Weight Is Just A Number

Twentytwo

In Berlin, Germany Patrick was rushed to the hospital after passing out during twenty dollar nose bleed. Pete almost passed out himself as he cried himself numb on the way to the hospital in Joe's arms, Bronx was crying with his Dad but soon fell asleep in Andy's arms. The four of them waited for two hours a nurse told them that Patrick's body shut down, he was legally dead for two minutes before he slipped into a coma and had a slim chance of waking up and was on life support.

To: Elisa Yao, Patrica Vaughn,Meagan Stumph, Kevin Stumph, Gabe Saporta, Brendon Urie and seven more.
Hey, Patrick's at the hospital. he passed out and he got knocked into a coma, he has a slim chance of waking up. lots of love, Andrew.

Twenty-four hours later Patrick still hadn't woken up. Pete had screamed at one of the doctors because he wasn't aloud to see Patrick, Joe and Andy were too exhausted to even bother trying to calm Pete down. Patrica, Elisa and Declan arrived fifteen hours after Andy's text. Both women had bags under their eyes when they arrived at the hospital. Elisa as pulled into a tight hug by Pete when she walked into the waiting room, Elisa returned it and wiped Pete's tears away, whispering "he'll be okay, Pete. Patrick's strong." Both of them knew that Patrick's chance of being okay was about as big as him, but it was still good for Pete to hear positivity since all he had been surround with was negativity.

Patrick wasn't Patrick, he was a skeleton with Patrick's soul trapped inside. His pale complexion was a sickly looking grey color, Patrick's face was hollow, cheekbones and jawline sharper than the blades he used on himself. Patrick's once soft, fluffy hair had broken end and was rough to the touch, his still plump lips were chapped and splitting. He looked dead, his bare wrists were marked with deep red cuts and tiny cigarette marks, Patrick had picked up the habit of offing his cigarettes by pressing the lit tip into the tender skin on his wrist, he had tiny needle marks in the crease where his artery was most visible. If anyone wanted to they could count Patrick's ribs through the dull green hospital gown that he was wearing. He was hooked up to a feeding tube, his heart beat was dangerously slow and dropping by the minute, his weight was at a very low number, 92 pounds. In the course of about six months Patrick had lost over one hundred pounds by almost starving himself to death and shooting heroin into his veins.