Pete
April 15th
People always say that death is hard, but can be overcome in stages. Seven to be exact, but I never went through them right;
1. Denial—I never denied it. It was a 44% possibility he was going to die. And he fuck did, and I damn well believed the doctor who called my phone and told me the news.
2. Pain—pain was the first thing I felt, and the thing I believe I will feel for a long time, if not the rest of my life.
3. Anger—for a brief moment. Only when I...tried with Patrick.
4. Depression—this one's pretty correct, my depression has only progressed and the voices in my head are only screaming louder.
5. Upward turn, 6. Reconstruction, 7. Acceptance—I either haven't reached these points yet, or I never will.
Travie's death hurts, so fucking much.
I carried the casket with Travie's uncle, brother, and Brendon. Dallon sat with his mother to comfort her, and his aunt and sisters sat in seats as well.
I was okay until the reception. I lost it in a bathroom in the restaurant, and I kept trying to calm down and fix myself up, but I couldn't.
Eventually, Patrick had entered the bathroom because of how long I was taking. He grabbed me and I cried and screamed into his jacket, and he rubbed my back.
All out friends went to the reception except for Bob, who had something he needed to do.
We all sat at a table together. Hayley crying into Patrick's shoulder, Frank and Gerard frowning with hands held together, Dallon and Brendon speaking with me lightly.
"Are you...gonna be alright?" Brendon asked.
"Yeah...I think so. I just, fuck, I miss him." I mutter.
Dallon patted my back, "Well we're here for you, Pete. If you need anythi-"
"I know."
He nodded and Patrick spoke up to me. "Bathroom?"
I nod, 'bathroom' seeming to be code if one of us needs a moment.
He stands up, Hayley leaning into Gerard, who wraps an arm around her—Frank sighing sadly.
I push out my seat and follow Patrick. I weave my way through servers and into the men's bathroom, lightly opening the door. What I reveal is a sobbing Patrick on the floor already.
"Patty..." I pick him up and seat him on the sink counter.
"I-I can't look at her. Hayley crying is too real—it makes this all too real. Pete, he died. He's actually dead. A kid died, and he's gone and now Hayley's crying her eyes out—which I hate to see. And, Pete, I'm loosing it." Patrick cries.
His chest puffs in and out hastily, his breathing unsteady.
I pull him close, "Yeah..."
My voice is weak and raw. He snuggles into my embrace and off the counter. He stands and pulls me closer. He looks up at me for a moment, then connects our lips. It's a soft kiss. Sweet, like honey and icing.
He's sweet like honey and icing.
"C'mon, silly bear," He smiles and sobs more, "let's get you cleaned up."
———
"So are you going to school tomorrow?" My mother asks, washing dishes.
"I don't know...I think I'll ask some friends, see if they're going." I mutter, sighing quietly.
