challenge: patrick stump
Claim: Patrick Stump @ fanfic100
Prompt: 001; beginnings
Sitting in the shrink’s office, talking with her. Actually, she did all of the talking; I just listened. “We’re here to help you. Just tell us why you did what you did. Open up to us,” she said-pleaded-to me.
I answered her with silence. Why would I tell her why I slit my wrists? Over a boy? Oh yes, that would certainly go well. Her knowing about my homosexuality wouldn’t better the situation-if anything, they would probably keep me here even longer.
After an hour, she sighed and dismissed me, labeling a tape ‘Patrick Stump, 12-08-05.’
As I was on my way toward the door, she stopped me. “Patrick, will you do something for me?” she cooed. She knew I would at least feign interest when I dropped my hand from the doorknob, turning around to face her.
“How about you write in a journal everyday, during your stay here? You wouldn’t have to write about what we talk about in here (Patrick laughed at this); just about your day, if anything exciting happens. I’m sure you would have something to say. If it helps, I promise that I won’t even read it.”
I shrugged, taking the bait. She smiled brightly as she handed me a black and white composition notebook and a black pen. Pencils were probably banned from this vicinity; they were considered dangerous, especially to some of the ‘patients’ who were enrolled here. Supposedly, someone could sharpen it… to suit their needs. Even though I doubted that there would be a pencil sharpener within reach.
I tucked the notebook inside of my hoodie, pocketed the pen, turned and went out the door, wanting nothing more than to get away from her.
I looked up to see my ‘buddy’ walking up to me, a small smile on his lips. His name was Andrew Hurley, but he said he’d rather be called Andy (“Call me Andy. Andrew sounds too formal.”). He was here for drug abuse, and had been imprisoned here for about a year, so he had the privileges of wandering the halls by himself, and without permission.
Andy cracked a joke about the shrink being a succubus, out to steal the souls of young boys, and it made me smile. He frowned when I didn’t laugh-or say anything, for that matter.
He walked me back to my room, saying “Goodbye, Patrick,” before I went into my room. I left the door open a crack, allowing me to watch him walk away, hands shoved into his pockets.
I sat on my bed, glancing at the clock on the wall; it was almost lights out. I opened the notebook and stared down at the blank pages.
I had survived Day One.
Prompt: 007; days
It had been seven days since my family learned of my so-called ‘condition.’ I didn’t see the big deal about it-it’s not like I was trying to kill myself [anymore]-but apparently, it was a big deal. Hence the reason my family had dropped me off in this hell-hole, all choking back sobs as they filled out forms and interrogated the staff members that were working at the front desk.
“Will Patrick get better?”
“How much will the treatment cost?”
I remember the look my mother gave me: sympathy, and maybe just a dash of pity. I hated her-loathed her-as she hugged me and kissed me on my forehead before she left me, before everyone left me. They fucking abandoned me here, leaving me with nothing but my stupid suitcase.
I didn’t know anyone here; I would have been better off being tossed onto an island inhabited by angry, cannibalistic lesbians.
And now I’m sitting in The Rec Room, huddled in a corner, knees pulled up to my chest. My notebook was sitting beside me, every page still empty. Why bother writing in it? There was nothing I could say that would get me out of here. Even if I told that lady why I did it, there would still be the whole ‘Now-we-must-get-you-better’ shit I would still have to deal with.
I watched everyone through tired blue eyes, wondering how everyone could go about their business and get along, acting as though nothing wrong had happened to them to land them in this quote-unquote ‘correctional facility.’
I preferred to call it ‘The Loony Bin.’
I would occasionally catch some boys staring in my direction, pointing and whispering to each other. I knew they were talking about me; I always had an acute sense of hearing, and, inwardly, I laughed bitterly at their idle chitchat.
“What’s he in here for?”
“I dunno, but I heard he killed a man with a bendy straw and some duct tape…”
This whole thing was fucking ridiculous; I didn’t need to be in here. There wasn’t anything wrong with me!
