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Patrick was lying in his bed, staring at his wall, unmoving. He missed the past three days of school, his phone went untouched, Bowers and the gang attempted to come to his house but he never answered.
His stomach rumbled and he slammed his eyes shut, the pain of hunger had subsided after 24 hours of his stopping eating, but the rumbles still bothered him. His mouth was dry, but he'd been keeping up with his water. He lifted an arm, grabbing his water bottle and chugging half.
That was the only time he got out of bed, to get water. The ache in his heart was severe, all he wanted was his boyfriend.
Bowers had indeed shown up before, but it was with those two, more specifically, that parasite Criss. Patrick hated him. He was always clung to Henry, the look in Henry's eyes when they touched, the fact they'd known each other since childhood.
It all bothered Patrick.
Patrick knew Henry was like him, riddled with this stupid stupid disorder, but he'd never understand. He tried to talk about it before, but he was met with stupid promises of love. You're always my number one, I love you Patrick. I won't leave you, okay? You just have to deal with it.
Deal with it. Something Patrick always did. Deal with the depression, the anxiety, the bipolar, the abuse, the assault—
Bile grew in Patrick's throat as he remembered it all. He sat up quickly and hunched over the side of his bed, retching until vomit sprayed his floor. All that he did was sigh, and lay back down.
Maybe he should check his phone.
And so he did, ignoring everyone's but opening Henry's. He was blasted with at least 20 messages, they started off sweet and concerned, but turned to yelling at him. His stomach twisted again, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.
Are you serious Patrick? Is this because of me and Vic hanging out? I told you I wouldn't leave you, we're just friends. I don't get why you're being such an ass.
Swipe.
I came by with the boys, why didn't you fucking answer? Are you seriously still sulking? I'm allowed to be close to whoever I want jackass. Just because he's special to me doesn't mean anything.
Swipe.
Don't fucking talk to me until you're ready to grow up. I don't get why you let this "disorder" affect you so bad, to me it sounds like a load of bullshit to lie about why you're such an asshole. "Borderline personality disorder" isn't real, you're making shit up.
That's what made him snap. He threw his phone across the room, slamming his body back down into the blankets and writhing around, tears spilling from his face as he started to hyperventilate. Why couldn't he understand? He had it too, he literally was told to his face by a therapist he had this same fucking problem why couldn't he—
Patrick started to choke on his own sobs, literally choke. He panicked, struggling to breathe, clawing at his throat and shaking. The panic made his crying worse, making his ability to breathe even harder. He started to take deep yet shallow breaths, tears slowing to a stop. He let go of his throat, air started to re-fill his lungs the more he breathed like this.
A minute passed before he could comfortably breathe regularly, eyes welling up with tears again, but he dared not let them shed in fear of what might happen.
Patrick looked around his room, sitting up now. His eyes landed on his blades, just opposite of his water bottle on his dresser.
Fuck it.
He'd accepted he wouldn't survive this, so why not experience that bliss before it's all over.
He leaned over, snatching one of the razors off the counter and yanking his sleep pants down. He shook as he pressed the blade against his skin, pushing and pushing until he couldn't take the sting anymore.
Riiip.
His skin made an audible rip sound as he swiped, looking down at the deep white wound which quickly filled with blood. It wasn't deep enough. He took the blade, replacing it in the same spot, prociding to repeat the action of pushing down until he couldn't.
He swiped again. This time, a yellow substance bulged out, it looked similar to that of beans — then he recalled that's literally what people called it. Blood gushed from the wound, looking like it had a heartbeat itself.
Fuck.
He hit a vein, he didn't mean to, but it was too late now. This still didn't feel like enough, he needed more, more of these cuts. The permanent scars they left, the pain it brought, the sight of the blood, he needed more.
He repeated this action, over and over on both sides until he had about 6 deep cuts covering his body, and then he surrounded them with shallow "styro" cuts.
Right as he went to lay back down, he heard a sharp thud against his front door. A few more later, then followed by loud footsteps going up his stairs and towards his bedroom.
His door flung open, he didn't have enough time to cover himself, definitely not enough to stop the bleeding. He started, dumbfounded, only to see his boyfriend standing in the doorway, staring right back at him.
" Are you serious? "
" I- "
" Don't give me your excuses. "
Patrick started to cry, not even just cry, he full on sobbed. The one person who could ever fix him was now seeing him at his worst, and was being hostile about it. All he wanted was help, love, Henry's all—
" Are you just going to sit there? "
" Leave " Patrick croaked, staring at Henry as he ugly sobbed, snot and tears covering his face. He was serious. He couldn't stand to look at Henry right now, he couldn't stand his voice, couldn't even imagine his touch—
" Are you fucking kidding me? I come here to find you, alone, since you hate Victor so much, I might add. I come to check on MY boyfriend, only to find him sliced up, and he has the gall to tell me to leave. "
Henry yelled, he yelled loud, it only made Patrick sob harder. Henry continued to hell at him, Patrick couldn't even focus enough to catch everything he was saying.
" I want you to leave " He kept repeating through sobs, pulling his blanket up to cover him and wipe his snot.
Eventually, Henry got tired of yelling and walked out, slamming the door. He didn't even offer to help, call 911, nothing. He didn't even help the boy clean up. Did Henry even truly love him? Clearly not, not with this behavior.
Patrick couldn't take it anymore. Being alive made him feel like a whore, dirty. He hated it, he had to make it stop.
He grabbed his blades and limped to the bathroom, fully stripping himself of clothing. He turned the shower on, waiting for the water to get hot. He picked the blade back up, having set it down when he was getting undressed.
He sat underneath the water, holding the blade above his forearm.
It was finally time, he could let go of it all, he could make the pain stop. " Permanent solution to a temporary problem " rang in his ears, but he shook his head. This wasn't temporary. He'd been like this for years, it'd only gotten worse.
Without thinking for another second, he pressed deeply down on his arm and swiped until he reached his elbow. It wasn't deep enough. He copied the action until the beans showed.
His arm felt limp, but he needed to do the other, he had to, he needed to finally be free.
As hard as it was, he succeeded in getting his other arm, tossing the blade to the side and relaxing against the back of the tub.
The water stung in his wounds, no, it burned. He couldn't have cared less, he embraced it as he sobbed harshly, cries mixing with the sound of the water.
The world around him started to fade, the pain turning numb. He was so close, he almost had it. He was so close.
He heard thudding down his hallways again, but he assumed it was near death hallucination. He ignored it, turning his head towards the wall. His tears slowed to a stop, everything felt numb
Just before it all went black, he heard one last thing, the voice of his lover screaming.
" Holy shit Pat! "