Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Black Lines To Battlefields
Chapter: 016
4 ReviewsGolden - Fall Out Boy
Patrick kept sprinting away from Tabatha and Joe and Aubrey, farther away until his lungs couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed to his knees, exhausted. Tears pouring down his cheeks.
He just ran away from his chance of survival. His only way home. His only family left in this world.
He shook his head.
Aubrey was dead.
Tabatha was no family to him anymore.
No, those who will rather choose water over blood, love for one over the love of all, those who are selfish, twisted, evil...
Those people were not in his family.
His family was dead. All dead.
He had no cousins, no mother or father. No brothers or sister. No love. No anything. Not anyone. He was alone in this world. This is where he belonged. Roaming these empty streets, letting this sick world devour him into its soul.
This is where he belonged.
With the rats, amongst the dying, in the streets.
Just like a homeless bum, just like a orphan, or some fucked up refugee in the middle of some god-forsaken country. This is where he belonged.
In a place where family and friends don’t exist, where happiness was light years away, in some non-existent universe, sucked into a black hole, never to be seen or heard from again.
Because where is the light in this world? Not in the souls of its people. Not in the back of the minds of family and friends.
No.
There’s no loyalty out here.
Hours ago, he had a family. A dysfunctional, splitting family. But none the less, a family. One who escaped the fire and fell headfirst into the frying pan from hell.
But once freedom touched their lips, where were they now?
Split into the groups that they all knew they would eventually. It was obvious where true loyal lies. Where true love and faith and trust was given.
Not to him, not to Patrick. Of course not.
Who would ever love Patrick?
No one. Because no one sees him, because he chose to be invisible. He chose his destiny. His faith. His love. His passion.
To walk these streets alone. To dream the death of himself. To fall into the streets and sob. To give away his family for the sake of the city.
To die in this unnamed city amongst the sullen and silent buildings. The decaying scene, the decadence, the fear, the pain, the suffering.
He traded the hell of his family, for the hell of the streets.
The only thing he’s ever known.
Always the outsider, always the loner. Forever silent. Forever still.
Very submissive, never outspoken. Never getting on anyone’s bad side.
And that’s how he would die.
Patrick looked up at the overcast sky, clouds thick and heavy like heaven was about to drop its waste upon him. Not it’s tears.
No one ever gives him sympathy. Just pity. Just pain.
Patrick looked up and glared, his hurt eyes filled with anger.
At that moment, he decided. He would give himself the sympathy he deserved. He would give in to the one thing he truly deserved.
At that moment, in the back of his mind, in the depths of his soul, he knew he would die today.
Heaven dropped open and the angels spat down upon him as the rain pounded his face. He closed his eyes, breathing in the heavy droplets that burned his nose and throat. Pain.
He coughed and dropped his head and fell to his knees, choking. Choking—on the rain of nature, the spit of angels, the tears of his heart, the raging white water rapids of his life, and the drastic waterfall of his death.
He choked and sobbed, pressing his face to the cracked pavement, his hands curling and unfurling in and out of fist. The more his tears mixed with the rain, the deeper his heart felt connected to this place and less to his family, less to earthly ties, less to the morals and emotions that he should be feeling.
Less to reason. Giving up and giving in.
The rise and fall of Patrick Stump.
The rain grew harder and heavier, water began to fill the streets, even though it pouring into the storm drains, into the sewers. His hands and knees soaked in a puddle that continued.
Grabbing hold of his last bit of strength, he pulled himself off the ground. Only then did he notice how fragile he was. The loss of muscle and general stamina, he could feel his ribs pressing through his chest, his cheekbones standing out prominently as he pressed a bruised hand to his face.
Only then did he notice how truly hideous he was.
Of course, any superficial thoughts at this time were drastically overrated. But he couldn’t shake the feel of complete gruesomeness.
He was a monster inside and out.
Always to be seen as the person who you don't want to know or see. The person who would be better off out of the way, out of the picture, or at least, in the background where no one would see him.
That’s who he was.
That’s who he’d always be. Stuck in this static character, unable to break himself loose of the binds of personality that he was born with.
Second by second, the judging grew worse with each stumbling step, every mumbling word. His sanity was slipping away along with all his reason and all his hope.
