Peroxide (Peterick)

I asked for a fruit salad not a feels trip

"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?"