i'm so f'in tired. bah
"Your brother should be here any minute," Greta's voice interrupted Patrick's thoughts, grabbing his hand and intertwining her fingers with his. He nodded his head and used his other hand to pick at the fibers of the couch as they waited in a private sitting room at the hospital.
Andy, Joe and Pete were sitting in various chairs, either watching the T.V. or pretending to. Joe was starting to doze off, and Andy was nervously drumming against his thighs to keep himself awake while he kept his eyes glued to TBS. Pete was leaning back against a chair, with his legs pulled up to his chest and his chin on his knees.
Greta shifted in her seat and used the opportunity to rest her head on Patrick's shoulder, but decided against it, as the primary scent of vomit and sweat took residence at that particular spot as well.
"It's been four fucking hours and all she's doing is sleeping. They should just let me go in there so I can at least be there when she wakes up. This is ridiculous," He whispered, his voice so hoarse that it was hardly recognizable.
The door opened and Patrick stood up expectantly, but sighed with disappointment when he saw Kevin. He slumped back down into his seat as Kevin took a seat next to him.
Kevin looked past Patrick at Greta and jutted his hand out to her. "I'm Kevin," He muttered, and she took his hand graciously.
"Greta," She replied, letting her hand fall out Kevin's and back to comfort Patrick.
"Um, ugh, well...I'm sorry we couldn't have met under different circumstances," Greta stuttered. Kevin gave her a half smile before muttering "Me too,"
She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, standing up to stretch out her body. "I'm going to go grab something to eat. I think I saw a 'Einstein Brothers' up the road," She said, looking down at Patrick.
"I'm coming too," Joe said, getting up to stretch as well.
"Do you want me to bring you back anything?"
"No," He replied simply. She gave him a reassured smile and leaned down, grabbing his chin to place a soft kiss on his lips.
"I'll grab you some soup," She told him, letting her fingers linger on his face. He nodded his head and with that her and Joe left the room.
The room was silent except for the voices coming from the television. Patrick continued to pick at the couch as Kevin watched him.
"She's going to be okay," Kevin reassured his younger brother, placing a protective arm around his shoulder.
"I want to see her," Patrick said, his voice finally reaching a tone above a whisper. He turned his head to look at Kevin.
"She's sleeping right now, Patrick. It's probably best that we don't try-"
"She's going to wake up and be alone. That's probably not for the best," He said bitterly, standing up and looking down at Kevin. Kevin weighed his options, but ultimately lost the battle against Patrick's gaze. He himself had not yet been in to see her, but that was mainly for selfish reasons. His guilt had been tugging at his heart strings over the duration of the four hour flight from Chicago to L.A. He tried convincing himself it wasn't his fault, but he knew better. This wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for him.
Patrick pulled the door open and walked further into the hallway. He stopped when he realized he had no idea what room she was in. Kevin was quickly behind him, guiding him down the hall.
Kevin pointed to a room with an open door, and they both stopped at the entrance. Patrick took a deep breath before entering. He felt like someone had put lead in his shoes as his feet heavily shuffled closer to the bed.
The sterile blankets were draped over her body, resting at her chest, and her arms were over the blankets, laying stiffly at her sides. The monitors in the room were confirming the macabrely ambiance.
Kevin put his arm around Patricks shoulder as they looked down at her, wanting to close their eyes against the sight, but both were too preoccupied with worry to actually tear their eyes away.
All color was drained from her face, making it look as though she had been suffering from severe agoraphobia and hadn't seen the sun in a month. The most evident proof of the torment she's been through came in the form of a raw cut on her lip. Patrick looked over it and cringed.
He brought his hand down to hers and held on to it, rubbing his thumb soothingly over her palm until he felt a rough patch of skin and let his eyes trail to the scabs that had formed on her wrists. He took deep breaths to control his emotions, but that one part of her body had confirmed everything he feared. It had actually happened, and it wasn't a dream.
He closed his eyes and sat back in the chair, his hand still on hers, but very gently, as if he were trying to comfort a cactus, and any amount of pressure he released onto it would cause him pain.
He was willing her to open her eyes. He wanted her to feel okay, he wanted to tell her everything would be fine.
He scooted the chair closer to the bed and rested his tired head against the mattress. Kevin grabbed the remote that was attached to the bed and turned the television on, looking for some sort of distraction.
He settled on The History Channel, keeping his eyes glued to the screen as he took a seat on the other side of the bed and slumped in his chair to get more comfortable.