Everything was slipping like the raindrops and tears and spit and sweat that trailed down his cheeks. Everything pointed to his demise. Everything.
He opened his mouth wide again as he stumbled through the streets, realizing how thirsty he was. His throat was burning with the need of water, a necessity that he’d long since forgotten about.
Being held hostage and tortured on the daily basis does that too you. One forgets their normal needs, even the most basic and innate. Because when it comes down to it, living one more hour is more important than the next meal.
After inhaling as much water as he could take, while swallowing a sparing amount to get him by, the thoughts of his once was life filled his mind. Suddenly overtaking him so strongly it felt as if the buss itself slammed into him.
The sights, the smells, the taste. But most importantly, the warmth and feelings that surrounded him. The friends that he didn’t have also stood out but was drowned by the red glow of the lights that cast up as the kick drum sounded.
It was painful to think about. To think of ways that his story could’ve been changed. That he could’ve had lots of friends, that he could’ve still been in the studio, on tour, playing music, hanging out on the bus, dating, living, breathing.
But no, that’s not who he is here. In this universe, he is someone else. Someone different. Someone…strange. The guy who leaves a bad taste in the mouth of a stranger.
The one people like well enough, but never like enough.
Not enough to love, not enough to stay loyal to, not enough to care for.
No, never.
Not him. Not Patrick.
Patrick paused, stumbling a little and falling, throwing his hand out to break his face, only to crash into water, it splashed over him—not that it made any difference, he was still soaking wet.
“It must’ve been an angel feeling particularly bitchy today, thanks for adding insult to injury.”
Patrick knew he couldn’t stay in the rain for much longer, not when he was starving, tired and cold, an hour more of this and he’d drop dead in the streets. For a second, it almost seemed worth it. But the thought was quickly banished by a large strike of lightning, jagged and dangerous crashing to the ground and shortly after the explosion of thunder. Patrick winced.
Doing his best to cover his head, he got out of the middle of the road and ran along the cracked sidewalks, keeping close to the buildings, trying to find something open. Problem was, he didn’t know where the hell he was. Or if anything was open. He remembered that when the group was all together, all the doors were bolted and heavily locked, nothing getting in or out. Was it the same for this side of town?
If so, why? If not, why not? Too many questions and no one to answer them. Another bonus in being alone.
The floodgates of heaven, in addition to the angels spitting down upon him, seemed to open. Making visibility non-existent. Patrick thrust his hands in front of him, gripping the edges of walls as thunder shook the earth and lightning seemed to rain down from the gods with a fury.
But he pressed on.
White sheets of rain engulfed him and despite his hardest efforts, the wind threw him down.
But it was okay, no one was rooting for him to survive this anyway.
Patrick’s head slammed against the pavement as he was thrown backwards, blood mixed with water, rain, sweat, tears and spit.
But it was okay.
He lied on the ground, coughing and choking as the rain went into his nose and lungs. He tried not to move for a second, trying to keep himself from getting up to fast. The wind howled as he rolled onto his side, coughing more and more, trying to hack out the water in his lungs. Only to no avail.
On his knees, he crawled, like the animal he was. Groveling to the forces of nature, the masters of destiny, to his creators. As he coughed, crawled and cried and screamed.
A sad, sorrowful scream that no one heard.
A scream that no one would listen to even if they had heard it.
A scream that lamented his every emotion, his every fear, pain and worry.
A scream that no one would hear because no one cared to. That no one truly wanted to.
But it was okay.
He continued to crawl cursing above and below for his misfortune. Cursing himself, his family, his life, his choices and regrets.
Rock bottom doesn’t look any darker than this.
Patrick was shaking badly, from what is unknown. It could’ve been fear. It could’ve been sickness, pain, cold, starvation.
Anything.
But it was okay.
He continued to crawl his way through the rain, hands and knees, bearing his own cross. Facing his own fears, persevering with no hope at all.
He lifted his head and saw a jet black awning in the distance. A safe haven from the rain. Patrick continued to crawl and choke, and cry and cough. But now, now, he had a purpose. A goal. A way to escape this pain and tribulation.
A gift from heaven amidst this poison fruit hell.
Sliding on hands and knees, scraping against the concrete, struggling to get to his freedom.