Besides, it’s not like the feeling of the razor dragging across the tender flesh of my forearm gave me a sense of adrenaline; making me feel like I wanted it, needed it. I only did it because I was depressed over a bad breakup and needed a form of release.
It wasn’t like I could write about the breakup to help me get over it; I didn’t have a very good way with words, which was why I resorted to self-harm. I knew that I could stop any time I wanted…
I ignored the constant nagging at the back of my mind, reminding me that this ‘bad breakup’ happened over six months ago.
Yeah, I didn’t need to see a shrink about this. What the hell would they know?
There wasn’t anything wrong with me…
Was there?
Prompt: 056; breakfast
In the ‘correctional facility’, we follow a simple routine (yeah, simple if you had been here for a bazillion years): wake up at eight o’clock, shower, eat breakfast, first session, eat lunch, activities, group therapy, eat dinner, second session, and go to bed.
Down at breakfast, we sat at tables according to our disorders, that way it would be easier for the workers to keep track of us. They needed to make sure that the kids with eating disorders ate properly, and that kids with self-harm issues-the category that I fit into-didn’t attempt to sneak anything outside of the cafeteria that we might be able to use to cause damage to ourselves.
I sat at the end of the table, poking at what I thought were supposed to be scrambled eggs. I wasn’t the one preparing the meals so, for all I knew, this could have been ground up meat of some child who never ‘got better.’ Ew.
After that, I pretty much felt sick to my stomach. I rose to my feet and walked over to the garbage can, tossing my cardboard tray, and the rest of its contents, into the reciprocal.
Having hardly touched my food, I’m sure one of the workers thought I was one of the eating disordered teens, and they eyed me suspiciously. I had seen her around before, and decided to illegally change her name to Helga. Sure, it didn’t sound much like ‘Nancy Fergusson,’ but it suited her appearance.
I could feel the eyes of all my group-mates burning holes into the back of my head. I knew that they all wanted to know what I was doing here, what my history was. They knew I didn’t like to talk, and they could vouch if I said that I never talked. I just sat by the window, wishing that I was anywhere but here.
Many of the boys in my group tried to come up and talk to me, but I would just end up staring blankly at them, so many had given up on even bothering. I knew there were a few who still had hope for me, and I wanted to try to open up to them.
I didn’t want to be a loner in this hell-hole forever. I would become even more miserable than I already was. If I had the power to see into the future, I could definitely envision myself as the old woman who lived with twenty-seven cats, talking to them as the young children rode past the house on their bicycles.
What a marvelous future that would be.
Prompt: 066; rain
Today, it rained.
I tuned out the voice of our group therapy leader, listening to the sound of the raindrops pummeling the rooftop. They weren’t even raindrops, really; it could have easily been considered hail, were it not for the fact that when the drops hit the ground, it looked as though they erupted into even more tiny droplets; they kept going off like land mines, every time they hit the ground.
I was looking out the window, trapped in the second story of the building, wishing nothing more than to be outside. I could practically taste the droplets on my tongue, and I suddenly felt thirsty.
I remember being younger, when my sister and I would always go outside on rainy days, jumping in puddles and raising our heads to the sky, mouths parted, allowing the water to fall into our mouths and letting the droplets caress our cheeks.
Today, Mrs. McAdams, our leader, was asking us to share about our past, trying to get us to open up. There were some teens-old and young-who were crying, pouring their hearts out to her about what had happened to them. Other boys-namely me-just sat there; either distracted with something else or just remained quiet.
When Mrs. McAdams asked us if there was anyone else who wanted to share before group therapy was over, all eyes became focused on me. I remained silent, however, and looked down at my hands, suddenly finding my hang-nail ridden hands very interesting. I knew that if I kept quite for about three, or so, minutes, she would move on, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips.
She was sick of me.
Everyone was sick of me.
