Can't You Save Me?

•2•

"I'm going to get caught because of you! Stop it, you have to stop." Patrick shouts as loud as he possibly can. He can't tell what's happening and he feels like the entire world can hear his voice but it isn't his fault. Vaughn started it, he always does.

"Why won't you leave?" He yells at him again but it doesn't help, no matter how many times this happens he will never go away. He's a stubborn bastard, an evil and controlling maniac and Patrick doesn't even know what he looks like. He only knows him as a shadow that lingers around his dreams, his life, his mind.

Patrick stands in darkness, surrounded by nothing and being consumed by everything and he doesn't know when it'll end. Oh how he wishes the pain will just end. But it's been this way for as long as he could remember, almost every single night since he was fifteen years old. Although whenever he tries to remember exactly what happened he comes up empty.

"Stop." Patrick groans. "Please, stop."

"Not until you listen." Vaughn's voice shoots through the darkness like an arrow. Nothing seen, just his voice being heard.

"I don't, no, I don't want to do that anymore."

"Patrick, we've gone through this too many times. You know how to make me stop." Then Patrick can hear footsteps heavily echoing, it's the only other sound besides their voices. They step slowly, leisurely, gradually getting louder indicating that Vaughn was coming closer.
He sees him then, Vaughn, and he wasn't expecting what he came face to face with.

"Hello Patrick."

Vaughn is...he's Patrick.

Patrick shoots up out of his fitful sleep gasping for air as if he'd been drowning and his heart is pounding so hard that it could be heard from the other side of the room. He's drenched in sweat, so much that the sheets are damp and his skin is clammy. He scanned the room for Vaughn, flicking his eyes over to every corner just to double check and breathes a sigh of relief while wiping the sweat beaded across his forehead with the back of his hand. Nothing, Vaughn isn't there. Patrick's in bed and the sun is beaming in through the window on the opposite wall, coating Patrick's room with stripes.

Tuesday, Nine o'seven, is what the clock reads on his nightstand as Patrick reaches for his glasses lying beside it, jamming them onto his face.

Dreaming, he was only dreaming. Again. God, Patrick was so fucking tired of having this happen, it constantly made his head spin and gave him throbbing headaches. And the man that's been in his head for so long had finally shown his face, though Patrick didn't think he'd be looking back at his own image. Vaughn's words would echo throughout Patrick's skull, manipulating his mind, body, and thoughts, forcing him to do things he'd never do in a million years. Patrick was scarred and hurt inside and out and he needed help, he knew he did, but couldn't find it anywhere. He's a fucking felon and the whole town, state, maybe even a few other states, want his head on a pike. Getting someone to help him will be impossible.

Patrick swings his legs over the side of the bed, getting up and heading to the bathroom for a shower. Once he's done he gets dressed in a black band tee and dark, loose blue jeans, sliding on a pair of shoes and topping of his outfit with a black fedora.

He grabs his guitar from beside his dresser and slides the strap over his shoulder so it's against his back.

His head feels empty and a shiver buzzes down his spine as he makes his way out the door.