He made it.
It was like breathing a gulp of fresh air after emerging from the raging waters of the ocean. He continued coughing but got himself under control, breathing heavily and deeply. Completely exhausted. Swallowing in hopes to soothe his burning throat, Patrick pressed his head against the door behind him, closing his eyes and reopening them slowly.
Only to see a cross sewn into the awning above him. A chill ran down his spine as he looked up at the cross.
He was unable to tell whether this was a blessing or another curse.
He was saved from the weather but at what expense? What was the downside? Where was the catch?
Patrick wondered about these questions for a minute and let them go, did it even matter anymore what he thought?
No one else thought they did..
But it was okay.
Using the church handle above him as help to stand, Patrick put all his weight against the door, and to his amazement, shock and horror—it did not budge.
Of course this was the expense. Of course this was the downside. Of course this was the catch.
It was an invitation to sit under the awning but I’m not welcome inside.
Pissed off and hurt and all around tired of the bullshit that the world gave him, No was not an answer he would accept.
Pressing down on the handle, Patrick threw his weight against the door, grunting in between each word, “There’s—no—fucking—way—I’m—staying—out—fuck—THAT!”
On the last word, the door tore open, causing dust to fly up and rats to scuttle fearfully across the floor.
Patrick coughed again as he entered the church, despite the smell of musk and old books over powered him, he stepped inside.
He stumbled into a spider web, but quickly knocked it away from his face. Although, the feeling of being wrapped in cobwebs had not left him. He swallowed again, this time, out of fear.
Noticing how bad his hands were shaking when he knocked down the spider web, he quickly peeled off his wet, ripped and dirty clothes, throwing them into a pile on by the door.
Despite being completely exposed, he never felt cleaner in his life. That was the first time he had taken off those clothes since entering the facility and only God knew how long that was ago.
Still shaking, Patrick tore through drawers, throwing papers on the floor in a fury, rampaging the church for anything.
Food, medicine…anything.
The only food left was a half-eaten wafer with a roach lying on top of it and something completely covered in mold.
But starvation does things that a normal person would never think about doing. Starvation causes people to put aside petty societal rules.
Starvation pushes aside all other needs instead of survival.
When Patrick left the drawer, the wafer, roach and the unknown mold item were gone.
Within minutes, he was throwing up on one of the pews.
But it was okay.
No one thinks about Patrick anyway.
Coughing again, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, rubbing the excess on his exposed thigh. No one here to judge.
Only himself.
In the center of the church was the alter with a small box on top, Patrick walked over it slowly and reached inside, pulling out a few sheets and happily drying and wrapping himself it.
In that moment, he knew that that would be the highlight of his life. Sad and pathetic as it may be, the fact that he could shed the clothes of his horrible past, and dress in a white sheet, although his character and soul soiled the nature of it, his body felt secure.
Looking back into the box, there was a small note in scrawled handwriting, tears came into Patrick’s eyes again, this was the first time in God knows how long that he’d seen handwriting.
Human handwriting.
And paper…
It felt strange under his fingertips, what he would give to hold parchment again…
Looking at the paper with shaking fingers, he opened it and read two simple words: God Bless.
Patrick stared at the note and threw in down in a fury and tossed the box across the room.
He stormed away.
But it was okay.
Patrick walked away, tears of pain again in his eyes.
He swallowed deep breaths of air, coughing every so often, a thin mist of dust spreading through the air.
He looked up. A ceiling fan was slowly spinning above him.
Tears poured down his face, his mind closed off from all human interaction. He started tearing through the drawers again, what he was searching for was unknown.
A few minutes passed, dozens of drawers ripped apart, a broken shelf and a closet broken into later, Patrick emerged a fierce look in his eyes.
A look that resembled the one and only PJ Wentz.
Except instead of her fear, he embraced death with a passion.
A Morbid and horrible passion.
Patrick entered the room, rope in hand, closing the inner sanctuary doors.
Another roll of thunder.
Despite Patrick’s repetitive thoughts, it would never be okay.
-------------------------------------------
A black rat scurried across the floor, digging the last bit of a hole that entered the inner sanctuary, giving a final scratch, a hole poked through the other side giving the rat leverage to enter. Once clearing a space large enough, the black rat hissed and entered the room, passing by two feet that hovered above the ground, swaying back an forth.
