FicWad

Patrick jerked his body upward as the ice cold water plundered onto his back and quickly encircled his body, freezing his already shivering body. He instantly fell forward, regretably allowing his face to collide with the hard mattress, forgetting that his left wrist was unable to support his weight. He turned on his side, face scrunched in agony as the night left him aching even more than his cousin did. He made his way to a sitting position and used his good arm to wipe the frigid liquid from his face.

"Patrick, time to get up." His aunt's voice seemed distant as it echoed up the three staircases that seperated the kitchen and his bedroom.

Before Patrick could find his voice and supply an answer to the woman downstairs, he heard the chipper sounds reverberating off his cousin's vocal chords. "Don't worry, Mom. I already got him up."

Patrick leaned over to the cardboard nightstand and put on his shattered glasses, peering up at the broken image of his cousin. Pete stared down at him smiling, swaying slightly from side to side, as though he was a ten year old with a new puppy. Patrick looked back down at his feet and felt a hand shove his head sharply to the side, forcing him to snap down onto the cot, falling onto his broken wrist. He let out a cry of pain, muffled only by the rolling laughs illuminating his cousin's face.

"Get up, Patty-Watty, time to start the day." Pete placed his arms on either side of Patrick and lowered his face centimeters away from his cousin's ear, and whispered, "and if you tell anyone about last night, I swear, I will be your worst nightmare." With that, he turned and skipped to the stairwell, turning only when he arrived at the door frame. "Okay, Pumpkin!"

Patrick laid on his side a moment before rising with difficulty to his feet. He stumpled towards his suitcase and gathered what he would need for a shower. He descended the stairs with excrutiating pain, and locked the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water, shifting the lever to the hottest setting it would manage, and waited for the room to fill with steam before undressing and climbing into the shower. He carefully washed away the dried blood and cleaned the wounds that he accumulated the night before. He allowed his muscles ample time beneath the beating heat that rained over his body, working his joints to breaken the stiffness that was engulfing his limbs. After washing his hair, he turned the water off and grabbed a clean towel, wrapping it around his waist. He had a hard time brushing his teeth as each stroke moved the brush across a busted lip, causing it to reopen and begin to bleed. Patrick wiped his mouth until the blood stopped seeping through the cracks in his lips, and replaced his broken glasses back to his face. He pressed his ear to the door to ensure that no one was in the hallway before unlocking the door and quickly making his way back to the attic. Patrick dressed in a loose t-shirt covered by a long sleeved hoodie, loose enough to fit over his swollen wrist. He removed the make shift cast he had fashioned the night before, and finished his ensamble with a tight fitting pair of jeans, held up by a black studded belt. He pulled a hat on, angling the brim slighlty down and to the left, hiding the cut on his forehead. He reached for his denim jacket, but could not pull it over his wrist without tears running down his face, so he decided that he would brave the winter outside without it. He slipped on an old pair of checkered vans, deciding that laces would be an incomprehensible act without the movement of his fingers. Patrick took one last look in the mirror and sighed before turning and making his way down to breakfast.

"Jesus, Patrick, what the hell did you do to your glasses?"

Patrick looked at his cousin as he sat down at the kitchen table, hoping for an inkling as to how he should answer his uncle's question. Pete seered his eyes through Patrick, and forced him to look down at his plate before providing the farse answer to his uncle.

"I stepped on them last night by accident. I don't have my spare set with me. I must have left them-" Patrick didn't finish his sentence. His words has unknowingly led him to a memory he had no intention of remembering.

"Well now, I can't let you be seen like that. What will people think of us? You are going with me this morning to the eye doctor's and we are getting those glasses fixed. Or better yet, why don't you just pick out new frames, smaller ones, more up to date, not so...Elvis Costello. Okay?"

Patrick just looked at his plate and carefully chose his words. He didn't want to upset his aunt, after all she had taken him in while his father toured. "Thanks. But I couldn't impose you on you. Just new lenses will be fine." Patrick met his aunt's somewhat dissapointed eyes, and forced a smile as best he could. Her face softened and she reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder, causing him to lean away in reaction to her hard hand on his bruised body. Claire looked at her nephew with an unknowing gaze, and watched as Patrick ate his oatmeal with a shakey hand. She turned her gaze upon her own son, Pete, perfection in a child, and silently wished to herself that her chubby little excuse of a nephew could be more like her own angel.