What If We Weren't the Way We Are?

Although Patrick had always been slightly envious of certain aspects of his friend's life, he now envied Peter more than ever. Peter could no longer speak, or perhaps he would no longer speak, and Patrick wished that he would lose his voice too. Patrick no longer cared for his opinions, dreams, morals, crazy ideas or even his music. The friendships that had meant the world to him had been destroyed. The only thing that Patrick cared for now was nothingness.

His life was busy. He always needed to be somewhere, he always needed to be meeting someone and plastering a fake smile onto his face. Patrick hated the emotions he experienced every day; happiness, sadness, anger, frustration, jealousy, disgust. Patrick was disgusted by himself, he was disgusted by the multitude of inferior emotions that he put himself through every single day.

More than anything, Patrick craved nothingness and the emptiness that it would bring.

He was in the process of attempting to ruin his life. It was going rather smoothly, something that might've made Patrick oddly pleased had he not recently decided that there was no use for human emotions.

Though he couldn't remember exactly where, Patrick had heard that there was no afterlife. There wasn't a heaven or a hell, there wasn't a God to be (re)united with and no one was reborn. Bodies decomposed in their fancy wooden boxes until there was no longer any record of their existence. There was no 'beyond the grave'. There was just darkness.

In his recent dreams he would be floating in it, almost swimming in it. He couldn't see a thing, feel a thing, smell a thing or taste a thing but he could hear the voices. Some people were calling out, evidently scared. Other voices were muttering cynically. Many voices were sobbing, softly and loudly. Patrick didn't say a word. In his recent dreams, Patrick had lost his voice.

Someone knocked on the door and Patrick grumbled as he was ripped away from his thoughts. He had told the maid not to come into his hotel room. He didn't want it cleaned and he didn't want food. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't even want to see himself.

"Hey Trickster, how about opening the door?" It wasn't the maid. It was Joe. Patrick exhaled slowly, got up and headed over to the door of his hotel room. The metal of the door handle felt cold and alien against the skin of his fingertips because he hadn't touched it in several days.

He turned and pulled. "What do you want?"

Joe had not seen Patrick since they'd reached the hotel days before. His friend was dirty, wearing the same clothes that he had been wearing when they'd arrived. Various bottles littered the floor of his hotel room.

"Me and Pete got some Chinese takeaway and I got you some lemon chicken," Joe held up a white paper bag with a grin, "can I come in?"

Knowing that he wasn't going to be able to get rid of the younger man, Patrick stepped aside, letting Joe into the room.

Upon entering, Joe crinkled his nose. The air was thick and heavy with the stench of body odour, cigarette smoke and alcohol.

"Hasn't the maid been in here dude?"

"I told her not to bother," replied Patrick. He could see the cogs and gears in Joe's head turning. Joe was slowly figuring it out. The many bottles lying on the carpet, the rank stench that hung in the air.

Joe dropped the paper bag onto the coffee table. He was worried about Patrick. It looked like the guy was living in some sort of fantasy world and was slowly going insane because of it. Patrick's voice was raspy from copious amounts of alcohol and numerous packets of cigarettes.

"Since when did you smoke?" asked Joe, picking up an empty cigarette box and examining it. He glanced over in Patrick's direction to see the man draining the last of the contents of a glass bottle. "And since when did you drink so much or at all?"

Patrick closed his eyes, faking contemplation. "Let me see Joe, maybe it was a few weeks back when the best thing that ever happened to me crumbled to pieces."

"I was just talking about this with Pete. When life gives you lemons -"

"You make motherfucking lemon juice. It's the bitterest shit ever," Patrick grabbed another half-empty bottle and took a swig. "Joe, if you came here to lecture me on my choices in life, I suggest you leave. I'm not going to listen to fucking life coach speeches from a guy in a wheelchair. Get the fuck out."

Both of them knew that Patrick didn't mean it. They could both hear the fear in his voice. They both knew what Patrick was thinking. They both knew that he was being selfish.

"Gladly." Wheeling himself out of the room, Joe shot a worried look at Patrick's back.

Patrick was jealous of Pete because he could no longer speak and perhaps with good reason. Nowadays, he never knew what atrocities were going to slip past his lips.