Misc. Plays/Musicals A Few Broken Petals

A Few Broken Petals

I sat on the bathroom floor, which just so happened to be soaked with my own blood and tears. I felt pain. It hurt. I can't really ever make finished thoughts when I'm doing these sorts of things, it usually just kind of numbs my mind while I make everything better. I dug deep with my blade, watching as the blood trickled to my elbow. Ow. I could feel my eyeliner caking my eyelids and water line, I would have to fix that.

I heard the front door open. Oh dear god he can't be home yet.

"Pete?" I heard him call.

Fuck.

"Uh, one second!" I yelled hastily as I began cleaning up.

"Where are you?" he called from the direction of my room. Fuck.

"I'll be out in a second!" Oh jesus I'm still bleeding. Looks like Mr. Favorite Sweatshirt would have to say bye.

I put a layer of toilet paper along my arm just in case there was the chance of saving Mr. Sweatshirt and then I rolled down my sleeve.

I opened the door to Pat standing there. smiling. His hands were behind his back, obviously hiding something.

"I got you something," he said with a small grin. I smiled wide.

He pulled his arms from behind his back to reveal a rose.

I gasped and took it gingerly from his hand, careful not to touch any of the thorns.

"Oh, I think you poked yourself with a thorn, you're bleeding," Pat said, and my eyes went wide as I saw a spot of red on my jacket.

"Shit," I muttered, knowing Mr. Sweatshirt was a goner.

"I'll go get you a bandaid and clean it up," Pat said, already on his way to the first aid kit, but I pulled him back and into a hug.

"No, I'll be fine," I said quickly, "Thank you for the rose. It's so pretty."

"Only the best for you," he giggled, kissing my cheek quickly.

I smiled, walking into the kitchen to get a vase.

"Are you sure you're alright, that's a lot of blood," Pat commented, and I looked down at my sleeve to see that the blood had formed a slight pool on my sleeve, staining it a rusty red. Damn.

"I'll be fine." I plucked a tall cup from the cabinet, filling it with water and plopping the rose in.

"Are you sure, I mean it's a lot of blood. Here let me see," He moved to pull down my sleeve and I flinched, sending the cup tumbling to the floor, landing with a miserable shatter. The petals were crushed by the thick glass falling, and the stem disconnected from the bulb as it fell. The delicate petals were trapped under the weight of the glass, some of the larger ones ripping in half because of the way they bent. There was a sound that reminded me of the sound the term squish would make.

I just stared, my mouth agape.

"Pat, I-"

"No it's okay, Pete. It wasn't your fault." But it was. It was, in fact, my fault. I was careless and went too deep, bleeding through my sleeve. This was my fault that Patrick's beautiful gift had been destroyed. My fault.

I knelt down to pick up the pieces with Pat, but he just looked up at me with a sad smile, saying, "It's alright Pete. I've got it."

I smiled as much as I could at the moment before getting up and walking to my bedroom.

I closed the door gently, plopping into the bed. I stared at the ceiling, and remembered about Mr. Sweatshirt's suffering and lifted up my arm to assess the damage.

I gently lifted and moved the sleeve from my arm, and judging by the amount of now unusable toilet paper, it was bad.

And I wasn't wrong.

I was greeted by a prompt drop of blood falling on my cheek when I lifted the toilet paper, and I cursed under my breath as I grabbed a handful of tissues and applied gentle pressure. I knew how to address a wound, I'd learned it from the many times I had gone just a tad too deep. I waited for about twenty five minutes before the bleeding had finally stopped. This one was bad, then.

A little bit later, I heard a knock on the door.

"Pete?" I heard from the other side. Oh shit. I still hadn't cleaned up and there were bloody tissues everywhere.

I quickly ran around the room, throwing the tissues into the bin and making sure everything looked alright. I yanked my hoodie on and tried to act nonchalant as I opened the bedroom door.

"Hey Pete!" He exclaimed, his face lighting up. I couldn't help but smile as he did, my insides warming up a little.

"Hi, Pat," I said, my smile small but happy all the same.

"Can I come in?" he asked, and I stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him.

The moonlight and gray sky streaming in through the windows have no need for a lamp to be on, and the light gave the room a comfortable atmosphere. I sat next to Pat on the bed, looking at his silhouette perfectly portrayed in the moonlight.

He smiled at me, as if he knew that I had a secret of sorts.

"What are you looking at?" he said with a small smile.

I replied with a, "Your beauty. It's so perfect. One second." I got up and made Patrick stay where he was as I went to my closet and fished around for what I was looking for until I found it.

An old Polaroid, worn down from prolonged use and slight decay from being in the closet for what feels like forever.

"Hold still." I turned off the flash so it wouldn't ruin his silhouette, and snapped the photo.

I put the Polaroid back in the closet and sat next to Pat, shaking the photo gently to let it fade in slowly.

The picture came into sight eventually. It was beautiful.

His trucker hat stuck out over the hair that flipped out in front of him, the hood on his jacket folded perfectly, and his arms had just the perfect space in between.

It was perfect.

Just like him.

I closed my eyes for a moment and when they opened again I was pulling away from Patrick's lips, his breath warm against my nose.

"I love you, Pete."

"Love you too, Pat."

I woke up to sobs and a tight grip on my arm. Ow. The searing pain shooting up through me didn't match the sobs. Something about this situation was different. I quickly tried to yank myself awake but half of me was asleep.

