Canvas (Peterick)

Nine

(TW// SUICIDE--I FEEL KIND OF BAD WRITING THIS I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE ?)

December 2009
Pete Wentz

I'm—
I was going to say I'm fine, but I'm really not.

It was the first day of the last month of the last year Patrick would not be a married man. After I kicked Patrick out the day before, he gathered some things and left to Elisa's. Or he didn't. But I assumed he did because neither Andy or Joe had called me saying Patrick was crashing at one of their places. Patrick probably found a way to avoid telling Elisa about little our affair so they could make up and resume the wedding. Because Patrick pretty much always gets what he wants and there was no doubt in my mind that it happened any differently.

And God forbid anything work out for me. Nothing. Ever. Does. For example, my job. Yes, we all thought it was going just fine. Because it was. And I was really happy about it, and I was really happy to have Patrick. But just a few hours after Patrick left my apartment, I got a call. I'd missed a very important deadline. And guess who was fired?

So there you go. I lost my best friend, the love of my life, and my job all in one day. What a great time to be alive!

Tonight, I wanted to die; to erase my entire existence from the planet. I had been laying on top of Patrick's fresh sheets, my head pounding from all the weeping and screaming from earlier in the day. I wanted him back. It sounds childish, I know. But he didn't have to come back as my lover. I wanted my best friend.

A half hour ago, I had just taken some medication for the headache—actually, that's a complete lie. I had just taken a lot of pills from the bathroom. I didn't look to see what any were, I just swallowed whatever was in pill form. The ceiling spun as I stared up from the mattress. I picked up my phone and dialed the first number that came to mind: Andy. He picked up on the first ring. Or second. I don't remember.

"Hello?"

"Andy...come get me." My eyelids felt heavy. I don't know why I kept doing this to myself. I'm such an idiot.

"Where are you?"

"Uh, my house. Come get me," I repeated, "I'm scared."

"Shit," he breathed. "I'm on my way. Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that." I ended the call, tossing the cell on the end of the bed. My hands dragged themselves through my hair. What have I done? My anxiety engendered my heart to speed past it's limit.

"I have to call Patrick." I crawled to the opposite end of the bed, searching for the phone. My fingers accidentally pushed it, causing it to slide across the bed and fall onto the floor. "Damnit," I whispered. I reached down to grab it, but I was unable to attain it. My head spun and I couldn't hold myself up, so I fell down onto the floor, probably almost crushing my phone. I winced in pain as my shoulder slammed against the boards.

Andy arrived quite shortly—he probably sped in his car. I thought I heard him mumble a "oh my god" when he saw me sprawled across Patrick's floor. "Pete, I'm on the phone with an ambulance. You're gonna be okay."

An ambulance? Shit. I really fucked myself up. I decided it wasn't a good idea to call Patrick after all. "Don't tell," I told him, worried that he already did.

"Don't tell who?"

"Don't tell Patrick."

"I have to," Andy argued in a harsh tone.

"He can't know I did it again."

*  *  *

I woke up in a hospital bed. I was alive, and I didn't know if it was a good thing or not. I examined the room—no sign of Patrick Stump. But Joe and Andy were there, my parents were, too. Fuck, I thought, mentally rolling my eyes. Everyone knows. The room was engulfed in a bluish light. It didn't seem normal. Was it blue to everyone else?