What Am I Doing With My Life
Peterick
"Pete?" I called, knocking on the door to his hotel room. He'd been sick all day, and I figured I should check in on him.
He didn't respond, so I continued to pound on the door. "Are you there?"
I heard what sounded like the rustling of papers, and then Pete groaned, "Yeah, I'm here."
"Can I come in?" I asked through the door, my hand hovering over the knob.
I could almost imagine Pete shaking his head. "Nah, it's fine."
I sighed. He was always so against letting anyone help him. "Are you feeling any better at least?"
"Definitely." He said the word so fast, so mindlessly, that I found it hard to believe him.
"You're sure?" I badgered him again. He'd missed the shows scheduled for the past few days, and we'd had to cancel. I was worried about him.
"I said I'm fine, okay?" he said angrily, although it seemed like it was taking a lot of energy.
If I'd thought that something was off before, I was definitely sure of it now. "Please let me in," I practically begged, trying not to let Pete know how worried I was about him.
"Just leave me alone, Patrick," he snapped, and I felt my heart break a little. What didn't he trust me to know?
I started to pace outside of the door. Something was clearly going on. I knew Pete didn't want me to go in, but every fiber of my being was screaming at me that I had to. It finally came down to the fact that I cared about Pete more than my morals.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned the knob on the door to Pete's room. It was an older hotel, so it didn't have the electronic room keys. And since Pete hadn't locked it, it opened easily, squeaking obnoxiously on its hinges.
I started to call out Pete's name again, but it got stuck in my throat when I saw the room around me. The bed was covered in crumpled papers, which had also spilled over the edge of the blanket and onto the floor. I tentatively picked one up, flattening it out so that I could read what was scrawled on it in black marker. 'I can't do this anymore.'
Biting my lip, I set the paper down to pick up another one. They all read along the same lines of self-hatred, although the way they were written seemed like song lyrics. I knew Pete almost as well as I knew myself. And I knew that the last time he'd written like this, I'd had to take him to the hospital.
"I thought I told you not to come in," came a voice from the other room.
I followed the sound into the connecting bathroom, where I found Pete sitting on the ground with his head leaning against the wall. He looked awful, wearing a stained hoodie and with dark bags under his eyes.
"You know me; I can't leave until I know you're okay."
However, glancing around the bathroom floor, it was clear the Pete wasn't okay. Empty pill bottles littered the tiles around him, all of them with prescription labels. I felt sick to my stomach, almost like I was going to pass out. How could he have done this to himself? I'd almost lost him before; I couldn't believe he'd slipped through my fingers again.
Pete chuckled weakly at my worried expression. "Don't worry, I puked most of them up already."
I knelt down so that I was at eye level with him. I didn't bother to ask him why he'd done it. We'd been friends for a while, and I knew about the darker selection of thoughts that swirled around in his head. Instead, I asked something else that was nagging at me. "Why didn't you come to me for help?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, looking at his feet. I hated that he thought he was alone in this, that I couldn't help him.
I sighed, sliding down against the wall to sit next to him. We sat there in silence, me counting every single one of his breaths to make sure he was still alive.
There was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg him never to do it again. But none of those things would make a difference. So I resigned myself to sitting quietly, reminding myself over and over again that he was okay, that he was alive.
After a moment, I felt Pete lay his head on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking up at me. I raised my eyebrows, and he shrugged slightly. I leaned my head so that it was resting on top of his, hearing him exhale softly.
"I love you, Patrick," he said quietly after a moment.
"I love you too, Pete," I replied, the corners of my mouth twitching. "I love you too."
He didn't respond, so I continued to pound on the door. "Are you there?"
I heard what sounded like the rustling of papers, and then Pete groaned, "Yeah, I'm here."
"Can I come in?" I asked through the door, my hand hovering over the knob.
I could almost imagine Pete shaking his head. "Nah, it's fine."
I sighed. He was always so against letting anyone help him. "Are you feeling any better at least?"
"Definitely." He said the word so fast, so mindlessly, that I found it hard to believe him.
"You're sure?" I badgered him again. He'd missed the shows scheduled for the past few days, and we'd had to cancel. I was worried about him.
"I said I'm fine, okay?" he said angrily, although it seemed like it was taking a lot of energy.
If I'd thought that something was off before, I was definitely sure of it now. "Please let me in," I practically begged, trying not to let Pete know how worried I was about him.
"Just leave me alone, Patrick," he snapped, and I felt my heart break a little. What didn't he trust me to know?
I started to pace outside of the door. Something was clearly going on. I knew Pete didn't want me to go in, but every fiber of my being was screaming at me that I had to. It finally came down to the fact that I cared about Pete more than my morals.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned the knob on the door to Pete's room. It was an older hotel, so it didn't have the electronic room keys. And since Pete hadn't locked it, it opened easily, squeaking obnoxiously on its hinges.
I started to call out Pete's name again, but it got stuck in my throat when I saw the room around me. The bed was covered in crumpled papers, which had also spilled over the edge of the blanket and onto the floor. I tentatively picked one up, flattening it out so that I could read what was scrawled on it in black marker. 'I can't do this anymore.'
Biting my lip, I set the paper down to pick up another one. They all read along the same lines of self-hatred, although the way they were written seemed like song lyrics. I knew Pete almost as well as I knew myself. And I knew that the last time he'd written like this, I'd had to take him to the hospital.
"I thought I told you not to come in," came a voice from the other room.
I followed the sound into the connecting bathroom, where I found Pete sitting on the ground with his head leaning against the wall. He looked awful, wearing a stained hoodie and with dark bags under his eyes.
"You know me; I can't leave until I know you're okay."
However, glancing around the bathroom floor, it was clear the Pete wasn't okay. Empty pill bottles littered the tiles around him, all of them with prescription labels. I felt sick to my stomach, almost like I was going to pass out. How could he have done this to himself? I'd almost lost him before; I couldn't believe he'd slipped through my fingers again.
Pete chuckled weakly at my worried expression. "Don't worry, I puked most of them up already."
I knelt down so that I was at eye level with him. I didn't bother to ask him why he'd done it. We'd been friends for a while, and I knew about the darker selection of thoughts that swirled around in his head. Instead, I asked something else that was nagging at me. "Why didn't you come to me for help?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, looking at his feet. I hated that he thought he was alone in this, that I couldn't help him.
I sighed, sliding down against the wall to sit next to him. We sat there in silence, me counting every single one of his breaths to make sure he was still alive.
There was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg him never to do it again. But none of those things would make a difference. So I resigned myself to sitting quietly, reminding myself over and over again that he was okay, that he was alive.
After a moment, I felt Pete lay his head on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking up at me. I raised my eyebrows, and he shrugged slightly. I leaned my head so that it was resting on top of his, hearing him exhale softly.
"I love you, Patrick," he said quietly after a moment.
"I love you too, Pete," I replied, the corners of my mouth twitching. "I love you too."