I don't know if it was when I placed the sobs to Patrick or the "Why, Pete, why?"s that ended up making my eyes shatter open.

I looked to my wrist to find a grip on the exact part of my body I wanted no one to see. Pat's hand was clenched around my wrist, unintentionally squeezing the cuts and just making more blood pour out. He sobbed and his eyes were darting around my face, probably looking for a response from me. It was really hard to find one, the best I could think up was weak.

"I, I'm, I'm sorry," was all I could say, but Pat wasn't having it.

"DONT YOU SAY SORRY TO ME, I DONT WANT TO HEAR IT FROM YOU. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS I AM SO DISAPPOINTED IN YOU DO YOU KNOW THAT I CARE ABOUT YOU WERE YOU EVEN THINKING" His response was fast and pretty hard to put into complete and proper sentences. I made a move to put a clean, uncut arm on his shoulder, which usually calms him down the most, but he just brushed me off like I was trash and stood up.

"Don't try to talk to me for a while." That was all he had to say before leaving my room with a slam of both my and his door.

All my fault.

I eventually felt the tears drying and my eyeliner caking once more but even further down my cheeks and in my eyelids to the point that it had begun stinging.

I guess I needed to clean that up.

I made my way to the bathroom, my hunger not even fazing me because I had become so used to it on a daily basis that the dizziness would no longer make my knees buckle nor would I black out to a certain extent. It was just normal for me.

I closed the door quietly behind me and made sure to lock it. I turned on the faucet and soaked my hands, rubbing the eyeliner away with it. When I was satisfied I looked in the mirror. I expected to see a face worthy of Patrick's love, but all I saw were a pair of dead eyes and some faded eyeliner from tears.

I reached into the bottle of pills that were prescribed to me long ago and now hid my razor, fishing out the thin piece of metal. I closed my eyes for a solid second before I took the blade and dragged it gently across my skin, almost as if mapping a course for a ship. I nodded once I had decided what I were to do, and dug the blade right from the top of my wrist, dragging and gouging all the way to my elbow.

There was a knock. Four, to be exact.

There was a "Pete?" One, to be exact.

This repeated exactly twice before I had started to see spots. They clouded my vision, and next thing I knew, I had crumpled to the floor.

The small voice had turned to a shout, the knocks turned to bangs, and still zero responses from me.

Next thing I knew, the door had disappeared and Pat was hanging over my face, sobbing and begging words that were soon drowned out by a long, monotonous beeping noise. The spots had begun to completely cloud my vision. No, I wanted to see Pat. Spots, stop. I wanted to see Pat.

He was still sobbing and yelling, but the two were joined by bone chilling wails.

All three were drowned out by that beep though. All of his emotions on his face were suffocated by the spots.

And, with all four knocks, all two yells of my name, all of the many wails and sobs and yells in general, I gave one response. One response, made up of three words.

"I love you."

The spots became a blanket, blocking out Pat's beautiful face. The beep had now become something along the lines of a shriek. I could no longer feel Pat's fingers digging gently into my chest. I could feel nothing, as if the nothing was solid, I could feel it.

Pat, come back. I wanna see your face again. Pat, please.

The nothing seemed to push in on me, engulfing me so much that my thoughts themselves had been suffocated, every inch of me becoming the nothing.

And then, I was the nothing.

It's been two weeks without Pete by my side when I wake up.

Fall Out Boy's already done.

I was visited every day by Andy and Joe for about a week. Then, the visiting stopped. I had a new schedule. Sleep, and wake up to wishing I could be asleep again.

I refused to eat. What Andy and Joe had made me eat was all I had these two weeks. I could see myself becoming so thin people would be concerned if they saw me on the street. They didn't, of course, because I never left the house.

I would curl up in a ball and lay in the bed every day, just wishing that things would be better. But they never got better.

It was all my fault, I had gotten angry when I shouldn't have. I should've comforted him. But I didn't. I just got angry and in his face. It was all my fault.

I decided I would go outside for a little "trip."

I put on Pete's favorite of my trucker hats and my favorite jacket, the one that had started to smell like Pete.

His scent being so strong and present brought tears to my eyes. Before I knew it I was in a sobbing fit.

There were no tears. I had run out of those long ago.

My body racked, and my choked wails escaped my throat in an almost vomit-inducing manner.

I waited until I knew my face was no longer a suffocated red, and I looked to the bedside table. There sat that Polaroid photo. I gently lifted it off the table and inserted it into my pocket. And then, I set out.

I walked all the way to the outskirts of Chicago, where the forests began to appear.

I walked all the way to the middle of our favorite forest.

Nobody went there except us, we were the only ones that knew.

I found the treehouse just like we left it; cramped but filled with happiness.

I didn't want to have another round of sobs so I avoided the treehouse, instead sitting on our bridge.

It was small but it went over an almost abyss-like cliff that feel to a river. It was really small and not too long of a drop but the rocks were sharp enough to rip you to shreds.

I missed Pete. His smile, his hair, everything about him. I missed him.

I needed him.

All I had left was his scent and that Polaroid that he took. I took it out of my pocket and looked over it. In all honesty, it was beautiful. Because it reminded me of Pete.

Without him my brokenness was excruciating. The pain would never leave.

I love Pete Wentz.

It was torturous to not be by his side.

And the torture had become too much; I had been eaten alive.

So, I fixed that.


End file.

Misc. Plays/Musicals, Angst, Romance