Wishes In The Dark - A Peterick Fanfiction

Twenty Seven

PATRICK'S POV

I awake on the couch to the sound of vomiting.

Quickly I check my watch. It's 8am. Is Andrew here?

I get up, slip some socks on and wander round the apartment, but Andrew is nowhere to be seen. He's still with Chelsea. How is he still there? It's been about a day – something must be wrong.

"Don't call me and don't be worried if I take a long time."

Andrew warned me he might take a long time. Don't worry, Patrick. He'll be back. And Pete will be fine.

Hopefully.

Pete's vomiting is hideous and it's making me feel sick myself. Should I check on him? Andrew told me to leave him for the day, but the day is past. I think it's safe to check on him. What harm can it do anyway?

I wait until the sound of vomiting has stopped and approach the bathroom. Cautiously I hold out my hand and turn the door handle. The door swings open and I see him.

He's lying on his back in the middle of the room, with his bent legs in the air and his hands clutching his stomach. For the first time ever, he looks bad. Awful, in fact. He's pale as snow, with bags under his eyes, drool dangling out of his mouth and goosebumps all over him. His vomit is in the toilet and a little is on the floor besides the toilet, but what strikes me the most about this sight is the writing. The F word has been scrawled all over – and I really mean all over – the bathroom, in black. The walls, the floor, the sink, the toilet: they're all covered in black F words. It pains me to see this; he must have been so much in pain that he took comfort in writing an expletive over and over. I notice a blunt black eye pencil lying on the floor besides Pete with its lid off. That must have been what he used to write it.

Pete sits up and leans his back against the toilet. He has black smudges on his arms; probably from sleeping on the eye pencil F words on the floor. He peers up at me with his fatigued eyes, and it's impossible to tell what his emotions are. I guess the only thing he's feeling right now are withdrawal symptoms.

"Come to watch me puke?" he manages to say, his words slurring. Even his voice sounds bad. "I wouldn't, if I were you. It's kinda" – he gags and burps – "gross."

I don't know what to say, so I just sit myself down next to him and avoid contact with the small heap of vomit near me on the floor.

Pete looks away from me. "Just go, Pat," he says. "You don't wanna be around me."

"I'm afraid I do," I reply.

"This...this isn't pretty," he says, coughing. "Please just go."

"Who is Chelsea, exactly?" I ask.

I surprise myself by asking so quickly and eagerly. Pete's in the worst pain he's ever been in, and I'm asking questions. I should just back off.

After a pause, Pete says, "Chelsea is..."

He retches again, but manages not to vomit and continues speaking.

"Chelsea is Andrew's...girlfriend, I guess. They're in a drug-based relationship. They meet up like everyday to get high or...do other things I don't wanna know about. She's a fucking whore and I hate her guts."

Another burp.

"When did they meet?" I ask.

"Like a year ago. I guess she just saw something in him and decided he'd be her next victim. I don't know the details, but I do know that she's the reason my brother's a shithead addict and I've been trapped in my bathroom for the past day or so."

He starts coughing and clutching his stomach. I'm lost for words now. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I don't know what to say.

Where did he get the drugs from? Do I even want to know? How long has he been addicted? Is he dealing? Who is he dealing to?

But there's only one thing that matters:

"Pete, why didn't I know about this?"

When his coughing fit is over, Pete looks up at me with sad eyes.

"Because..." He sighs. "Because I think I love you."

And despite being hurt that he didn't tell me about his addiction, my heart flutters inside my chest, more than it ever has. He loves me. He loves me!

"I couldn't tell you because...well, how could I admit something like that to someone I care about so much? How could I admit that I'm a fucking addict to someone as flawless as you? I don't deserve you, Patrick. I should just die. Leave me in here to rot, and don't feel sorry for me."

That must be his withdrawal symptoms talking, surely? Isn't depression a withdrawal symptom? Or is that just wishful thinking? It's not healthy to think like that...but I guess, he isn't really healthy at this point in time.

How can I prove to him that I can't have him depressed like this? How can I prove to him that he's not worthless? How can I prove to him how much I need him? How can I prove to him how much I love him? All these things I want to say to him, but I can only manage so much.

"Pete..." I whisper.

I'm about to reach out and touch him, but we're both suddenly startled by the sound of a door slamming elsewhere in the apartment.

Is it Andrew?!

I jump up and hurry to the front door of the apartment, where Andrew has just entered. He's pale as anything and is frantically throwing down his bag and coat as if they were clinging to him. His eyes are full of fear; his mouth is hanging open slightly and his bottom lip is quivering; he's panting wildly like a dog.

And his hands are covered in blood.