Pete P.O.V.
Two months later
Patrick has been really distant lately.
Sure, he's always been a guy that liked to keep to himself, but he would feel comfortable telling me or the guys anything.
After the horrible night when Patrick had that awful nightmare, I made him ask Dr. Irwin about it. He hesitated, but I ended up asking her myself. She said it's a form of PTSD. He experienced something so horrible, something so mentally and physically scarring, that his mind is still trapped in that morning.
Lately, ever since that one night with the nightmares, he doesn't talk much, only when necessary. I decided to go talk to him and ask him what was up.
I drove the familiar route to his house and walked to his front door. I took a deep breath before knocking. What do I even say?
The door creaked open and Elisa's curly brown locks came into view. I saw worry in her deep brown eyes and I knew why.
"Hey, Pete. What's up?" she asked, opening the door wider to let me in.
I stepped inside and said, "Just came to talk to 'Trick about a few things. Where is he?"
She sighed. "He's downstairs in the music room. He's been down there a lot lately."
She looked sadly towards the basement, then back at me. "Pete, please help him. He hasn't been himself lately. And I think I know why," she said, leading me to the couch.
We sat down on the edge of the couch and I asked, "What do you think?"
"Well, he can't play guitar again yet. I think making music is what kept him grounded in the past, and now he can't. Without writing, he doesn't have an outlet. Pete, he's not eating. He needs help," she said, her voice breaking near the end.
I patted her shoulder. "I promise, I'll help him."
I stood up and walked to the stairs leading down to the music room. I heard several broken strums of an acoustic guitar, followed by curses.
I descended the stairs and found Patrick sitting on a stool, his black acoustic in hand with his back to me. His discolored hand was trying to play a chord progression on the fret board. He tried changing from an Em to C, but his hand was sluggish and it took several seconds for his fingers to catch up to what his brain was telling them to do.
"Dammit," his whispered to himself, hitting the strings at the base of the guitar. I cleared my throat to get his attention and he turned around. Upon seeing me, he stood up and set the guitar in the stand.
"Hey, dude, how's it going?" he asked.
"Not bad for me, but you seem to be having a little trouble. What's going on?" I asked.
He sighed and showed me his bad arm. "Finally got this thing working, but I can't fucking play. I just... All I'm good at is music. Without that, I'm just Patrick," he said sadly.
"Hey, 'Trick," I said, placing my hands on his shoulders, "A fucking shark could rip your arm off, hell, your throat could get ripped out by rabid dog, and you would still have music. That is something that will never leave you. You're Patrick fucking Stump. You're made of melodies and bass lines. You'll always have music, man. I can guarantee that."
He smiled sadly. "Sure, dude. Thanks. But you can give all the inspirational speeches in the world, that doesn't mean you can make my arm work."
I sighed. "I'm sorry, man. Damn, you saved us from dying in a fire. You don't deserve this," I said pulling him into a hug.
He chuckled sadly and hugged back, both of his arms wrapping around me for the first time in a while.
Now it was time to address the real issue. We both went upstairs and sat at the dining room table where Elisa was feeding Declan.
"So, uh, Patrick, we've both noticed that you... well... you haven't been eating nearly enough lately," I said, cutting to the chase.
His eyes widened and he looked at Elisa, who turned in his direction.
"It's true, honey. You... you haven't been eating a lot. You're eating less than half as much as you did before the fire. I'm no doctor, but I know enough to be able to tell that this isn't healthy," Elisa said, looking him in the eye.
I think there's two reasons Patrick isn't eating right. One, what Dr. Irwin said. He didn't eat in the hospital and that made it so he couldn't eat as much now. Also, what Elisa said. Music is Patrick's antidepressant. He can't do music right now, so he's lost the will to do a lot of things. The only thing keeping him above water is Elisa.
Patrick shrunk into his chair. "What? Guys, I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with the way I eat. It's just... I'm still getting better from the fire. You have nothing to worry about," he said.
I shook my head. "Come with me," I said, pulling him out of his chair. He stumbled behind me and I pulled him into his and Elisa's bedroom, where there was a full length mirror next to the closet.
I tugged my shirt off and Patrick raised an eyebrow.
"You'd call me a healthy looking guy, right?" I asked.
Patrick nodded. "Yeah, sure. But what does th—"
"Now take off your shirt," I said. Patrick looked at me like, confused and a little scared. He's always been self-conscious, especially when it comes to taking his shirt off.
"No, Pete, what the fuck?" he said, wrapping his arms around his concave stomach.
"Trust me, 'Trick."
He started at me for a moment before taking a deep breath and pulling his shirt over his head.
Oh, fuck.
His ribs stuck out even more than last time, if that was even possible. His hip bones looked like they wanted to break through, like they were angry at being covered by the thin layer of skin. He had faint scars on his stomach from scratching at it all those night ago.
"God," I whispered under my breath. Patrick must've heard because he wrapped his skinny, frail arms around his torso again.
I pulled him in front of the mirror. "Patrick, look at yourself and look at me. If I'm healthy, what are you?" I asked.
Patrick scanned both our bodies and put his arms by his sides. He cocked his head to the side.
"I... I guess, I mean... I know I'm not healthy looking," he said quietly.
I nodded. "So that means...?" I left the answer to him.
"I need to eat more, I know," he whispered, a little ashamed to admit I was right.
I grabbed our shirts off the bed and threw his toward him.
"So, whaddya say? Want to get the guys together sometime soon and have a cook-out?" I questioned.
He shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
I chuckled. "Alright, I'll call them tonight. You go get something to eat," I said.
He sighed and began to leave the room, but stopped and looked at me before he exited the door. "Pete, you know, it's not like I'm not trying to eat. I just eat when I'm hungry, which isn't very often nowadays. I'm not trying to be unhealthy," he explained.
"I get that, I believe you dude. Right now, our main focus is getting you better," I said, flashing a cheeky grin.
He nodded and walked away. I'm going to get him better. I know I will.
