(no subject)
Title :Weighted sorrow in perfect clouds. Ch. 3.
Author : Trisha.
Rating : PG-16
Summary :Cause I am playing God. I am raising hell, As far as I can tell. I am all alone. Alone in this world. Alone, with you.
Another mental hospital story with a new idea. So, yeah, hate me for this.
Author's Notes : Wow, I seriously decited to put some of my story into this. And I'm making it sound like the hospital I was in.
This was suppost to be out a day or two ago.
Christmas chapter coming soon!
-------------------------
"Hello Peter, I am Margret Santiago."
A woman, about the age of 50, approached Pete on his way to 'group therapy'. She had dyed blonde hair, and wrinkles.
"Hi Mrs. San-"
"We go by first name basis here. Call me Margret."
Pete was blown away by this woman's attitude. Who does she think she is? She can't be all THAT good. She's treating him like a pile of crap!
"Come with me, please..."
"Wait, I-I have group-"
"I am your therapist. I am taking you out of this group." she stated as Pete followed her quick steps, struggling to keep up. "They know, so relax."
She walked through a door, down some offices, down to the one at the end of the hall.
A cream colored couch laid in front of a glass coffee table, with a box of tissues placed neatly on the table. A large leather chair sat near a desk- The therapist's seat. The room had a clean feel, like it's never used. It smelt like incents.
Pete took a seat on the edge, as if he was going to run away. The hum of a white out machine was making the 'sound of silence', as Marget sat in the leather chair, looking through a folder labled WE. She placed a finger near her lip.
"Why do you think you are here, Mr. Wentz?"
Pete jumped. Why? Cause he was insane!
"I...kinda...tried, killing myself...Uhh..."
She clicked a pen to a notepad and started jotting notes.
"Why Peter? It seems like you had the best. Spoiled, in an honest opinion."
Spoiled?
"I am not spoiled, Miss...I-I-I..." Pete waved his hands in front of him. What was he?
Yeah, he had a rich Catholic family, got what he wanted. But there was a void. Pain, death-- it was all a fasination. His thoughts. His nightmares.
He was lost on words.
"It's not my fault..." Pete fumbled with a thread.
"Peter."
Pete looked up. Marget was staring through his eyes.
"W-what?"
"Do you want to get better?"
Pete was stuck. Uhh, there was nothing wrong with him. Yeah, he liked pain; yeah, he was a bit crazy. So is everyone else.
"What's there to fix?"
Marget smiled. But, it didn't make Pete feel better. It gave him a creepy feeling.
"Well, Peter. That's all I need today." she stood up briskly.
"Wait, this was only a 10 minute meeting?"
She sighed. "Peter, I'm sorry. You can't leave before Christmas. You have to work to get out. If you think you don't need to get better, maybe you should try harder during our next meeting." She walked to the door. "C'mon, I'll bring you back to group."
And before Pete knew it, he was standing outside group doors.
--------------------------------
Patrick was well aware of the 29 kids sitting in this circle. He knew most too well. The girl sitting next to him, thin as a rail, named Becky. Anorexic. She started anorexia as the topic.
Patrick noticed a watchful eye by the leader, hoping he'd comment. This was his topic.
But this wasn't his time to come out of his shell.
He stared at the thread in the box seat. He tugged, making a weak attempt to pull free the thread. He grew tired of effort after ten minutes.
There was a knock on the door, as Pete stepped in, and looked around, nervously.
"Hi Pete, have a seat." the leader said with a smile.
He smiled weakly and sat 2 chairs down from Patrick.
"But...I thought I did have work to do...with my weight..."
Patrick heard someone speak as they continued around with the conversation.
"...I mean...who'd want to be friends with an ugly..." Patrick tugged harder at the thread as a girl's voice continued speaking. "...Fat..." Patrick tried pulling harder, but it resisted. "...Pig like me?"
"Why do you think that Heather?" the leader asks.