He just ran away from his chance of survival. His only way home. His only family left in this world.
He shook his head.
Aubrey was dead.
Tabatha was no family to him anymore.
No, those who will rather choose water over blood, love for one over the love of all, those who are selfish, twisted, evil...
Those people were not in his family.
His family was dead. All dead.
He had no cousins, no mother or father. No brothers or sister. No love. No anything. Not anyone. He was alone in this world. This is where he belonged. Roaming these empty streets, letting this sick world devour him into its soul.
This is where he belonged.
With the rats, amongst the dying, in the streets.
Just like a homeless bum, just like a orphan, or some fucked up refugee in the middle of some god-forsaken country. This is where he belonged.
In a place where family and friends don’t exist, where happiness was light years away, in some non-existent universe, sucked into a black hole, never to be seen or heard from again.
Because where is the light in this world? Not in the souls of its people. Not in the back of the minds of family and friends.
No.
There’s no loyalty out here.
Hours ago, he had a family. A dysfunctional, splitting family. But none the less, a family. One who escaped the fire and fell headfirst into the frying pan from hell.
But once freedom touched their lips, where were they now?
Split into the groups that they all knew they would eventually. It was obvious where true loyal lies. Where true love and faith and trust was given.
Not to him, not to Patrick. Of course not.
Who would ever love Patrick?
No one. Because no one sees him, because he chose to be invisible. He chose his destiny. His faith. His love. His passion.
To walk these streets alone. To dream the death of himself. To fall into the streets and sob. To give away his family for the sake of the city.
To die in this unnamed city amongst the sullen and silent buildings. The decaying scene, the decadence, the fear, the pain, the suffering.
He traded the hell of his family, for the hell of the streets.
The only thing he’s ever known.
Always the outsider, always the loner. Forever silent. Forever still.
Very submissive, never outspoken. Never getting on anyone’s bad side.
And that’s how he would die.
Patrick looked up at the overcast sky, clouds thick and heavy like heaven was about to drop its waste upon him. Not it’s tears.
No one ever gives him sympathy. Just pity. Just pain.
Patrick looked up and glared, his hurt eyes filled with anger.
At that moment, he decided. He would give himself the sympathy he deserved. He would give in to the one thing he truly deserved.
At that moment, in the back of his mind, in the depths of his soul, he knew he would die today.
Heaven dropped open and the angels spat down upon him as the rain pounded his face. He closed his eyes, breathing in the heavy droplets that burned his nose and throat. Pain.
He coughed and dropped his head and fell to his knees, choking. Choking—on the rain of nature, the spit of angels, the tears of his heart, the raging white water rapids of his life, and the drastic waterfall of his death.
He choked and sobbed, pressing his face to the cracked pavement, his hands curling and unfurling in and out of fist. The more his tears mixed with the rain, the deeper his heart felt connected to this place and less to his family, less to earthly ties, less to the morals and emotions that he should be feeling.
Less to reason. Giving up and giving in.
The rise and fall of Patrick Stump.
The rain grew harder and heavier, water began to fill the streets, even though it pouring into the storm drains, into the sewers. His hands and knees soaked in a puddle that continued.
Grabbing hold of his last bit of strength, he pulled himself off the ground. Only then did he notice how fragile he was. The loss of muscle and general stamina, he could feel his ribs pressing through his chest, his cheekbones standing out prominently as he pressed a bruised hand to his face.
Only then did he notice how truly hideous he was.
Of course, any superficial thoughts at this time were drastically overrated. But he couldn’t shake the feel of complete gruesomeness.
He was a monster inside and out.
Always to be seen as the person who you don't want to know or see. The person who would be better off out of the way, out of the picture, or at least, in the background where no one would see him.
That’s who he was.
That’s who he’d always be. Stuck in this static character, unable to break himself loose of the binds of personality that he was born with.
Second by second, the judging grew worse with each stumbling step, every mumbling word. His sanity was slipping away along with all his reason and all his hope.
Everything was slipping like the raindrops and tears and spit and sweat that trailed down his cheeks. Everything pointed to his demise. Everything.