I turned my head back to the window and continued to watch the rain fall.
Prompt: 001; beginnings
Sitting in the shrink’s office, talking with her. Actually, she did all of the talking; I just listened. “We’re here to help you. Just tell us why you did what you did. Open up to us,” she said-pleaded-to me.
I answered her with silence. Why would I tell her why I slit my wrists? Over a boy? Oh yes, that would certainly go well. Her knowing about my homosexuality wouldn’t better the situation-if anything, they would probably keep me here even longer.
After an hour, she sighed and dismissed me, labeling a tape ‘Patrick Stump, 12-08-05.’
As I was on my way toward the door, she stopped me. “Patrick, will you do something for me?” she cooed. She knew I would at least feign interest when I dropped my hand from the doorknob, turning around to face her.
“How about you write in a journal everyday, during your stay here? You wouldn’t have to write about what we talk about in here (Patrick laughed at this); just about your day, if anything exciting happens. I’m sure you would have something to say. If it helps, I promise that I won’t even read it.”
I shrugged, taking the bait. She smiled brightly as she handed me a black and white composition notebook and a black pen. Pencils were probably banned from this vicinity; they were considered dangerous, especially to some of the ‘patients’ who were enrolled here. Supposedly, someone could sharpen it… to suit their needs. Even though I doubted that there would be a pencil sharpener within reach.
I tucked the notebook inside of my hoodie, pocketed the pen, turned and went out the door, wanting nothing more than to get away from her.
I looked up to see my ‘buddy’ walking up to me, a small smile on his lips. His name was Andrew Hurley, but he said he’d rather be called Andy (“Call me Andy. Andrew sounds too formal.”). He was here for drug abuse, and had been imprisoned here for about a year, so he had the privileges of wandering the halls by himself, and without permission.
Andy cracked a joke about the shrink being a succubus, out to steal the souls of young boys, and it made me smile. He frowned when I didn’t laugh-or say anything, for that matter.
He walked me back to my room, saying “Goodbye, Patrick,” before I went into my room. I left the door open a crack, allowing me to watch him walk away, hands shoved into his pockets.
I sat on my bed, glancing at the clock on the wall; it was almost lights out. I opened the notebook and stared down at the blank pages.
I had survived Day One.
Prompt: 007; days
It had been seven days since my family learned of my so-called ‘condition.’ I didn’t see the big deal about it-it’s not like I was trying to kill myself [anymore]-but apparently, it was a big deal. Hence the reason my family had dropped me off in this hell-hole, all choking back sobs as they filled out forms and interrogated the staff members that were working at the front desk.
“Will Patrick get better?”
“How much will the treatment cost?”
I remember the look my mother gave me: sympathy, and maybe just a dash of pity. I hated her-loathed her-as she hugged me and kissed me on my forehead before she left me, before everyone left me. They fucking abandoned me here, leaving me with nothing but my stupid suitcase.
I didn’t know anyone here; I would have been better off being tossed onto an island inhabited by angry, cannibalistic lesbians.
And now I’m sitting in The Rec Room, huddled in a corner, knees pulled up to my chest. My notebook was sitting beside me, every page still empty. Why bother writing in it? There was nothing I could say that would get me out of here. Even if I told that lady why I did it, there would still be the whole ‘Now-we-must-get-you-better’ shit I would still have to deal with.
I watched everyone through tired blue eyes, wondering how everyone could go about their business and get along, acting as though nothing wrong had happened to them to land them in this quote-unquote ‘correctional facility.’
I preferred to call it ‘The Loony Bin.’
I would occasionally catch some boys staring in my direction, pointing and whispering to each other. I knew they were talking about me; I always had an acute sense of hearing, and, inwardly, I laughed bitterly at their idle chitchat.
“What’s he in here for?”
“I dunno, but I heard he killed a man with a bendy straw and some duct tape…”
This whole thing was fucking ridiculous; I didn’t need to be in here. There wasn’t anything wrong with me!