"I didn't mean for everything to happen this way. I didn't think I wanted revenge until I saw you. You were perfect, Anabelle. Your smile, your life. But it's all a lie, isn't it?" His deep voice was surrounding her.
"You are like a fucking disease that infects everyone you come in contact with. No one can be happy with their lives because they all think of you first. You are a selfish person, Belle. I'm just trying to make you a better person,"
"Please stop," She uttered through her tears.
"Not until you fully understand,"
Her dark grey eyes opened, causing her body to jut into an upright position her lungs immediately gasping to be re-filled with oxygen.
Patrick shot up suddenly, tightening his grip on her hand as he stood to move closer to her.
She looked down at herself, examining her arms and hands, and lifted the blanket to look at her body. Kevin was now standing over her and Patrick was trying to comfort her with his words.
She gazed around the room with a confused expression on her face until she felt the bed shift and looked over to Patrick for a quick second before he gathered her into his arms. Her limbs remained stagnant as he rubbed her back, squeezing her tighter with every second.
He pulled back to look at her profile as her eyes met his. She could see his lips moving, but the sound coming out of them was incomprehensible to her.
She pulled back from him to look at herself again and he seemed taken back by her wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at her action and his mouth began to move again as he held her at arms length.
"I don't want to be here," She interrupted with whisper, suddenly noticing the IV and monitors she was connected to. She pulled the clasp on her finger and threw it carelessly on the bed. She examined the I.V. coming out of the top of her hand and went to reach for it.
"Don't do that," Kevin said cautiously, stopping her hand by grabbing it.
Her eyes turned to him in fury, making him back down from her and drop her hand. He stumbled back a bit when her caustic stare seemed to burn holes into him.
She turned her attention back to her hand and pealed the tape back slowly, Patrick watching her in shock and Kevin being to timid to say anything more to her. The monitor was beeping loudly in the background do to the fact that it wasn't recording a pulse from the detector's place on the bed.
She winced as she pulled the needle out and applied pressure to the small wound with a corner of the white sheet. When she was satisfied with that she pulled the blanket away and shimmied her legs to the side of the bed to sit up.
Patrick finally snapped out of his shock and reached for her shoulder. She moved from his touch as if it would brand her skin and she narrowed her eyes at him.
He kept her gaze and tried to soften his features, but a dumbfounded look was preoccupying it.
"I don't want to be here," She said firmly as he looked at her like she was a perfect stranger.
And for all given purposes, she was...
This fucking journal. These fucking words.
I'm half tempted to continue to write the above a million times in effort to prove everyone's suspicions true.
I'm fucking nuts.
How do I move on? How do I forget about everything and carry on with my life? I need that answer more than I need oxygen. Think about it.
For the better part of three weeks I have seen two separate psychiatrists, one of whom I see three times a week now. ..three times a little obsessive. I also have a psychologist, who pretty much does the same thing as the psychiatrist except he can't prescribe me anything, which is probably good because if I took anymore drugs my brain would probably spontaneously combust.
Apparently I have anxiety but not depression. Dr. whats-his-face told me I have every reason to feel sad, therefore it's not depression. I'm not quite sure how that works...maybe he was giving me the "okay" to feel like shit.
So the Xanax gets me through the day and god knows I don't need help sleeping. Sleep is the only thing regular in my life. This medication makes me elated and then tired, and then reclusive... my moods are pretty much scheduled.
Everyone walks on egg shells around me, and Patrick actually asked my psychiatrist to up my dose of medication, I'm sure claiming that I have been "overly agitated". At least that's the term he used to explain me to Greta, so I assume he's not clever enough to come up with more than one.
Pete and Joe just got back from Chicago from some kind of grand opening or something. I haven't really talked to either of them; for some reason I can't seem to be civil. Joe and his fucking video games put my nerves on edge. If he didn't feel the need to scream at the television after every level I think I could have managed, but watching him wiggle around while screaming profanities at his "dark elf shadownight" is not tolerable.
Before they left for Chicago Pete tried to comfort me with his half-witted humor and bad analogies. He tried comparing my situation to a disney movie... and let's just say I have a really good aim with a spoon... right in his eye.
I laughed but he didn't find it nearly as humorous. I think his exact words were "you are a viscous bitch", but quickly bit his tongue before apologizing. I told him there was no need to apologize because I had absolutely no intention to say sorry for the names I call him in my head. I think that may have prompted his quick flight out.
Andy has been really good with me through this. That man is amazing at comforting, because he doesn't push and he really doesn't talk. Maybe he's just scared of me too, and that satisfies me.