Pete observed this conversation, getting a glance at Patrick. He was tugging hard at a thread. He looked so cute frustrated.
Again with the crazy people crush.
But...this was different. He saw Patrick as a scared boy. He was lost.
"Care to comment Patrick?"
Pete, along with the other 29 heads, turned in the direction of Patrick. His eyes were large, scared, nervous. His face was red, as he concentrated. He ducked his head down, nervously picking at his fingers.
"Patrick?"
He felt bad for Patrick. He was so compelled to give him a hug, a kiss, and tell him everything's going to be okay. He sharply breathed in, exhaling slowly. Pete saw the group leader jot something in her pad.
"Why do you want to stay so bad?"
Pete, along with the rest of the group, turned toward a tiny girl, no older than thirteen.
"H-home's not so good...A-a-at the moment..."
He practically squeaked out these words, as his breath shook.
But this girl continued.
"Why? I mean..."
At this, a lot of the kids look effected.
"What's it like at home?" the leader asked gently, as a tear dropped into his lap. His hair was covering his face, as he held his head down.
"I-I-butttt...Uhh..."
Patrick was filled with fear and emotions. At that moment, he felt like he was being stared at by the whole world, calling him 'freak', 'fat', and 'ugly'. Tears slid down his face, as memories flash through his head. As a baby, when mommy wouldn't pick him up. Yeah, at 8, Patrick wanted a mommy, but she was never there. The boy carried a blanket, and he had baby fat. The children would make fun of him.
He still sleeps with that blanket.
He saw Stacy, dead, on the ground... Stacy, at her funeral... Mr. Rockland hitting him, pushing him, forcing him to be sexually, emotionally, and physically abused.
"C-can I use the bathroom?" he asked, almost sobbing.
He didn't wait for an answer. He ran out of the room, down to his bedroom. He looked frantically for his blanket. When he found it, he held it close, smelling the smell of pasts memories. Smelling his sister. Cookies she'd bake just for him. Scent of fall, all over again. Tears welled in his eyes with the memories passing by his eyelids.
There was a small knock on the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, face still in his blanket.
"It's Pete..." he heard Pete walk in and sit next to him. He turns away, as Pete puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Go away." Patrick mumbles into his blanket, soft fabric around his face buring sound.
"Patrick..." he whispered.
"No, you have no idea!" Patrick's head shot up, as he stood up and looked at him. "Your family's not demented, your sister didn't die, and you don't know me, okay?!" he practically yelled and sobbed.
For the first time in his life, after he flipped out on someone, they actually looked hurt. Pete made his way to the door, as Patrick had a pang of guilt.
"I'm sorry Pete..." he whimpered. "Please sit down, please. Don't leave...please."
Pete looked back. Patrick looked so down, and adorable. His eyes were red, as he sobbed into a dirty blanket. He reminded Pete of a baby, or a young child.
"What's wrong?" Pete whispered as he sat next to Patrick, placing a gentle arm around him.
This only made Patrick cry harder. His blanket seemed to get even more soaked, if possible.
"What's wrong?" Pete whispered again.
"N-n-no...one's ever care-ed t-t-his much about meee!" he sobbed, looking into Pete's eyes. Pete noticed how green his eyes looked.
Pete shhhed Patrick, as he leaned into him.
"Patrick?" a young woman, in her twenties was at the door. She had a notebook, as she motioned him out of the room.
Patrick reconized her as his therapist.
---------------------------------------
Pete watched Patrick scramble out the door. He couldn't believe this was happening.
Patrick...
It was definately a crush.
He came over to the window. Thick snowflakes were falling onto the brown grass, sugar coating it like candy. He saw the grey sun trying to peak through the clouds.
He HAD to save Patrick. He just had to.
He was worried. About him. And seeing him upset... He felt like doing what he normally did when he was this upset. Especially over someone, something, or a situation.
He paced, rummaging through his bags, drawers, looking for something to release him.
Aw fuck! Everything was gone! He punched the wall, looking out. There just HAD to be something. This-this wasn't happening! When he saw it.
