bipolaroid ☹ andtrick

t w o

Patrick blinked. He was just... dreaming, right?

"Patrick?"

Joe was still on the other line, rather concerned. Patrick shifted.

"Y-yeah. I'm here."

"Okay... will you be home later?"

Patrick nodded before realising that Joe couldn't see him,"Yeah. Uh huh. I will."

He slowly brought the phone down from his ear, a look of befuddlement on his face.

What the fuck? He's not dead. No, that can't be...

Later.

Patrick stumbled into his apartment after opening the door, beginning to cry.

Why was this happening?

Joe came in after, a sympathetic look on his face.

"'Trick... Oh, fuck, c'mere."

They hugged for what felt like forever as Patrick just sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

Reality had finally hit him.

He didn't show up to the funeral. He was still in denial of the fact that his dad was dead. He now realized that he was trapped between his pathetic "work" and a slowly growing depression.

He felt so worthless. So... meaningless. He was barely making it by as a photographer. He was barely making it by as a person.

Patrick now sat in the bathroom, looking at all of his photos as he cried. Again.

Pathetic.

Anger suddenly washed over him, and he ripped his latest picture off the page. He then tore it in half, discarding the fragments on the floor.

"Fuck it," he whispered.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

Worthless. Hopeless. Meaningless.

Patrick opened the cupboard, fumbling for a pill bottle. He shakily dumped half of them into his hand.

He then threw his head back, swallowing them all. He suddenly felt tired. Dizzy. Like he was falling...

And then he collapsed on the floor, the words on the bottle fading out just like he was.

Please tell me I'm dreaming...