Patrick, on the other hand, hasn't left my side since I got out of the hospital. He drives me to see my doctors and sits in the waiting room until I'm done. He is beginning to drive me insane with his questioning. Every time I see him it just makes me feel guilty, which leads to me telling him to get a life and him telling me he's sorry. You could say I'm trying to push him away...and you'd be right.
I don't need a babysitter. I don't need someone to care about me. I need to get over myself.
Right now I'm at the studio because Patrick won't leave me at Pete's by myself. I've pretty much spent more time on this couch than I have in bed, which really says a lot about my predicament, because I sleep a lot. I've actually worn in a spot on this couch.
Belle picked her pen up off of the page and scanned her eyes over the words before using the pen to scribble over the inked page. This was a habit for her; writing and scribbling it out. She closed the notebook and placed it in her messenger bag before grabbing her water and her pills, popping two and letting them glide to her stomach.
She grabbed her phone and began to search through the lists of names. Feeling rather nostalgic she highlighted David's name. She walked into the hallway, hitting the "Call" button once she shut the door behind her.
"Hello darling, how are you feeling?" He asked. She sighed and took a seat on the window ledge.
"I'm bored out of my mind and I want my life back. How are you?"
"I am feeling rather excitable. Less than a month until it hits theaters, Belle," He told her, as if he was reminding her.
"With the press all over my accident I'm sure we'll have a rather large debut," She said with a sigh.
"Ha, well, don't you worry your pretty little head off Doll,"
"I'm beyond worrying, David," She said, glancing out of the window and closing her eyes against the sun.
"We need to get you an agent to sort all of this out," He breathed out quickly, almost as if he were afraid to bring it up.
"You're always the businessman, aren't you David?" She asked, pulling her eyes away from the window and seeing spots. She blinked them away and rubbed her eyes with her free hand.
"Well, I worry about your career, Belle. You have talent, and I'd hate to see you not use it," He said honestly.
"This paranoia is going to make finding another agent almost impossible," She replied, breathing out slowly.
"We just have to have faith," David said optimistically.
"It's going to take more than faith. It's going to take a miracle,"
"I really don't want to have to beg you, Elise. You have history with her, and she'll probably appreciate you being back in her life again. It would be an easy-"
"Are you fucking serious?? Okay, let me start out by saying this "history" we shared is barely memorable, and is based strictly on a almost non-existent decade of my early years,"
"Now you are just being dramatic. I thought it was 13 years? And you've already told me about how your parents used to go golfing and make cookies and shit," Her blonde friend countered. The brunette let her green eyes roll sarcastically and took a seat with a "humph".
"This isn't going to be easy. Trust me, Anabelle has more emotional baggage than Michael Jackson and Nichole Richie combined!" The brown-haired girl exclaimed, taking a deep breath and crossing one stubby leg over the other. She twirled a loose strand of her auburn hair in between her fingers.
"That is beside the point. She's in need of a agent. Now, I want this account, and I want it bad. Couldn't you just put away whatever little grudge you have against her for /us/, Elise. We've worked really hard to get where we are-"
"Hard? C'mon, you know this pretty much fell into our laps," The brunette countered, before grabbing her shoulder-length mess and pulling it up away from her neck to rest on the couch. She dug in her purse to find a rubber band, but got sidetracked. She smiled triumphantly when she found an unopened box of cigarettes and began to pack them against her palm.
"Please don't make me beg..." The blonde began.
"I really don't want to do this..." Elise repeated, unwrapping the cellophane and opening the box to pull out the cigarette.
"Will you if I pout?" Allison asked, poking her bottom lip out and blinking her eyes innocently.
"No, I'll eventually just hit you if you continue to pout," The brunette replied, laughing when her friend sucked her bottom lip back into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. Elise placed her cigarette between her lips and continued to dig threw her purse.
"I'll give you whatever you want," Allison bargained, reaching over to her desk and producing a lighter, throwing it to her friend. Elise let it drop to the couch before picking it up.
"Anything?" She asked, lighting the stick and taking a rather big drag.
"You know I've had my eye on your "Damn the Torpedoes" vinyl for quite some time..." Elise replied, shoving the lighter into her purse absentmindedly.
With a deep sigh the tall blond looked over to her friend. Elise was raising her eyebrows with a look that dared her to dismiss this request. Allison took a deep breath before eyeing her stubborn friend.
"You are a stubborn bitch, you know that?"
"I'm fully aware," Elise replied, letting the smoke bellow out with her words.
Author's Note: any rants/raves or just plain "what the fuck"s?