A shimmer of light reflected off something. Pete's head jerked back at this site, rummeging on the floor till he found a blade. Tucked under the bed, next to the support for the bed.
He knew he'd be risking a lot, health wise. But he didn't give a fuck.
He walked into the bathroom, and ran some water onto the blade. He pulled the seat on the toilet down, sitting himself onto it, as he pushed the blade into his scarred skin.
It broke, as a line of crimson laid in the place. A bit higher, he stroked again, tears welling in his eyes. Once again, but deeper. He started to cry.
He fell to the floor, crying. This helped him feel better, and this happened. But why was he so sad?
He wished Patrick was there...To see how sad he felt about his life.
-------------------------
"Patrick, tell us what's wrong?"
Patrick's therapist, Jenny, was young. 26, to be exact. She had auburn hair that shined like the Pantene girl's under the lighting. She had a young face and a sweet smile. Everytime she'd pick up Patrick for his session, he'd smile and talk about stuff that didn't have to do with his reason to be in this place. He'd even mention how cold the window felt today and ask the weather. He'd sing a new song he wrote. But she knew, deep down, there was a story.
"Patrick?"
He held his blanket tighter. He noticed the fabric was thinning after years in use.
"Patrick, you can't hold silence. It'll kill you in the long run. We don't know a lot about you, all we know is your eating disorder. But, what made you the guy you are? What has happened in your life that has brought you to this shy, depressed, closed off boy?" He sniffled, rubbing his cheek against the soft fuzz. "It's a shame, someone with the oppertunity to start over. You should make the best of this Patrick. You should want to get better. Because, that's the first step into healing. Wanting to put the effort."
Patrick looked to the ground, his glasses somehow making it into his pant pocket. He didn't know what to say to this, so he kept still and silent; or, well, almost.
"Patrick...what's wrong?"
He sighed as she followed suit.
"When your ready, I'm here. I promise."
Read and review loves. Remember, honest opinion.
-Trish
Author : Trisha.
Rating : PG-16
Summary :Cause I am playing God. I am raising hell, As far as I can tell. I am all alone. Alone in this world. Alone, with you.
Another mental hospital story with a new idea. So, yeah, hate me for this.
Author's Notes : Wow, I seriously decited to put some of my story into this. And I'm making it sound like the hospital I was in.
This was suppost to be out a day or two ago.
Christmas chapter coming soon!
-------------------------
"Hello Peter, I am Margret Santiago."
A woman, about the age of 50, approached Pete on his way to 'group therapy'. She had dyed blonde hair, and wrinkles.
"Hi Mrs. San-"
"We go by first name basis here. Call me Margret."
Pete was blown away by this woman's attitude. Who does she think she is? She can't be all THAT good. She's treating him like a pile of crap!
"Come with me, please..."
"Wait, I-I have group-"
"I am your therapist. I am taking you out of this group." she stated as Pete followed her quick steps, struggling to keep up. "They know, so relax."
She walked through a door, down some offices, down to the one at the end of the hall.
A cream colored couch laid in front of a glass coffee table, with a box of tissues placed neatly on the table. A large leather chair sat near a desk- The therapist's seat. The room had a clean feel, like it's never used. It smelt like incents.
Pete took a seat on the edge, as if he was going to run away. The hum of a white out machine was making the 'sound of silence', as Marget sat in the leather chair, looking through a folder labled WE. She placed a finger near her lip.
"Why do you think you are here, Mr. Wentz?"
Pete jumped. Why? Cause he was insane!
"I...kinda...tried, killing myself...Uhh..."
She clicked a pen to a notepad and started jotting notes.
"Why Peter? It seems like you had the best. Spoiled, in an honest opinion."
Spoiled?
"I am not spoiled, Miss...I-I-I..." Pete waved his hands in front of him. What was he?
Yeah, he had a rich Catholic family, got what he wanted. But there was a void. Pain, death-- it was all a fasination. His thoughts. His nightmares.
