Oneshot Collection ((just garbage))

Intoxication ((Sad Peterick))

TRIGGER WARNING

He had always wanted to fly. Wings or no wings. Pixie dust or no pixie dust. Super powers or no super powers. He just wanted to feel his heart racing, his veins pumping, his arms spread, feeling a breeze in his short, reddish, light brown hair. Some might call it a childhood dream, while others may call it an obsession, but all he knew was that he was meant to soar, whether it was in an airplane, on stage, on a hang glide, or an entirely different high all together.

At age six he was running around the house, his arms spread wide and his eyes bright with absolute wonder and delight, his small feet stamping against the tan, carpeted floors of his mom's small apartment, seemingly shaking the entire complex. Small giggles and squeals escaped his mouth as he jumped and twirled, feeling truly happy in that moment.

"Pattycakes," he heard. "It's getting late." With those words he glanced at the clock. 8:34. He had to go to bed in no more than twenty-six minutes and he was supposed to have settled down at least four minutes ago. He never saw much purpose in keeping track of the time, but his mother treated it like a religion and it was a rule that he was going to follow for most of his life.

At age ten he did cartwheels and laughed at nothing in particular, enjoying the feeling of the sunlight on his skin and the soft grass on his bare feet as his glasses fell from the bridge of his nose and he smiled to himself on his best friend's bright green front lawn.

"Patrick, Peter, it's time to come inside!" It was the mother of the aforementioned best friend, calling them from inside the averagely sized house for lunch. The two boys happily skipped up the porch steps and into the kitchen to find sandwiches prepared for them. He and his friend laughed and played games together and when it came time for him to leave, the two shared a long, tight hug to last them until they saw each other again at school in two days.

Fifteen was his breaking point. No one really knew why. Just a month ago he was playing his guitar and smiling as he played Call Of Duty with Pete, but now he sat in his room for hours at a time and didn't talk at all or even smile unless he was saying hello to Pete. The tan-skinned boy with the dark hair and the bright eyes seemed to be the only thing that could make him happy. He could be sobbing into the pillows on his small, creaky bed and all it would take to make it all better was when he saw that pair of greenish brown eyes peeking from behind his bedroom door.

At age sixteen, Pete begged him to stay alive, Pete begged him to stop cutting, Pete begged him to stop drinking, Pete begged him not to snort cocaine. He was the only one who knew about all of this, because Pete would notice if he was acting different and Patrick would tell him anything. His skin was pale, eyes lifeless and void of any emotion.

Pete got a girlfriend. Patrick had never felt so alone. Pete didn't come to visit anymore, and the only texts he would send were pictures of him and Persephone, talking about how much he loved Persephone, how perfect Persephone was, etc. etc. etc. He felt betrayed, he wasn't good enough anymore.

He was going to jump. There was a park nearby with a bridge over a river with a strong current and a lot of rocks at the bottom. He made a plan to go late at night, when there would be no one there, or at least close to that.

He wore a sweatshirt and a pair of denim jeans. An outfit to help the cold water soak into his clothes and kill him faster. He knew that since it was January it'd be cold enough for his clothes to freeze once they were submerged in the water.  He snuck out of the house, at around 2:00AM after snorting a couple lines of cocaine.

Pete had a bad feeling. He knew something was wrong, but he had no idea what. He tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach, but there was just an unmistakeable feeling of dread.

Patrick was sitting on the wall of the bridge, facing the water. He gazed down at the flowing river, knowing he had to be quick. His feet dangled over the edge and he slowly scored himself closer and closer to the point of falling until-

He fell

It felt like he had achieved his lifelong dream of flying as the cold air blew against his face in a breeze-like manner. He was happy. He smiled as he plummeted towards the rocky bottom of the riverbed, allowing the excess air from his lungs to flow out before he hit the water.

Pete ran down the sidewalk, not knowing where exactly he was headed or what he would find, but when he reached the bridge and looked over the edge, he felt sick.

Patrick struggled for breath as he flailed and shivered, seemingly reaching toward Pete, who was watching from his place on the bridge, until he eventually lost consciousness.

Pete couldn't help but allow the tears to spring forth from his eyes, sobbing uncontrollably as he watched the body of his best friend slowly drift down the river.

But at least he flew.