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It was obvious.
He should have seen it, he tells himself.
Pete probably gave up with him years ago. He had his own problems, his own demons to face. Why couldn't he deal with things on his own without relying so heavily on someone else?!
Patrick never began to care in the first place. They'd met through Pete, and they'd argued before, about small stuff, and Andy hated it, hated it. He was only around because of Pete; if it wasn’t for him, things would be different. Not that he blames Pete – he blames himself for getting too involved.
All he wanted was a bit of support. From Pete, he knew he was asking too much. He tortured himself with he fact that Patrick probably wouldn't care even if he was dead.
There are guns on the wall, and he's eyeing them through the curtain of too-long hair. It'd be so easy. He could just take one, and it'd be over in a matter of seconds, and he doubted anyone would care about the blood splattered on the floor, or his cold, lifeless body in the middle of the floor.
Andy Hurley wanted to die.
He blinked back the tears and turned away. It'd only take one.
Andy hated being alone. He hated how he was in control, and sure, he almost needed the control in his life, but there was nobody to ground him; there was nobody to stop him from hurting himself.
He thinks of razors, bloodied, and sat underneath the cabinet in his room, hidden from sight. He can't help imagining the blood running down his arms, like it did last night, into his clothes. He'd then banged his head into the wall until he fell asleep, faint and dizzy, and then he'd wake and fall back into the cycle. He has an addictive personality, he can't stop. Just some other form of pain he can focus on, so he's not reminded of the years he spent in his grip.
Life was just a blur. Nobody seemed to care, or he felt like he was a heavy burden. People aren't responsible for him, he reminds himself, but it's so hard for him to not fall back into Pete's arms. It's so hard not to. But instead, he'd cry into his pillow, imagine Pete did truly have the time for him, and truly could help. He's convinced he became a lost cause the minute he gave in to his request.
He'd wail at Patrick down the phone in the dead of night, terrified. Everything scared him; the dark, the silence, the lack of another presence.
Patrick didn't want to know.
But all he needed was someone to listen.
Instead of gazing at the guns longingly, he took himself on a walk through the village to clear his head. It took barely 45 minutes before he stood still, realising where he'd walked to.
A bridge, over a railway line. It lead to country roads, and there was a low brick wall, one he used to lean against in the dead of night with him.
His eyes watered and his eyes widened as he remembered what started this – Who started this.
Images of terrified nights spent under his grasp, days of sobbing as he forced the smaller boy to please him, as he laughed and told him it was okay. He'd hug him afterwards, like he hadn't defiled Andy's body, and like he truly cared. Andy cried into that man's shirt more times than he could remember, because of the abuse dished out by his own hands.
Of course it wasn't okay.
Andy's angry at himself, for letting it continue. He feels guilty that he spoke up, ruined his life. He's mad at the world for being the way it is. He can feel the hands on his body, snaking up his chest, across his back, wrapping around his throat. His breath actually hitches. There's the feel of a hand down his shorts. Andy pales. It's not real, you're safe now.
He's crying, leaning against the wall, shivering underneath his hoodie and holding the bar of his labret stud between his teeth. After those nights, they'd run up here in the pitch black dark, and watch the trains. They'd feel the wind whipping them, not unlike the way he was whipped before, and I was like nothing had ever happened.
He feels so sick just thinking about it, grasping desperately against the wall as tears pour from his dulled grey eyes, wetting his cheeks and splashing onto the concrete below. Teeth clenched, awful sobbing noises breaking the deathly silence, Andy just cries. There's a sting when he moves his arm just slightly, reminding him of the razor, reminding him why he's hurting. He's suffocating himself metaphorically, a shadow wrapping its non-existent hands around his throat, and squeezing hard. Andy can't breathe anymore.
There's a train approaching in the distance. It's getting closer, and Andy smiles bitterly.
Patrick never cared. He's not Pete's responsibility.
So he pushed himself up onto the wall, and fell forwards.