He was lost on words.
"It's not my fault..." Pete fumbled with a thread.
"Peter."
Pete looked up. Marget was staring through his eyes.
"W-what?"
"Do you want to get better?"
Pete was stuck. Uhh, there was nothing wrong with him. Yeah, he liked pain; yeah, he was a bit crazy. So is everyone else.
"What's there to fix?"
Marget smiled. But, it didn't make Pete feel better. It gave him a creepy feeling.
"Well, Peter. That's all I need today." she stood up briskly.
"Wait, this was only a 10 minute meeting?"
She sighed. "Peter, I'm sorry. You can't leave before Christmas. You have to work to get out. If you think you don't need to get better, maybe you should try harder during our next meeting." She walked to the door. "C'mon, I'll bring you back to group."
And before Pete knew it, he was standing outside group doors.
--------------------------------
Patrick was well aware of the 29 kids sitting in this circle. He knew most too well. The girl sitting next to him, thin as a rail, named Becky. Anorexic. She started anorexia as the topic.
Patrick noticed a watchful eye by the leader, hoping he'd comment. This was his topic.
But this wasn't his time to come out of his shell.
He stared at the thread in the box seat. He tugged, making a weak attempt to pull free the thread. He grew tired of effort after ten minutes.
There was a knock on the door, as Pete stepped in, and looked around, nervously.
"Hi Pete, have a seat." the leader said with a smile.
He smiled weakly and sat 2 chairs down from Patrick.
"But...I thought I did have work to do...with my weight..."
Patrick heard someone speak as they continued around with the conversation.
"...I mean...who'd want to be friends with an ugly..." Patrick tugged harder at the thread as a girl's voice continued speaking. "...Fat..." Patrick tried pulling harder, but it resisted. "...Pig like me?"
"Why do you think that Heather?" the leader asks.
Pete observed this conversation, getting a glance at Patrick. He was tugging hard at a thread. He looked so cute frustrated.
Again with the crazy people crush.
But...this was different. He saw Patrick as a scared boy. He was lost.
"Care to comment Patrick?"
Pete, along with the other 29 heads, turned in the direction of Patrick. His eyes were large, scared, nervous. His face was red, as he concentrated. He ducked his head down, nervously picking at his fingers.
"Patrick?"
He felt bad for Patrick. He was so compelled to give him a hug, a kiss, and tell him everything's going to be okay. He sharply breathed in, exhaling slowly. Pete saw the group leader jot something in her pad.
"Why do you want to stay so bad?"
Pete, along with the rest of the group, turned toward a tiny girl, no older than thirteen.
"H-home's not so good...A-a-at the moment..."
He practically squeaked out these words, as his breath shook.
But this girl continued.
"Why? I mean..."
At this, a lot of the kids look effected.
"What's it like at home?" the leader asked gently, as a tear dropped into his lap. His hair was covering his face, as he held his head down.
"I-I-butttt...Uhh..."
Patrick was filled with fear and emotions. At that moment, he felt like he was being stared at by the whole world, calling him 'freak', 'fat', and 'ugly'. Tears slid down his face, as memories flash through his head. As a baby, when mommy wouldn't pick him up. Yeah, at 8, Patrick wanted a mommy, but she was never there. The boy carried a blanket, and he had baby fat. The children would make fun of him.
He still sleeps with that blanket.
He saw Stacy, dead, on the ground... Stacy, at her funeral... Mr. Rockland hitting him, pushing him, forcing him to be sexually, emotionally, and physically abused.
"C-can I use the bathroom?" he asked, almost sobbing.
He didn't wait for an answer. He ran out of the room, down to his bedroom. He looked frantically for his blanket. When he found it, he held it close, smelling the smell of pasts memories. Smelling his sister. Cookies she'd bake just for him. Scent of fall, all over again. Tears welled in his eyes with the memories passing by his eyelids.
