Requiem For A Dream // Phan

17; Don't worry, You'll be okay.

**TW**

Quote of The Day; Wisdom is Power.

Question Of The day: Any mental illnesses that you take medication for?

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"So, apparently I'm Bipolar," I spoke to Phil, clutching the telephone wire between my fingers, twisting them anxiously. I shouldn't be this paranoid about talking about this.

"Is it like.." He paused for a second, rethinking his question. "Did you get diagnosed or something?"

"Uh, No, but Gee said that I was showing signs and like, I don't know what to do."

"Well, for one, I know your mom had it,"

"That's what everyone has been saying! But I don't self-diagnose,"

"Well . . . Why don't we go see her after you're discharged?"

"But she's all the way in the states, that's miles away, Phil."

"Yes, but we are fully capable of getting passports and getting money,"

"Where would we get money? You know I spent almost all of it on-"

"You don't need to worry about that, once you get out, which is tomorrow, we could look for jobs and save up, no one said we had to go right away, Dan."

"I know, but I kinda want to know what's up with me, I'm tired of being in the dark . . . "

"Maybe . . . Maybe it's just . . . trauma."

"Trauma?! From what?"

"Me," I stopped, guilt flooded through me as I realized that Phil was blaming himself, He did break up with me, yes, but I also knew that the reason I was in rehab in the first place, was myself. Phil didn't make me shoot up heroin, I did that all by myself.

"No, Phil-"

"Its my fault you're in there, it's my fault that you have hundreds of lines going down your arms and legs. Brendon told me about that, I know its my fault, you don't have to say otherwise."

"Philip Michael Lester, Don't you dare blame yourself for this. You did not make me slash my wrists, or do drugs. That was all on me, I could've handled it better, I knew I could've just moved on a couple of months ago with help of a shrink or maybe even a friend. If anyone is to blame, it's me." I heard Phil sigh, and give in. I felt my throat tighten, the familiar itch on my arms at the mention of the past.

"You know I would do anything for you, right?" That's when I had to step away from the phone to hide my whimper when despair washed over me.

"Yeah," I said shakily, trying desperately to hold it together.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, I know." The sudden urge to say 'I love you' hit me harder than ever but when the line went dead, I only ended up whispering it to myself . . .

I slid down the wall next to the pay phone, and put my head to my knees, And sat there, with my mind blank, but growing more and more frustrated as minutes passed by, and more anxious as well for some odd reason. I didn't want to cry, mainly because I didn't have the energy to, So instead, I breathed in through my nose and bottled up the emotions. Something I became an expert at doing. But I was too focused on my own issues, I hadn't noticed someone sitting beside me.

"Hi," The person had a strong accent, But I couldn't quite pinpoint where he could be from. I looked up slowly, not letting my eyes show much emotion.

"Hello," He softly smiled, the kid looked small, but enough to be an adult.

"I'm Patrick," He held out his hand, and I took it, shaking it fast. He had blond hair, with Glasses on, his face was a bit slimmer than my own, but I didn't mind, it made him look innocent and cute in a way. Patrick had a fedora clutched to his bleached hair and he smiled brightly, almost too brightly, I could tell immediately what that smile meant. I would know.

"What are you doing on the phone?"

"I was uh . . . talking to someone. I'm getting out tomorrow," I could swear I saw Patrick's eyes light up, and then go back to normal. I felt like this kid had a mental problem, not that it was bad or anything, but it made me look more closely at him, noticing how he picked at his fingers when he talked, or the way he tucked his jaw away into a scarf that he had wrapped around his neck.

He looked a bit off. He didn't look like the modern day man you would see on the street, but then again, neither did I. He had dark green skinny jeans on, and the fabric looked velvety like. It appeared soft like his pale complexion. He had a huge white shirt pulled over with a black cardigan that gave him sweater paws. The scarf that he wore was red, maroon almost.

Patrick then noticed me staring at his neck underneath the huge scarf and his eyes flashed towards the ceiling, pulling it down a bit, revealing red burns on his neck. My eyes widened as I stared at them, I was sure he could see the questions that ran through my head and he sighed quietly while covering them once more.

"I was on acid, I did some pretty crazy stuff . . . but yet I don't remember much. I do remember trying to hang myself . . . but, My boyfriend came in before I stopped breathing." He saw Patrick's smile disappear a bit, which made me feel an immense guilt for being so curious.

"I'm sorry," I whispered but Patrick didn't seem to react to the apology, his smile was back like he had said nothing about it. But when Patrick looked at me again, there was something in his eyes that told me that he knew . . . he knew all of my dreaded secrets, but I didn't feel vulnerable like I would with anyone else. I had a feeling that he knew what was going on . . . and that he understood.

"You'll heal," My eyes once again, widened.

"What?"

"You'll heal . . . You'll be better soon . . . And he'll come back for you, he'll always come back." I couldn't hold back my tears this time and decided I needed a smoke, So I took out a cigarette from the many packs Gee's given me and lit it, not bothering to wipe my rushing tears.

"How do you know?" I sniffled but laughed as I exhaled the smoke.

"I know things . . . " He trailed, looking down.

"Like what?"

"I know that you aren't here just because of drugs, I know that you have mental issues . . . and you're very dependent on other people, considering you self-mutilate. . . but I couldn't say much about that either . . ."

I stopped completely this time, I was about to call bullshit until Patrick's eyes widened and he took a deep breath in before spewing the first thing that came to his head.

"You better call your mom . . . I don't think she's very well . . ." He looked at me with his pale blue eyes before standing up, grabbing the cigarette in my hand, inhaling while I stood there dumbfounded.

"What?" Before he could even say anything, Patrick handed the cigarette back and walked away. And with defeat, I was dialing my mother's phone number into the payphone hectic. The tune rung in my ears three times before someone finally picked up.

"Mom?"

"I'm sorry, who's this?" Another woman I didn't recognize was on the phone,

"Its Daniel, her son."

"Oh, Oh, Dan? I thought she said you moved to the UK?"

"I did, I just . . . I wanted to check on her is all . . . " My voice cracked and took another drag of the cigarette.

"She's um, in the hospital at the moment."

"What why?" I put my smoke out, stomping on it quickly, and clutching the phone tightly,

"She has developed stage 3 cancer . . . I'm sorry, I thought you knew,"