FicWad

[A/N hooray. I have a ney keyboard, aaand I got up a new chapter. I'm not too pleased with this one, something just seems to be off, but I'm not quite sure what it is. If anyone can spot it, please do let me know. Reviews are love, complients and cosntructive crits even more [: credit to Robert Frost for the title, again]

I can't stop thinking about that guy, Patrick. It's as if he's dug himself a nice big hole in my brain, and has started to hibernate, because as had as I try I can't forget about him. He must have super powers, or some odd ability that stops people from forgetting about him. I have to admit, he really is unforgettable. It might just be another one of his amazing personality traits though.

I've met this guy once. Once. I've spoken to him twice. That's two times, and the second time he hardly spoke anyway. And yet he has this weird effect on me. For some odd reason, I'm almost begging him to call me again. I don't want to call him, that'd be like intruding on him, and he probably wants to forget about me anyway. but still. He's the kind of person I can't help but open up to. Screw this damn book, he's done more for me in five minutes than Joe and his silly notebook has done in .. well, ages. I can' really remember the date. Okay, so he's helped me, I guess.. I can't help but favour Patrick though. Don't kill me.

I woke up ten minutes ago. It's already gone lunch, and I'm starving, but can't work up the energy to do anything but sit beside the phone, pick at a random strand of material in my top, and scribble this shit down. I feel silly, it's as if I'm talking to someone, but I'm not really, it's just a notebook right? It can't suddenly jump up and start telling me how to lead my life, and not watch the foundations of my little world crumble under this great weight. I can already see the inhabitants of Wentzville ( hey, that’s not such a bad name. I should name a house or something after that)running away screaming, rebelling against their fuck up of a leader, and planning dark plots to assassinate me in the night.

I think I'm going crazy.

It wouldn't surprise me to be honest. I've always thought crazy people were slightly intriguing, it's as if their minds are wired differently from all us boring sane people. They think differently to us, it's as if their world is just a load of grey blotches compared to the way most of us always view our world in plain black and white.

I'm sure Patrick's world is completely grey. He's that type of person. Sane, but able to think like insane people. I think that's just slightly amazing.

I'm glaring at my phone. I’ve taken to holding grudges against an inanimate object because it won't ring. It just stays there, in the silent of my shadowed room, almost mocking me because the one person I want more than anything to ring is trying hard to forget about me.

Oh fuck the phones ringing. Should I answer it? It probably isn’t Patrick anyway. I doubt it would be. I mean, but maybe he actually does want to talk to me? Maybe I'm not that much of a failure. TThough it’s probably just Joe. You know, he never stops calling me, I’ve been praying his credit runs out for weeks now, but it never does, if it ever did he'd top it up straight away. I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m not that bad off am I?

Oh. The phone stopped ringing. What if it was Patrick? He'd think I was blatantly ignoring him, wouldn't he? He’s never going to call again now. I could always ring up the operator, and call whoever it was back, but if it wasn't Patrick I know I'm going to be bitterly disappointed. People call me unpredictable, but I'm not really. You just need to think outside the box.

There are stains on my pillow. I've only just realized that. I’m not sure exactly what they are. I must’ve spilt something on them, but I should really change the pillowcases. It looks like water or something anyway, though not a shockingly big stain either, barely the size of my nails. It can wait.

I'm starting to wonder whether I'm schizophrenic. I keep contradicting myself. either that, or I just don't having any confidence in what I'm saying nowadays.

Oh look. The phone’s ringing again. This time I pick it up before it can ring for a second time, and tap the answer button almost immediately, nearly tapping five others buttons with it at the same time. When I answer, my heart sinks when I hear Joe’s voice. Oh God, what does he want now? There's someone else with him as well. I wonder who it could be, I can’t make out the voice, just the sound of the most amazing laughter I’ve ever heard, It almost makes me want to laugh along with him, or her. Almost. My voice is sill ridiculously quiet when I answer; it's like all the life has been sucked out of it. I'd be embarrassed, but I'm rarely embarrassed by anything I do these days. I guess I'm just used to it.

Joe greets me, before saying seven words that, if I was anyone else, would have me doing one of those weird victory dances I used to do with Andy, or you know, just basically screaming at the top of my lungs. But, of course, I'm me, so when Joe says "You want to come round? Patrick's here" all I can do is nod, almost frantically, until I realize something. Joe can't see me. I'm such a dipshit.

After agreeing, and hopefully not sounding too desperate, I put down the phone. I need to wear something, other than what I'm wearing. I rummage through my closet, and halfway through doing that, I suddenly give up, and sink back onto my bed. What was I thinking? I just can't go to Joe's house, and pretend everything is normal. This is most probably one of the worst things I've ever agreed to do. I need to think up an excuse. Any excuse, which will get me out of doing this. No matter how badly I want to see Patrick, no matter how badly I just want to see his perfect face, and hear his perfect voice ( or that amazing laughter, only he could have such a weird laugh and still have it classified as perfect)

Maybe if I just don't turn up, they'll just forget about it?

I wonder what Patrick was laughing about. I want to make him laugh like that. Fuck, I want to actually laugh for once, or make somebody else laugh. I want to feel normal, whatever normal is. I want to feel like everyone else does, sure they have their lows, but my life just seems to be one goddamn low, and Patrick seems to be the only high in the fucking world. (I've come to the conclusion I swear too much. I should put a sign outside my house, saying my house is rated PG 13. Though people will probably just think I hate kids)

It's as if I'm in this hole, in the ground. Everything I do, just makes me dig deeper into my own grave, and one day I'm scared I'll have dug too far, and I won't be able to get out. I'm scared I'm going to die like this, alone and lonely and depressed, and no-one will come to my funeral, because I won't know anyone anymore, they'll have all gone on without me, lead their own great lives, and forgot all about that fuck up who once played, even a very small part in their lives.

