Poisioned Youth (Peterick Fanfic)

1: Poisioned Youth

Patrick's POV

I stared out the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The faster one kept collecting drops, leaving the smaller one small and behind. Eventually, the bigger one won, while the smaller raindrop was still dragging, trying to reach the end. It reminded me of my life; the bigger and better win. The smaller lose.

Funny, right?

"Patrick, this will help you," I heard my mother say from the driver's side.

"Glad you think I need help," I mumbled loud enough for her to hear.

"That's...not what I meant," she said with an exasperated sigh.

"I think it's exactly what you meant," I whispered under my breath. Thankfully, she didn't hear.

"It's not that bad, Patty. It's just an hour every Thursday after school. I've met with this therapist, he's nice and seems to the perfect one. Please, just give it a try. Please." She begged.

I stayed silent.

"Patrick, please," her voice cracked. It broke my heart when my mom cried, and she knew this.

"Okay fine whatever!" I gave in and stepped out of the car. I heard her say something, but I just ignored her and made my way to the building. By the time I got in, my hair was damp and I had to shake raindrops from my fedora.

"Stump, Patrick Stump," I told the receptionist.

"Dr. Wentz will be with you in a few minutes," she smiled. She was a pretty woman, and I would definitely be into her if I wasn't gay.

Nodding, I took a seat in their waiting room. My phone kept buzzing from my pocket, and I finally pulled it out. 13 texts.

Ugly.

Fat.

Fag.

Go kill yourself.

Why didn't your dad pay for your abortion?

Your dad probably killed himself because of you.

I closed my eyes after reading the 6th message. Swallowing past the cold lump in my throat, I shut my phone off and shoved it back in my pocket.

"Mr. Stump?" I opened my eyes and glanced over. A man with dyed blonde hair, a gray suit, and dark eyes stood in front of a door.

Damn.

Standing, I crossed over and entered his room. There was a chair, a couch, a coffee table, shelves, and a desk. There was another door, which I assumed was a closet.

"Hi, Patrick. How do you feel today?" He asked.

"Peachy," I smirked, leaning back.

"Great," he returned the smile, but his eyes told me he knew I was lying.

"I don't think I need therapy," I said.

"Your mother thinks different. You're 17, correct?" He asked.

"Yes sir," I nodded.

"How's school?" He asked.

"Great." I replied.

He was quiet for awhile before speaking.

"Patrick, I want to help you. But, I can't if you aren't willing to meet me halfway," he said, his voice soft and soothing.

"Guess we're both wasting our time then," I shrugged.

"That's a nice hat," He said, switching subjects.