Polysporin

Today was supposed to be fun. The plan was that Patrick would come over to Pete’s house, and they would watch a movie, play some video games, maybe go to the mall, order a pizza, then crash on the couch. That was the plan.

So, how on earth did it go from being a normal, happy after noon, to Patrick wondering about his friend’s mental, emotional and physical health? At the moment, Patrick was staring down at a tube of polysporin. It was a pretty normal thing to have in a bathroom, almost every house in North America had at least one of them -it healed burns, cuts, and scratches 70% quicker than the normal healing process- so why did it have any importance?

Patrick’s hand was still throbbing slightly. He had cut himself on a knife, him and Pete decided to try and make cookies, and neither thought maybe we should use scissors to open this package, thus resulting in Patrick bleeding. As soon as blood slipping out of his skin, Pete started panicking.

“Oh, God. Are you okay? Does it hurt? Do we need to get you stiches? Are you okay? Do you need a bandaid? Do you-” Patrick cut him off by laughing.

“It’s okay, Pete. I’m just going to go clean it up, and put a bandaid or something over it, okay? And maybe we should get scissors.” He laughed, and Pete nodded. Patrick made his way to the bathroom, keeping pressure on his hand. It wasn’t very deep, but it was deep enough that there was a steady flow of blood coming out. And true to his word, Patrick ran his hand under cold water, dried it off with some toilet paper, and started fumbling around the drawers for a band aid. It was then when the worrying started.

Because, Patrick found some bandages, and that tube polysporin. The thing that mattered so much, was that it was empty. Like, so empty that even if you cut it opened and scooped out what was inside, it would barely be enough to cover a cut. Patrick put a bandaid over his hand, and frowned down at the medical cream and boxes. Pete had bought the polysporin last week, Patrick knew this because he was the one that drove Pete to the drugstore to buy it. Of course at the time, Pete also had to pick up some medicine, a box of bandaids and nice smelling soap - “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Patrick! And Goddammit, if I’m going to be a God, I’m going to smell like fucking rose petals while I’m ruling the world!”- and Patrick knew that he bought polysporin, because Pete left the receipt in Patrick’s car.

So, the question rose, why the hell was the polysporin empty after only a week?

Patrick had some in his house, that he bought six months ago, and there was barely any gone. And, yes, Pete was rather clumsy -it ranged between him tripping over his own feet, to dropping a pencil, to falling down the stairs. Twice. In a day- but who the hell could use all of it in a week?

Patrick -wheels in mind still turning- put it on the counter, and went back to the kitchen, where Pete was slicing the pre-made dough into equal slices. Patrick smiled, and got a cookie sheet out, and placed the sliced pieces of dough onto it. The polysporin thing still bugged him, because lately Pete had been wearing more long shirts, and sweaters than usual, and he didn’t like it when people touched his wrists or thighs. And now that Patrick thought about it, Pete did have a history of depression. Pete always said it was nothing big, just a genetic thing in his family, and that he had to go to therapy for a while, and sometimes he had pills, but nothing big. He didn’t talk about it much, and tried to avoid the subject a lot, not that Patrick blamed him. But was his depression back? Did it ever go away? Was Pete, the happy-go-lucky, upbeat guy that he knew, hurting himself? He always did seem to have a bandaid somewhere on his arms, every time Patrick saw him.

It was all very confusing, and made Patrick sweat. Also, the oven was on, so it was heating up the room considerably. Patrick pulled off his sweater, sighing in relief as his body temperature dropped a few degrees. But, Pete kept his sweater on, and was getting noticeably uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah, it’s just really warm.”

“Then take your jacket off?” It was more of a question, than a statement. Pete looked about twice as uncomfortable now.

“I don’t really want too.” He said and suddenly he looked very sad. Patrick had seen Pete sad before. Like that one time when a girl he liked very much dumped him for someone else, or the time his fish died, or the time he got really into a TV show and his favorite character died, but this was a different type of sad. It was a kind full of regret, disappointment and guilt, one that made your heart ache, and you never wanted to hear ever again, from any person.

Patrick’s mind was going a mile a minute, he was trying to put all the pieces together, while still giving Pete the benefit of the doubt. But the only alternative, was that Pete was way clumsier than he let on, and every sharp corner in the house needed to be bubble-wrapped. And that wasn’t very likely. More and more of the pieces seemed to fit together. His history with depression, plus his recent behavior, and the empty polysporin. Everything was so obvious, but Patrick just needed that one clue to make him realize. He came to one, conclusion, and he might be wrong, but one thing was for sure, Pete should not be using this much polysporin.

Patrick decided that it was better to ask Pete, and offended him if he’s wrong, than not ask and Pete get hurt.

“Pete,” He started, “I totally get if you don’t want to give me an indepth answer, but can you tell me something?” Pete nodded, and probably knew what Patrick was going to ask.

“Are you depressed?” Pete nodded again, looking very drained.

“Do you hurt yourself?” This time, Pete waited a second, before nodding.

“I didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened, and I couldn’t stop, and I don’t want to go back to therapy. It was Hell.” Patrick nodded.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“‘Please don’t hurt yourself, Pete. Go back to therapy, get back on meds, get better.’” Pete said, imitating Patrick, with a small smirk. Patrick did giggling at this.

“Yeah. But, you should, you know, get back on some pills, or go to therapy. Or, at least tell your mom, so she can freak out all over you.” Pete laughed, looking a little better than before.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ll tell her soon, and she’ll make me do whatever.” Patrick nodded, leaving the conversation there. He couldn’t force Pete to do anything, no matter how much he tried. Pete, no matter how depressed and broken, was strong. He was a fighter. Always fighting everything, which was probably part of the problem. He picked every fight, fought every battle, and tried to do everything. Pete would probably outlive God, trying to get the last say. Which was why he needed therapy. Because he needed to learn that sometimes, you need to take control of things, other times, you need to let go, and let them work themselves out.

The oven chimed, telling them that the cookies were done. They were probably burnt and horrible, but they tried. And as Patrick looked at Pete, a smiling Pete, he began to wonder Is he really happy? How often has he pretended to be? but those were muted by the thought of He’ll get better. He’s Pete Wentz. Soon, he’ll be happy.

And Patrick knew he would still be Pete’s best friend when he was.