FicWad

Hey, Dayna; it's a real heart...'breaker'. -hinthint-
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Hannah woke up; the dreadful sensation of a hangover washed over her as she gingerly moved her head. She moaned softly. With difficulty, she turned her head; Pete was gone. She sat up; alarm filled her insides. She jumped from the bed and ran down the hall to the bathroom, and threw up. She felt someone's hands holding back her short blonde hair. She clutched the sides of the toilet, lifting her head shakily. She stood up and walked to the sink, rinsing her mouth.
"Thanks, Pete." she mumbled.
"Ah..."
She turned around, and gasped.
"Patrick! Sorry, I thought...I mean, I just assumed that..." she trailed off, and slid down the wall. Patrick crouched down beside her, looking concerned.
"I heard you come home last night."
Hannah stared straight ahead, her eyes gazing off into space.
"I don't even remember coming home." she said.
Patrick bit his lip. Hannah glanced at him, and gently slapped his cheek.
"Stop doing that!"
Patrick smiled sheepishly. He sat down next to her, slipping an arm around her shoulder.
"Where did you go? Pete and Andy left to take care of some record stuff, Pete said you were in bed. Mark came home at about midnight and asked about you, I said you were sleeping downstairs, and he rolled his eyes, like he didn't believe me..."
Hannah sighed. She looked out the open window, located high up on the wall. The basement suddenly felt like a prison.
"I was...I was at a party." she admitted.
Patrick shifted slightly.
"Ah...what kind of party?" he questioned nervously, knowing the answer.
Hannah took Patrick's hand in hers, and looked him in the eye. Patrick felt shivery...
"Not a birthday party, let's put it that way."
Patrick lowered his eyes, not wanting to stare into the cool green depths any longer. He drew a shaky breath;
"How long have...have you been...using?"
Hannah shrugged.
"Since I was about thirteen or fourteen." she admitted indifferently.
The two were silent for a long time, just sitting on the bathroom floor, cuddling. Friendship cuddling, Patrick reminded himself. Then, Hannah laughed quietly and looked at Patrick.
"Am I more than you bargained for yet?" she asked.
Patrick watched her for a moment, then shook his head.
"No, Hannah. Not for a second."

Hannah leaned shakily on the counter, pouring herself a glass of water for the two Advils that lay next to her pale hands. Hands snaked around her waist, and she fell into their warm grasp. Pete lay his head gently on her shoulder.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like shit," she mumbled, "But it's nothing new."
She popped the pills into her mouth, gulped some water and swallowed. Pete sighed softly.
"Do you remember coming home last night?"
Hannah shook her head gently.
"What ever I said, what ever I did, it was out of my control. I'm sorry."
"But Hannah, it WAS in your control! You didn't have to get totally trashed. That part was your fault."
Suddenly, Hannah felt it; the horrible monster inside her chest, roaring and writhing and urging her to scream. She wanted to hit Pete, to hurt him, to yell at him- she swallowed hard, trying to suppress the anger and violence that was boiling within. She slammed the glass of water down onto the counter, and pushed Pete's hands off of her waist.
"Fuck off." she snapped, and she stormed from the kitchen, leaving Pete helpless and confused in her wake. Mark entered the kitchen, glancing curiously at his sister.
"What happened?"
"I...she...I told her that she shouldn't have gotten so wasted last night and she...she told me to fuck off!" Pete spluttered, looking bewildered and confused. But Mark, on the other hand, looked perfectly at peace.
"She threw a lamp at my head once." he answered nonchalantly. Pete turned to stare at him, his eyes wide. Mark half smiled, looking at Pete with sympathy.
"She gets violent. Remember when she threw the apple at my head, and just now, freaking out at you? That's not Hannah. That's the drugs. And judging by that bruise on her arm, the drug speaking for her today is heroin."
Pete shook his head slightly, disbelievingly.
"No."
Mark nodded gently. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
"I wish I could help her. We all do. But only Hannah can help herself."

