New Year - Sequel to Mistletoe

Prologue

Patrick

One month turned into two. Then two turned into four. Four turned into six. Six turned into nine. Nine turned into fifteen.

Fifteen months of being ignored. Being invisible. Completely thrown away, forgotten. Of course, Brendon had tried to fix things. He'd tried to confront Pete, he'd tried to find out what happened. He didn't find anything.

Apparently, Pete had refused to speak to him. And Brendon had told me, and of course, I took it in a bad way. Not like there was a good way to take it. I mean, didn't that mean he obviously never wanted to see me again?

At first, I had pretended like it never happened. For the first week or so, I was cheerful, happy even. Completely denying it. Brendon and Ryan knew it was an act. They tried talking to me about it. They tried to get me to talk to them. I never did. I'd shake it off, and I'd smile and laugh, like normal. Normal. Not broken.

Then the act wore off. Then I couldn't do it anymore. And that's what I did. I didn't do anything anymore. Not eat, not sleep, not anything. I'd stay in my room all day, never coming out unless I had to.

I never saw any of the others anymore. Not Gerard, not Andy, not Tyler. None of them. I knew they were all concerned about me, though. I would hear Brendon and Ryan talking to them on the phone through the walls. It was always the same thing.

"How's Patrick doing?"

Eventually, Brendon begged me to tell him what was going on. Late August, he had come into my room at three in the morning, after hearing my quiet sobbing. It seemed like that's all I did now. Sob quietly in the middle of the night, where no one could hear me.
Where no one could tell I was slowly dying. My insomnia was worse. Sleep was a joke. I couldn't remember the last time I had slept for more than two hours at a time. Hell, I didn't sleep at all.

Brendon had come in, me not noticing. Of course, he and Ryan spent most nights talking quietly in their room now. And every now and then, I'd hear them. It was always about me. He'd wrapped his arms around me, holding me carefully like I was going to break if he held me any tighter.

I remember the conversation.

"God, 'Trick, you're so thin." He whispered, and I could hear the alarm in his voice as it cracked. I quickly wiped the tears away. "I-I'm fine, Brendon. Go back to bed." He shook his head quickly. "Not until you talk to me." I stayed silent.

"There's nothing to talk about." My voice came out hoarse, probably from all the crying. But he didn't take that for an answer. "No, Patrick. No. You have to talk to me. Please." He choked out, and I looked up, to see his eyes glossy and utter pain expressed on his face. "Patrick, please."

"Talk about what." I whispered out harshly. "You know what." I didn't answer. "You've changed, Patrick." I gave a fake laugh. "Nope. This is how I've always been. I haven't changed a bit." He glared. "Don't fucking lie to me. This," he gestured, "is nothing like how you used to be."

"Seasons change, but people don't." I spat, glaring at him. He stared at me for a second, not saying anything. Then he grabbed my arm, yanking down the sleeve and making me wince in pain as he revealed dozens of fresh scars, all inflicted by myself. I hadn't even told him about them.

Guess it was expected by now.

He stared at them, then turned his gaze to me, and with a shaky voice, replied, "Then what does this tell you?" I didn't have any words. I didn't know what to say.

So I told him everything.

I told him about everything I'd been feeling, everything I'd done to myself. Everything that happened.