I don't want to be forgotten about. I don't want people to go "eh? Who is Pete Wentz?" when they get the sad letter telling them I've died. I don't want my parents to think I just wasted my whole life away, or anyone else for that matter, because they hadn't a clue what I was doing all my life. I want to get out of this dank, depressing place, and go and have fun with Joe and Patrick, and pretend for just an hour that everything's normal, that this is just someone else's life, and I'm just an onlooker.

I think I've figured out one thing I'm actually good at. Walking, and managing to write at the same time. How sad is that? The only reason I actually know this, is because whilst I was writing all that, I managed to get myself up on the roof of my house. The roofs slanted, but I've managed to find a place where I won't go sliding down to my death. I'm looking down at all these people, and wondering how amazing their lives are. I'm wondering whether anyone that passes by, will look up, and see me, and go away, and talk about this weird strange boy up on the roof of his house. Or am I just being paranoid? I don't know anymore.

I wonder what would happen if I did fall to my death. Would anyone feel remorseful, or guilty that I died, would they ever think "oh, I could've actually helped him a bit more." or would they just give the bearer of bad news a quizzical look, a shrug of their shoulders, and walk away, thinking "who?"

I've just realized I keep repeating myself. I must have a really shitty memory or something, another one of the many things I'm bad at. I should write a book, like "what not to be like" and simply describe myself. It could be a bestseller, it could make me famous. Though, I doubt it would, it'd just make other people feel better, and they'd read the goddamn book and think "wow, at least I'm not like him."

I think somebody noticed me. They're yelling up at me, but I can't hear them, their voice isn't very loud, the wind's carrying it away. I squint down, trying to work out just who it is. It's a boy, I know that much, wearing a trucker hat, and glasses, with strawberry blonde hair sticking out of the hat. For a moment I foolishly think Patrick has a twin, whose jeering and catcalling up at me. Obviously he isn't as nice as Patrick.

Then it hits me. Patrick doesn't have a twin. That is Patrick. Bloody hell. I'm so thick.

I still can't hear him though. He's yelling even louder but all I can hear is my name. I like the way he says my name. It resounds in my head, an echo, his beautiful voice filing every fibre of my body. Shuffling further down the roof, to get closer to him, I lean down slightly, still trying to hear what he s



I fell. I can't believe it. I fucking fell, and managed to catch hold of the drainpipe, but for a moment there I thought I was going to fucking die. My whole life flashed before my eyes. Okay, it didn't really; it's just the kind of thing that needed to be said, right? But, I was hanging there, swinging slightly, almost like Tarzan.

And then Patrick told me to drop. I wanted to look at him, give him one of those are-you-nuts looks, but I couldn't swing my head round far enough, so I just shook my head. Did he want me to die? I mean, maybe I would drop, but I'm too much of a coward, I feel so unbelievably stupid now. In the end though, I was kind of losing my grip anyway, so I let go, and he caught me.

It would have been the perfect climax in any movie, though I would obviously be a girl. My Mum always used to say I had too many girly tendencies to be a boy. And Patrick would obviously be tall and muscular, and not wear glasses, because movie makers are usually really shallow like that. I still think Patrick’s perfect though.

Patrick came back inside my house with me, I don't think he trusts me to be on my own, because he asked me if he could stay round tonight. I gave him the same look I was trying to give him earlier, but he was so persistent I caved, it's not that hard. My house is a total shithole, it smells of alcohol and gone off food and fags, but I've got immune to the smell. I don't think Patrick ever will, he looks like one of those weird girls about to give the house a total makeover. This was a bad idea.

I showed him to the cleanest room in the house, which surprisingly, was my bedroom. It's almost pristine, I hardly ever go in there except to sleep, the few times I can, and write. He looks shocked at the overall cleanliness of the room, it's almost funny. I guess I'm going to be sleeping on the couch tonight, but I don't mind. If it was anyone else, then possibly I might. But not Patrick.

pete x

It's midnight now. The couch is all lumpy, and it's too thin, and every time I try to get comfortable, I fall off. There's too much shit on the floor, I can never manage to roll off into a clean space, I always have to hit something. I feel like a robot though, none of it hurts me, and when I finally gave up on sleep and went to get a drink, I didn't make a single sound - though it wouldn't have mattered, I've come to the conclusion that Patrick's a heavy sleeper. It's almost scaring me, my roboticness (is that even a word? it is now) in the end I filled a bucket with ice and pushed my hands into it until the ice melted. My hands are frozen now, I can barely write, but it's all I ever seem to do these days, it's my only sanctuary from reality. I hate reality.

The only problem is, I don't know what to write anymore. Basically all I'm doing in this is recording what the fuck I do all day, and try to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I know no-one is ever going to read this, but it just seems pointless, especially seeing as it's all I do nowadays. I want to write something meaningful, so when I die people will find this notebook, and read what I've written, and think "oh, wow, maybe he wasn't such a waste of space after all"

I guess that's all I'm here for though. Talking is just a waste of breath you know, and most probably, living is just a waste of death.

pete x