He opened his mouth wide again as he stumbled through the streets, realizing how thirsty he was. His throat was burning with the need of water, a necessity that he’d long since forgotten about.
Being held hostage and tortured on the daily basis does that too you. One forgets their normal needs, even the most basic and innate. Because when it comes down to it, living one more hour is more important than the next meal.
After inhaling as much water as he could take, while swallowing a sparing amount to get him by, the thoughts of his once was life filled his mind. Suddenly overtaking him so strongly it felt as if the buss itself slammed into him.
The sights, the smells, the taste. But most importantly, the warmth and feelings that surrounded him. The friends that he didn’t have also stood out but was drowned by the red glow of the lights that cast up as the kick drum sounded.
It was painful to think about. To think of ways that his story could’ve been changed. That he could’ve had lots of friends, that he could’ve still been in the studio, on tour, playing music, hanging out on the bus, dating, living, breathing.
But no, that’s not who he is here. In this universe, he is someone else. Someone different. Someone…strange. The guy who leaves a bad taste in the mouth of a stranger.
The one people like well enough, but never like enough.
Not enough to love, not enough to stay loyal to, not enough to care for.
No, never.
Not him. Not Patrick.
Patrick paused, stumbling a little and falling, throwing his hand out to break his face, only to crash into water, it splashed over him—not that it made any difference, he was still soaking wet.
“It must’ve been an angel feeling particularly bitchy today, thanks for adding insult to injury.”
Patrick knew he couldn’t stay in the rain for much longer, not when he was starving, tired and cold, an hour more of this and he’d drop dead in the streets. For a second, it almost seemed worth it. But the thought was quickly banished by a large strike of lightning, jagged and dangerous crashing to the ground and shortly after the explosion of thunder. Patrick winced.
Doing his best to cover his head, he got out of the middle of the road and ran along the cracked sidewalks, keeping close to the buildings, trying to find something open. Problem was, he didn’t know where the hell he was. Or if anything was open. He remembered that when the group was all together, all the doors were bolted and heavily locked, nothing getting in or out. Was it the same for this side of town?
If so, why? If not, why not? Too many questions and no one to answer them. Another bonus in being alone.
The floodgates of heaven, in addition to the angels spitting down upon him, seemed to open. Making visibility non-existent. Patrick thrust his hands in front of him, gripping the edges of walls as thunder shook the earth and lightning seemed to rain down from the gods with a fury.
But he pressed on.
White sheets of rain engulfed him and despite his hardest efforts, the wind threw him down.
But it was okay, no one was rooting for him to survive this anyway.
Patrick’s head slammed against the pavement as he was thrown backwards, blood mixed with water, rain, sweat, tears and spit.
But it was okay.
He lied on the ground, coughing and choking as the rain went into his nose and lungs. He tried not to move for a second, trying to keep himself from getting up to fast. The wind howled as he rolled onto his side, coughing more and more, trying to hack out the water in his lungs. Only to no avail.
On his knees, he crawled, like the animal he was. Groveling to the forces of nature, the masters of destiny, to his creators. As he coughed, crawled and cried and screamed.
A sad, sorrowful scream that no one heard.
A scream that no one would listen to even if they had heard it.
A scream that lamented his every emotion, his every fear, pain and worry.
A scream that no one would hear because no one cared to. That no one truly wanted to.
But it was okay.
He continued to crawl cursing above and below for his misfortune. Cursing himself, his family, his life, his choices and regrets.
Rock bottom doesn’t look any darker than this.
Patrick was shaking badly, from what is unknown. It could’ve been fear. It could’ve been sickness, pain, cold, starvation.
Anything.
But it was okay.
He continued to crawl his way through the rain, hands and knees, bearing his own cross. Facing his own fears, persevering with no hope at all.
He lifted his head and saw a jet black awning in the distance. A safe haven from the rain. Patrick continued to crawl and choke, and cry and cough. But now, now, he had a purpose. A goal. A way to escape this pain and tribulation.
A gift from heaven amidst this poison fruit hell.
Sliding on hands and knees, scraping against the concrete, struggling to get to his freedom.
He made it.
