Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Guilt is the worst feeling.

Chapter 25 – The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage

by nicaluvsfobpatdnmcr 3 Reviews

Brendon feels guilty, hence the name of the fic people, just like Ryan did before. Oh Noes!

Category: Panic! At The Disco - Rating: G - Genres:  - Characters:  - Published: 2008/09/23 - Updated: 2008/09/23 - 604 words

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Chapter 25 – The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage


Brendon’s POV

He’ll hate me. I booked this holiday to show him how much I love him and now this. I could’ve killed him. He might… die… because of me. I pushed him. This was no accident, it was a chain of events, starting with me. Why didn’t I save him? I'm a coward. I deserve to die not him. I deserve to… no. I will die. I’ll save him from me.

Normal POV

Having made his decision, Brendon got up ad left the hospital. He walked purposefully towards the shop he had been at earlier, knowing full well he couldn’t cut himself like Ryan, or shoot himself (where would he get a gun?) he bought 5 bottles of vodka. The cowards way out. He would drink till he couldn’t feel.
Walking along the road, he realised he couldn’t do it without saying goodbye to Ryan. He went in and sat in the chair next to the bed.
“Ry, I love you. I'm so sorry I did this to you. You don’t deserve it and I don’t deserve you, so…” he choked, tears spilling down his face. “You should go and find someone who’ll love you and wont hurt you like I do. Goodbye.” He kissed Ryan then sat back down and opened the first bottle. Brendon gulped the vodka down like it was water, disregarding the burn in his throat, not taking a breath.
Soon, the first and second bottles were finished; lying discarded on the floor. The third and fourth soon followed, the fifth half empty in Brendon’s hand, draped over the arm of the chair. The bottle dropped and smashed on the floor, sending shards of glass bouncing, but Brendon was too far gone to notice.

Five minutes

Ten minutes

Twenty minutes

One hour


Ryan’s eyes flickered open, closed, then opened again. He could see clearly that time.
“Brendon, where am I?” he croaked, his throat sore from the tubes that had been there not long ago. He tried to roll over, but found that it hurt too much. Instead he turned his head over slowly. First he saw Brendon, slumped in the chair, supposedly asleep. Then he saw the bottles.
“Help! Somebody help him please” he tried to scream but it was barely a whisper. Ryan reached over, ignoring the stabbing pain coursing through his body and found the call button.
After an agonising wait, the doorknob turned and a nurse came in.
“Are you…” she started but she was cut off.
“Help him please.” She turned and saw Brendon, then opened the door. “We need a trolley in here please. Suspected alcohol poisoning.” She shouted then went over to the chair. Feeling for a pulse, she shouted “He’s asystolic, get him into resus now!” as more doctors and nurses cam into the room. They lifted Brendon up and put him on the trolley before wheeling him out.
Once again ignoring his pain, Ryan tried to get out of his bed. He failed, instead collapsing in a heap on the floor. Shouting was futile so he dragged himself up to reach the call button again.
Another nurse came in and asked “What’re you doing down there, dear?” before going over to help.
“I need to see him. Please.” Ryan whispered.
“Ok, I’ll see what I can do. Let’s just get you up first.”
She helped him onto the chair before leaving. She returned a while later, with a wheel chair.
“Is he… dead?”
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