There was a small knock on the door. He sat on the edge of the bed, face still in his blanket.
"It's Pete..." he heard Pete walk in and sit next to him. He turns away, as Pete puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Go away." Patrick mumbles into his blanket, soft fabric around his face buring sound.
"Patrick..." he whispered.
"No, you have no idea!" Patrick's head shot up, as he stood up and looked at him. "Your family's not demented, your sister didn't die, and you don't know me, okay?!" he practically yelled and sobbed.
For the first time in his life, after he flipped out on someone, they actually looked hurt. Pete made his way to the door, as Patrick had a pang of guilt.
"I'm sorry Pete..." he whimpered. "Please sit down, please. Don't leave...please."
Pete looked back. Patrick looked so down, and adorable. His eyes were red, as he sobbed into a dirty blanket. He reminded Pete of a baby, or a young child.
"What's wrong?" Pete whispered as he sat next to Patrick, placing a gentle arm around him.
This only made Patrick cry harder. His blanket seemed to get even more soaked, if possible.
"What's wrong?" Pete whispered again.
"N-n-no...one's ever care-ed t-t-his much about meee!" he sobbed, looking into Pete's eyes. Pete noticed how green his eyes looked.
Pete shhhed Patrick, as he leaned into him.
"Patrick?" a young woman, in her twenties was at the door. She had a notebook, as she motioned him out of the room.
Patrick reconized her as his therapist.
---------------------------------------
Pete watched Patrick scramble out the door. He couldn't believe this was happening.
Patrick...
It was definately a crush.
He came over to the window. Thick snowflakes were falling onto the brown grass, sugar coating it like candy. He saw the grey sun trying to peak through the clouds.
He HAD to save Patrick. He just had to.
He was worried. About him. And seeing him upset... He felt like doing what he normally did when he was this upset. Especially over someone, something, or a situation.
He paced, rummaging through his bags, drawers, looking for something to release him.
Aw fuck! Everything was gone! He punched the wall, looking out. There just HAD to be something. This-this wasn't happening! When he saw it.
A shimmer of light reflected off something. Pete's head jerked back at this site, rummeging on the floor till he found a blade. Tucked under the bed, next to the support for the bed.
He knew he'd be risking a lot, health wise. But he didn't give a fuck.
He walked into the bathroom, and ran some water onto the blade. He pulled the seat on the toilet down, sitting himself onto it, as he pushed the blade into his scarred skin.
It broke, as a line of crimson laid in the place. A bit higher, he stroked again, tears welling in his eyes. Once again, but deeper. He started to cry.
He fell to the floor, crying. This helped him feel better, and this happened. But why was he so sad?
He wished Patrick was there...To see how sad he felt about his life.
-------------------------
"Patrick, tell us what's wrong?"
Patrick's therapist, Jenny, was young. 26, to be exact. She had auburn hair that shined like the Pantene girl's under the lighting. She had a young face and a sweet smile. Everytime she'd pick up Patrick for his session, he'd smile and talk about stuff that didn't have to do with his reason to be in this place. He'd even mention how cold the window felt today and ask the weather. He'd sing a new song he wrote. But she knew, deep down, there was a story.
"Patrick?"
He held his blanket tighter. He noticed the fabric was thinning after years in use.
"Patrick, you can't hold silence. It'll kill you in the long run. We don't know a lot about you, all we know is your eating disorder. But, what made you the guy you are? What has happened in your life that has brought you to this shy, depressed, closed off boy?" He sniffled, rubbing his cheek against the soft fuzz. "It's a shame, someone with the oppertunity to start over. You should make the best of this Patrick. You should want to get better. Because, that's the first step into healing. Wanting to put the effort."
Patrick looked to the ground, his glasses somehow making it into his pant pocket. He didn't know what to say to this, so he kept still and silent; or, well, almost.
"Patrick...what's wrong?"
He sighed as she followed suit.
"When your ready, I'm here. I promise."
Read and review loves. Remember, honest opinion.
-Trish