Patrick comes only once a week to check on my progress, allowing me a private session in case there was something I wanted to talk about without him there, and this just so happened to be one of my one on one sessions. It started exactly ten minutes ago, and all Doctor Katherine and I have covered is that I relapsed.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wentz." Doctor Katherine had greeted me earlier when I walked into the all too familiar therapist office. The walls were a nice sunset orange, the same shade Peeta Mellark from the Hunger Games liked. Various nicknacks were hung up- framed abstract pieces of art and others hyper realistic nature portraits. I'm convinced that the way this room is set up is supposed to be calming, what with the overbearing amount of symmetry displayed. I had nodded my head in acknowledgement, plopping myself down on the couch like I was in my own house.