It was like breathing a gulp of fresh air after emerging from the raging waters of the ocean. He continued coughing but got himself under control, breathing heavily and deeply. Completely exhausted. Swallowing in hopes to soothe his burning throat, Patrick pressed his head against the door behind him, closing his eyes and reopening them slowly.
Only to see a cross sewn into the awning above him. A chill ran down his spine as he looked up at the cross.
He was unable to tell whether this was a blessing or another curse.
He was saved from the weather but at what expense? What was the downside? Where was the catch?
Patrick wondered about these questions for a minute and let them go, did it even matter anymore what he thought?
No one else thought they did..
But it was okay.
Using the church handle above him as help to stand, Patrick put all his weight against the door, and to his amazement, shock and horror—it did not budge.
Of course this was the expense. Of course this was the downside. Of course this was the catch.
It was an invitation to sit under the awning but I’m not welcome inside.
Pissed off and hurt and all around tired of the bullshit that the world gave him, No was not an answer he would accept.
Pressing down on the handle, Patrick threw his weight against the door, grunting in between each word, “There’s—no—fucking—way—I’m—staying—out—fuck—THAT!”
On the last word, the door tore open, causing dust to fly up and rats to scuttle fearfully across the floor.
Patrick coughed again as he entered the church, despite the smell of musk and old books over powered him, he stepped inside.
He stumbled into a spider web, but quickly knocked it away from his face. Although, the feeling of being wrapped in cobwebs had not left him. He swallowed again, this time, out of fear.
Noticing how bad his hands were shaking when he knocked down the spider web, he quickly peeled off his wet, ripped and dirty clothes, throwing them into a pile on by the door.
Despite being completely exposed, he never felt cleaner in his life. That was the first time he had taken off those clothes since entering the facility and only God knew how long that was ago.
Still shaking, Patrick tore through drawers, throwing papers on the floor in a fury, rampaging the church for anything.
Food, medicine…anything.
The only food left was a half-eaten wafer with a roach lying on top of it and something completely covered in mold.
But starvation does things that a normal person would never think about doing. Starvation causes people to put aside petty societal rules.
Starvation pushes aside all other needs instead of survival.
When Patrick left the drawer, the wafer, roach and the unknown mold item were gone.
Within minutes, he was throwing up on one of the pews.
But it was okay.
No one thinks about Patrick anyway.
Coughing again, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, rubbing the excess on his exposed thigh. No one here to judge.
Only himself.
In the center of the church was the alter with a small box on top, Patrick walked over it slowly and reached inside, pulling out a few sheets and happily drying and wrapping himself it.
In that moment, he knew that that would be the highlight of his life. Sad and pathetic as it may be, the fact that he could shed the clothes of his horrible past, and dress in a white sheet, although his character and soul soiled the nature of it, his body felt secure.
Looking back into the box, there was a small note in scrawled handwriting, tears came into Patrick’s eyes again, this was the first time in God knows how long that he’d seen handwriting.
Human handwriting.
And paper…
It felt strange under his fingertips, what he would give to hold parchment again…
Looking at the paper with shaking fingers, he opened it and read two simple words: God Bless.
Patrick stared at the note and threw in down in a fury and tossed the box across the room.
He stormed away.
But it was okay.
Patrick walked away, tears of pain again in his eyes.
He swallowed deep breaths of air, coughing every so often, a thin mist of dust spreading through the air.
He looked up. A ceiling fan was slowly spinning above him.
Tears poured down his face, his mind closed off from all human interaction. He started tearing through the drawers again, what he was searching for was unknown.
A few minutes passed, dozens of drawers ripped apart, a broken shelf and a closet broken into later, Patrick emerged a fierce look in his eyes.
A look that resembled the one and only PJ Wentz.
Except instead of her fear, he embraced death with a passion.
A Morbid and horrible passion.
Patrick entered the room, rope in hand, closing the inner sanctuary doors.
Another roll of thunder.
Despite Patrick’s repetitive thoughts, it would never be okay.
-------------------------------------------
A black rat scurried across the floor, digging the last bit of a hole that entered the inner sanctuary, giving a final scratch, a hole poked through the other side giving the rat leverage to enter. Once clearing a space large enough, the black rat hissed and entered the room, passing by two feet that hovered above the ground, swaying back an forth.
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