What Twisted Webs We Weave

Epilogue

Pete:

There's something about being on the brink of death too many times. It becomes less of a fear and more of an expectation. Blacking out is just the slowest form of blinking. Your heart stopping is just a temporary annoyance. Waking up after the incident is just like waking up from a dream. Being told you're alive for now isn't so much a blessing as it is a warning.

I'd looked death in the eye more times than any normal person should. Not to say that I consider myself a normal person. It was just tiring. I didn't want to die, but I was sick of death playing this unsatisfying, never ending game of freeze tag with my life. I'm it and then I'm not. I'm frozen and then I'm freed. I'm gone and then I'm back. No offense to the grim reaper, but either complete the fucking job or leave me the hell alone.

Facing death again didn't scare me.

Patrick facing death... Well that fucking terrified me.

I opened my eyes from the dream of the hotel room to find that the nightmare was just beginning. I was fine. My cancer was kicking my ass, but what else was new? The doctors told me the same thing Andy did. The same thing Tyler did. That if I didn't get help soon, I wasn't going to last much longer. Like I was some pint of milk in the fridge dancing along the lines of my expiration date. Starting to thicken. Starting to smell.

Cool. Fine. I prefer yogurt anyway.

But then I'd acquired about the last man I remembered speaking to. Where was Patrick and why wasn't he at my side when I came to? No one wanted to tell me what everyone knew. Patrick Stump, My fiance for the second time, the love of my life was upstairs in the intensive care unit. Trying to recover from what could only be described as a catastrophic car accident. Hit twice. One car to each side of his.

Things were broken, fractured, scraped, bleeding, ripped, torn, burned. The whole shebang really. I didn't want to hear the gory details of each mark. All I wanted to know is if my man would be okay. And after three days and two surgeries, I found out he was still breathing. His heart was beating and that was all I needed to know.

The equipment in his room wasn't as grand as I was expecting. He wasn't connected to a million machines with tubes and wires and needles poking out of him. There was a single heart monitor, an I.V feeding him because his throat wasn't strong enough to eat. A cast covered his left leg from the knee to the ankle. His hand only needed a splint. I was told his ribs were also wrapped tightly under the hospital gown. The brace on his neck was more for precaution than anything. But the bandages around his head and covering a fraction of his face, well, those had a strong purpose. All in all my baby was bruised, broken, battered, but alive.

And I was there just to make sure the last thing didn't change.

Just as I walked in his room, Patrick's eyes squinted before opening. It wasn't a big event. He'd woken up multiple times throughout his recovery.

"Pete?" But the speaking was new.

"You look like shit." I whispered as I approached the bed.

He rolled his eyes. I could see the exact moment he realized he was unable to move. The moment he realized how much pain his body was in. His eyes darkened. His lips tilted down. Patrick used his free hand, void of a cast but covered in scratches, to touch his face. Probably testing the soreness. The tips of his fingers brushed against the bandages. He winced.

"Is my face really that bad?" My answering smile was a sad one. Patrick exhaled in resignation. "That's a yes."

"At least you're alive."

"So are you."

My smile shifted. "Thank you for calling 911."

"If you knew you needed help, why didn't you just call?"