I'm Not Okay (I Promise) • Geetrick

42

---Patrick---

Knives are lodged in my throat right now and it hurts and I'm afraid. But I need to get away.

"Brendon? You up?" I ask, my head pounding. It feels like someone is holding a knife to my brain and every time it throbs, the blade is plunged deeper and deeper in the surface until I know it'll get unbearable and I'll have to get some sort of relief. Not to mention, my frustration is easily showing. I really don't care, I need to get away from all my problems. I need an escape again. Any kind, even if it'll kill me.

"Yeah, what's up?" The brunette replies, the background is loud, and I know exactly where he is. Thinking fast, I realize just how perfect it was for me to call him. If the only way to get rid of the stress, the building pressure is sex and pain, maybe what he offers could give me that same feeling. The haze of pleasure. Maybe I could even fuck one or two of the people there. I know he hangs out with quite a few popular, hot guys. I might be able to somehow get one of them. Maybe.

"This is gonna sound kind of weird coming from me, but I need drugs. I don't care what kind, I don't care. Gerard and I got into a fight, and I need... something, please..." I murmur as I continue to walk down this long familiar block.

I hear Brendon chuckle on the other end, "Where are you? I can come and pick you up soon."

I look up at the sign, "On the corner of Fourth and Fremont."

"I'll be there in a few."

***

It's a small place, but my senses are overwhelmed with the smell of cigarettes, beer, and drugs immediately. I have to stumble back out the door to stop a trigger because it's so strong.

It reminds me of the smell of my old house, the way Dad always had a bottle of beer open and the way the smell of alcohol always invaded my senses when he got too close. I hated smelling it on his breath when he was drunk. I hated the way he always got so close it felt like he was gonna kiss me.

Then there's the smell of cigarette smoke. Dad smoked a bit too, not near as much as he drank, but I'm sure it still did a fair amount of damage to his health. I think he smoked about a quarter of a pack a day, maybe more. Anything to get rid of the memory of Mom. The memory of the hospital. The memory of coming to the hospital only to find me. Me, who killed Mom. Me, who was to blame. Me, who he took it out on. Me.

The smell of drugs wasn't as prevalent in the house, but I know sometimes he'd get ahold of some weed. I hated that smell but somehow it always made me feel better because he didn't usually hit me when he smoked it, he only laid contently on the couch or stayed downstairs with Kevin. Dad was kind enough to share with Kevin, and those were times when Megan and I would talk for hours and hours on end, not giving a care in the world. Sometimes, they'd even let us go out and get lunch or dinner or just go to the park if Dad and Kevin made enough money. Those were the times when neither my sister nor I cried because we wanted to embrace the moment while we could. We'd go downtown or hang out around the cemetery to say hi to Mom. Little did I know, Gerard's father's grave was just two headstones down.

I miss both of them. Megan and Mom.

"You alright there?" Brendon asks.

I shut my eyes, trying to shake the thought of my old life. I've come to forget not remember... I need to forget, or I swear I'll go insane with the desperation to forget. I need to let my old life stay in the past, this is my new life: with Brendon and Joe and Ryan and Pete and Frank. My new life is with Gerard, trying to overcome this bump in the path to-I hope-health.

"Yeah, just, reminds me of my old life I guess," I whisper. He looks confused, but he immediately understands, "Are you sure you want to do this? I could take you home and you could stay at my house for a while if you want instead."