Besides, it’s not like the feeling of the razor dragging across the tender flesh of my forearm gave me a sense of adrenaline; making me feel like I wanted it, needed it. I only did it because I was depressed over a bad breakup and needed a form of release.
It wasn’t like I could write about the breakup to help me get over it; I didn’t have a very good way with words, which was why I resorted to self-harm. I knew that I could stop any time I wanted…
I ignored the constant nagging at the back of my mind, reminding me that this ‘bad breakup’ happened over six months ago.
Yeah, I didn’t need to see a shrink about this. What the hell would they know?
There wasn’t anything wrong with me…
Was there?
Prompt: 056; breakfast
In the ‘correctional facility’, we follow a simple routine (yeah, simple if you had been here for a bazillion years): wake up at eight o’clock, shower, eat breakfast, first session, eat lunch, activities, group therapy, eat dinner, second session, and go to bed.
Down at breakfast, we sat at tables according to our disorders, that way it would be easier for the workers to keep track of us. They needed to make sure that the kids with eating disorders ate properly, and that kids with self-harm issues-the category that I fit into-didn’t attempt to sneak anything outside of the cafeteria that we might be able to use to cause damage to ourselves.
I sat at the end of the table, poking at what I thought were supposed to be scrambled eggs. I wasn’t the one preparing the meals so, for all I knew, this could have been ground up meat of some child who never ‘got better.’ Ew.
After that, I pretty much felt sick to my stomach. I rose to my feet and walked over to the garbage can, tossing my cardboard tray, and the rest of its contents, into the reciprocal.
Having hardly touched my food, I’m sure one of the workers thought I was one of the eating disordered teens, and they eyed me suspiciously. I had seen her around before, and decided to illegally change her name to Helga. Sure, it didn’t sound much like ‘Nancy Fergusson,’ but it suited her appearance.
I could feel the eyes of all my group-mates burning holes into the back of my head. I knew that they all wanted to know what I was doing here, what my history was. They knew I didn’t like to talk, and they could vouch if I said that I never talked. I just sat by the window, wishing that I was anywhere but here.
Many of the boys in my group tried to come up and talk to me, but I would just end up staring blankly at them, so many had given up on even bothering. I knew there were a few who still had hope for me, and I wanted to try to open up to them.
I didn’t want to be a loner in this hell-hole forever. I would become even more miserable than I already was. If I had the power to see into the future, I could definitely envision myself as the old woman who lived with twenty-seven cats, talking to them as the young children rode past the house on their bicycles.
What a marvelous future that would be.
Prompt: 066; rain
Today, it rained.
I tuned out the voice of our group therapy leader, listening to the sound of the raindrops pummeling the rooftop. They weren’t even raindrops, really; it could have easily been considered hail, were it not for the fact that when the drops hit the ground, it looked as though they erupted into even more tiny droplets; they kept going off like land mines, every time they hit the ground.
I was looking out the window, trapped in the second story of the building, wishing nothing more than to be outside. I could practically taste the droplets on my tongue, and I suddenly felt thirsty.
I remember being younger, when my sister and I would always go outside on rainy days, jumping in puddles and raising our heads to the sky, mouths parted, allowing the water to fall into our mouths and letting the droplets caress our cheeks.
Today, Mrs. McAdams, our leader, was asking us to share about our past, trying to get us to open up. There were some teens-old and young-who were crying, pouring their hearts out to her about what had happened to them. Other boys-namely me-just sat there; either distracted with something else or just remained quiet.
When Mrs. McAdams asked us if there was anyone else who wanted to share before group therapy was over, all eyes became focused on me. I remained silent, however, and looked down at my hands, suddenly finding my hang-nail ridden hands very interesting. I knew that if I kept quite for about three, or so, minutes, she would move on, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips.
She was sick of me.
Everyone was sick of me.
I turned my head back to the window and continued to watch the rain fall.