Polysporin

Pete the Fighter was gone. Pete the Stubborn no longer existed. Pete the Happy, and Joyful was dead to the world. Instead, they were replaced with Pete the Tired. Pete the Emotionally Unstable. Pete the Fuck Up.

It had been about three months since the day Patrick had found the empty polysporin tube. A week after that, Pete told his mom. He told her that he was depressed again, that he had replaced, that he wanted to die. Missus Wentz, being the good, protective, loving mother she was, instantly demanded that he move back in, for at least a few weeks.

“I’m your mother, I’m allowed to worry.” She said, lovingly to him, over the phone, “I just want to make sure you’re better. You know how Uncle Scott turned out.”

Oh, Pete did. They visited his grave once a year. Pete wondered if that’s what would happen if he did die. Everyone turn up at his funeral, crying fake tears, giving fake speeches, all while wondering ‘Did I turn the lights off when I left?’, ‘What am I going to have for dinner?’, ‘What a fucking freak he was.’ then leave. Leaving him to rot in the ground, his body turning to soil and worm food, people only coming to see his gravestone because they feel obliged.

Some people worshipped the dead, others acted like death didn’t exist

Nevertheless, he went back to therapy, got back on pills. Lots of pills. The three months were spent in a drugged haze. The corners on things were blurred, his voice was crackly and horse, and his words were slurred. His arms were healing nicely though, so he took that as a small victory, even though the battle had not yet been won. His mom was reduced to an anxious mess. Calling home during her lunch breaks to check on Pete, driving him to therapy and back, just incase the doctor got onto a touchy subject, Hell, she had gotten to a point where she counted the pills in their little plastic pockets. She thought that the douse Pete was getting was too much.

She was right. It melted his brain, and made him drool, and sometimes, it knocked him out. But, as the therapist and doctors said, “We’re playing around with how much gets. He’s not a teenager anymore, Mrs. Wentz. He needs more than he used too.” She let the subject drop, but continuously begged that he get a different prescription. But, Pete was an adult. He was twenty three, she couldn’t control him.

So Pete was left, drugged, broke, and depressed to go to a therapist, that didn’t really help, once a week, and taking drugs that made him numb. The only upside that he saw was that, when on the drugs, he was emotionless. He didn’t feel. It was a new kind of fighting. Why fight a war when you’re bleeding, when you could fight it without a wound?

He kept on the drugs, and to the therapy, but nothing was changing. But he spent more time with Patrick. That made it all a bit better.

“What movie do you want to watch?” Pete asked. They were in his old bedroom. It hadn’t changed much since he moved out. It still had a small bed in it, some dumb posters that he didn’t take down were still on the wall, and the old TV was still on the stand.

“I dunno.” Patrick shrugged, “Whatever movie you touch first.”

“Well, in that case, it’s Aladdin.” Pete said, holding up the disney movie. Patrick laughed, while Pete put the disk into the player.

They both sat on the small bed, leaning into each other, not only so they wouldn’t fall off, but because they had grown closer. Not in a friend way, no they were as close as they could be like that, but more in a romantic way. They weren’t dating, per say, they were both lonely, Patrick hadn’t dated anyone since high school, and Pete was in no state to get involved with anyone. So, instead of using their right hands, they decided “Hey! I’m single, you’re single, we find each other attractive on some level, and we can’t get a date to save our lives, so let’s use each other!”

I would be lying if I said that they used each other for sex instead of intimacy, though. Really, both of them could live without sex, they spent more than half of their lives without it, they could last for a few months, what they really wanted was for someone to treat them like they loved them. Patrick wanted someone to treat him like he was pretty and delicate, and that just so happens to be how Pete treated him. Pete wanted to be treated like he was strong, someone who wouldn’t break under pressure, and Patrick treated him like that.

So they made this “arrangement” of sorts. They loved each other, sure, but they weren’t in love with each other.

Pete had told all of this to his therapist, who was sceptical about it. He claimed that it probably wasn’t good for him, to which Pete claimed that he didn’t give fuck.

They giggled at the animated movie that was playing, both singing along to the songs. Patrick’s head was on Pete’s shoulder, and Pete’s head was ontop of Patrick’s. It would have been a cute moment, if Pete’s phone didn’t buzz, reminding him that it was time for him to take his pills. He sighed, and reached over to the bedside table, grabbing the sheet of pills. He popped two of the white pills out, and looked at them in the palm in his hand for a minute, before swallowing them dry. He had gotten pretty good at it since his teenage years, where he would sputter and choke is he even tried to do it.

“That sounds horrible.” Patrick said, shuttering and the sound of the little white pills going down his throat.

“It is horrible.” Pete replied, turning back to the movie. Patrick rolled his eyes, but leaned up and kissed his cheek. Then returned his head to his shoulder. He couldn’t see it from where he was sitting, but Pete smiled a little bit.

It might not be perfect, but he could live like this. Pete smile grew a little bit more, maybe Pete the Fighter would be coming back soon.