The Church Boys ➸ Peterick/Brentrick

Prologue to The Invisible Boys (the Sequel): A Letter From Patrick

Hi.

You're probably wondering what the hell you're about to get into. I just want to say this first: fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. I know so many of you want to be recognized, want to make it and be well known, but you shouldn't.  

How am I deliberately breaking the fourth wall?

I've had heroin and there's a bottle of vodka next to me. I haven't slept in three days and I watched Deadpool two hours ago. I can hear colors. As far as I know, I'm insane and writing to nobody.

I don't know what my point was. Was it a warning? Or was it just to get the point across?

Or was it just me trying to deter you from the pointless wreck that has become my life?

I think it was both, along with several more unnamed reasons that should probably be said but I can't think of them. Right now I'm just proud I can write legibly and coherently.

Fame is a curse. A lonely, lonely curse.

I love Brendon.

I really do.

But he doesn't understand much of anything nowadays. He tries to, I'll give him credit, but we get in horrible fights and I end up in this exact spot. It feels almost forced- management said it was a good idea because "gay is marketable" and "the fanfiction writes itself- more cash to you".

He goes and fucks a side whore. I know it, but I'm okay with it. I would too. Besides, I'm too upset with the world to particularly care about anything special anymore.

I have a dog, though. His name is Hemingway and he's adorable. I love him to death. Pete gave him to me after his landlord said no pets. I'm sure one day he'll get Hemingway back, but he's not in a good place now either.

I wish Brendon and I could understand each other completely. I just WISH that maybe we could work everything out and make each other happy. Y'know? Maybe he'd try to make me happy though, for once. I honestly think my drug problem started skyrocketing when we got into a big fight about adoption, and how he wasn't ready but I really wanted something that maybe meant responsibility. It's a fucking kid, for Christ's sake, it's not the end of the fucking world! But he treated it like it was! And now...and now... now there's just me, home alone stabbing needles into my arm while he goes and tours the world and fucks anybody that isn't me.

But...I would do anything for him.

I would jump off a cliff if he asked.

Recently he's been hinting at me losing weight, which I suppose I could have seen coming. I know I need to lose it before it's too late...he wants me to look like I did in high school. Back when I lost a crazy amount of weight before senior year then slowly but surely gained it all back. I'd like to believe it's not my fault it happened, but it really is. The more popular our band got, the more stressed I got, the more I tried to eat my way out of my problems.

I hate myself. Death would be nice.

But I shouldn't die. Few people would be lost without me...

I think.

Fuck. Did I mention my solo album?  I loved it. It was freedom for me to do what I wanted. It made me happy for the first time in a long time. But it fucking TANKED. Never mind what critics thought of it, my "fans" practically betrayed me! They didn't even come to my shows to hear the music I was happy about making, they asked for Fall Out Boy songs, and when I tried to open for Brendon's band a few times, I was almost booed offstage. THAT on its own makes me want to lock myself in a dark room where nobody can find me and I can just wilt and die.

I don't know why I'm even trying to continue with this thing known as my life. Christ knows, but I doubt anyone else does.

The future isn't a pretty picture, but I'm afraid that it's now or never for me to go into it head first. I know one of the first things I need to do is stop being a fucking heroin addict, but I'll try my best. Sometimes it seems like my best isn't good enough, but it's not like I can tell anyone about that. I'd get the fake answers from the fucking phonies that are all saying they wish me the best of luck, but I don't need it because I'm talented. Such bullshit.

I feel like I'm living out this one song on our last album as a band (before we split up for a "hiatus"). It was called 27, yet ironically I just turned it. Except I'm scared that I might overdo it one of these days. I really do (did) lines of coke and shoot up some smack. I really do sleep around on nights that I get blackout drunk and only know how many people I've had sex with because of the condom wrappers I have in my jean pockets.

At least, I'm glad that I started doing that again. I'd rather know than not know and be paranoid for the rest of the week.

Ironically, Brendon doesn't even care. He doesn't question where I've been all night, why I'm coming home at three in the afternoon when I left at eight o clock the previous night. He couldn't question it even if he tried: he'd be a hypocrite.

When did I become Pete during his hedonistic phase?

I know the past me would probably slap me into a coma if he knew what I was doing now, but it's sometimes the only way I think I can cope. Coke. Heroin. Booze. Cigarettes. Sex. Repeat. Why I'm still not dead is a question for God.

At least, I've managed to stop the cocaine. Heroin has become sort of a crutch though, to deal with that. I've had to start using larger doses to make up for the lack of another drug. Not that it is that large of an increase. Cigarettes are at least down to only after a rough night of sex and booze, or either when I'm coming to the low of the heroin.

I think I'm at least getting better. I hope I can get better.

I can't believe how much I swear when I drink vodka with heroin. I just read over this and even in this state I'm concerned.

My therapist doesn't know about the drugs. Just the depression. Yet, she tells me that it's a good idea to write out frustrations and then burn the paper. I think I'll do that with this. Before Brendon gets home, at least. He doesn't need to know about any of this either.

I'll burn this then crash on the couch.

Au revoir.