I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

4

---Patrick---

Not a sound enters my ears.

My heart falters for a split second, and in that split second everything just stops for me. After I realize my scars are showing, I notice Brendon and Ryan there, turning away to leave. Brendon's shaking his head in shame and in that moment I know they've given up on me in the same way I gave up on them, and it hurts. It hurts so badly. I start shaking out of fear and embarrassment and shame and hate. Afterward, I notice Bob with a small smirk nagging at the corner of his lips. That scares me. A lot. That means I'm going to get bullied all over again. It's going to happen. They're going to call me a fake. They're going to tease me for being a cutter. They're going to laugh at my misery. No, no, no.

Tears prick at the backs of my eyes in embarrassment and self-loathing as I scramble to get up, pulling down the sleeve of my hoodie and staring for a second or two as I try to fight back the tears. And somewhere in that crowd, there's a head of black hair and a pair of troubled brown eyes. His hands over his mouth, looking straight into my eyes with a look of pure pain in those eyes and his mouth forming a tight O.

I take my science journal and binder from the floor, picking them up as fast as I can because I want to leave. I want to run away. I want to disappear. I sprint away, crying. I'm broken, I'm weak. I'm pathetic. I'm fat. I'm ugly. I'm broken. I'm a cutter. I'm broken. I'm scared. I'm broken. I'm broken. I'm broken.

"Patrick!" The artist calls. I hear, but I don't listen. I know they don't care. Nobody cares. Who could love me? I'm out of my fucking mind. If they really cared about me, they would be here when I need a shoulder to cry on. Nobody cares about me. If he seriously thinks he can come out of nowhere and try to care for me, he's stupid. Idiotic. I'm more so.

I slam a stall door open, whimpering and sobbing with time passing by too fast to even realize where I am until I've shut the door and locked it. My vision is blurry from the salty tears running down my cheeks, and I can't breathe. My breaths are short and rushed, I can't calm down I feel so scared and embarrassed and useless, and no matter what I can't seem to calm down, my mind is racing, and I think that was Gerard back there, but I don't know, and I'm so scared that I'm going to get bullied and Bob is going to hurt me and I wish they'd just understand how empty I feel and how much I really do want to kill myself and god I can't breathe this is going so badly and-

"Patrick! Are you here?" He calls from outside the door, stopping my mess of thoughts, so all I can focus on is him. His voice is beautiful just like him, his hair, his eyes, his body, and though I don't know it all that well, his personality. I want him here with me, to hold me. To tell me pretty lies about how, "Everything will be okay," and, "I'll always be here for you," and, "Just stay will me, Darling, you'll be okay."

You're fucking stupid, Patrick. He's just here out of pity, and you know it. You're so pathetic. He'll never do something like that for someone like you. Weak, fat, pathetic, ugly, broken, useless, unlovable, fag, crybaby. You know everything he would say would be a lie.

I'm so pathetic and weak. I'm too scared to reply to him. Too afraid he'll find me. Too afraid he'll help me. I don't need help. I'm doing okay on my own... I think... He stays for a few more moments, calling my name a couple more times before he leaves. His footsteps fade away into the distance, the door closes behind him, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding, long and drawn out.

A moment or two after Gerard leaves, I hear the bell ring, but I don't dare move. Fifth period might have started, but that doesn't mean I can bring myself to let them see me like this. I don't think I can ever let anyone see me again, not like this. Broken, a cutter, an attention whore. That's what they'll call me at first, second, third, lunch, fourth, fifth, sixth, before school, after school. Wherever they can, whenever they can, they'll do it. I'm in so much shame and embarrassment. I just want to die. Is that too much to ask?