Patrick wandered down the sidewalk, kicking an old soda can as he went, hands in his pockets. He was confused; Hannah had waltzed into their lives only a matter of days ago, and already, he was wrapped up in her world. But she was Pete's; who knew how long it would last, though? Patrick scolded himself for thinking such a thing. Pete was his friend. Pete was happy; therefore Patrick should have been happy...right? Patrick frustrated himself. He kicked the soda can with particular menace, and it went spinning off into the distance. Thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance; he looked up at the fast-darkening sky; it was going to rain. Patrick sighed and continued on, until he reached the gates of the graveyard. He grasped the iron bars, looking up at the mausoleum on top of the hill and remembering his blissful afternoon with Hannah. Shivering slightly in the sudden wind, he climbed to the top of the fence, and debated jumping down into the graveyard. This time he had no motivation for allowing his Vans to meet the grassy earth bellow.
"Tricky." he muttered to himself. The nickname was growing on him...
"Patrick?"
Patrick was startled; he jumped, and lost his grip on the fence. He let out a cry of surprise, and tumbled over the fence, landing in a bed of pansies. He screamed when he tried to roll over to see whom the voice belonged to; his left arm hurt like a motherfucker, his wrist searing with pain.
"Oh, God, Patrick!"
It was Hannah. She climbed the fence with ease and dropped to the ground mere inches from Patrick.
"God, these flowers are screwed." He joked through clenched teeth, clutching his arm.
"Where does it hurt?" Hannah cried, ignoring his weak attempt at humor.
"My left arm, I landed on it...my wrist really hurts"
Hannah grabbed at her hair in apparent distress.
"Oh, God, this is all my fault!"
"Hannah, no, God, no..."
"Yes it is! I think you broke your wrist, how do I get you back over the fence? Oh, shit..."
Patrick turned red, embarrassed to be in such a helpless and troublesome position. God forbid he be the center of attention for once. His goal in life was to be invisible; and he was good at it. With difficulty and pain, he twisted himself around and sat up. He drew a sharp, sudden breath, trying to mask the pain.
"I think I'm okay..." he lied weakly.
Hannah glared at him with cool disbelief over the tops of her thick-framed glasses.
"Oh yeah? Wave to me. With your left arm." She commanded, crossing her arms.
Patrick tried to raise his arm, but he cried out in pain instead; his wrist flopped pathetically.
"See?!" she crawled over to his side, and gently removed his 504 Plan hoodie. Patrick shivered.
"Sorry, Tricky, but I need to look at your arm..."
Patrick nodded, even though his shiver had nothing to do with the cold. Hannah's fingers moved gently over the skin of his arm. She moaned softly; his wrist was bent at an odd angle, and there was a huge bruise on his shoulder. She rested a soft hand on Patrick's cheek, tears filling her celery green eyes; Patrick shivered again.
"Tricky, I have to go get help, I have to leave you alone for a while, I am so sorry..."
Patrick bit his lip and nodded; he tasted blood. Hannah watched as a small drop of red liquid stained the pale skin under his lower lip.
"I'll break your other arm." She said boldly, looking him dead in the eye. The two of them laughed together, despite the tricky situation. (Pun intended)
Hannah stopped laughing, and she looked pained for a moment; and then, she reached around her neck, unfastening the golden chain with the delicate angel pendant. She pressed it into Patrick's right hand, swallowing more tears. She kissed his forehead lightly, and climbed back over the tall fence. Raindrops began to fall, and Patrick sank back into the pansies, shivering. Hannah took off down the side walk, and Patrick called;
"Hey, Hannah!"
She turned.
"Yeah?"
"Am I more than you bargained for yet?"
Hannah smiled, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
"No, Patrick, not for a second."
Patrick was now shivering because of the cold. He had, with great difficulty and pain, put his hoodie back on. As he lay there in the flowers, words wove together in his mind; song writing had never been his strong point, but today, he was on a roll.
"Am I more than you bargained for yet? I've been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear...lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum...drop a heart, break a name." Patrick startled himself with this sudden burst of genius. Music notes floated in and out of his mind; could he really turn these feelings into a song? And, despite his current situation; soaking wet, arm broken, ego bruised; he laughed, tasting rain on his tongue.