Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Golden

Got A Call. How You Been?

by moocow 11 reviews

This goes off track a bit. But all praise Jenn. For she is AWESOMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-o.

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama, Romance - Warnings: [!!!] [?] - Published: 2007-02-12 - Updated: 2007-02-13 - 2166 words


I stared out the storm stricken window panes. Rain lashed and ate at the stained glass, lightning illuminated the religious images, and thunder shook the very frame of the building. Each patient in himself took a part out of me every visit. It was eventually given back when they made their next improvement, but those were getting less frequent, quite opposite to their number of visits.

I nursed, or rather 'treated', six /boys/.

On the outside you saw full grown men, but on further inspection into their eyes you saw cold, raw adolescence. Open wounds and naive-clouded minds caused by years of grief. I was said to be one of the best psychiatrics around; one of the best doctors.

And in all truthfulness, I was.

But at the same time I felt each pang of hopelessness and loss these boys felt. For I had experienced them all at one point.

He sat, hands held between legs like a lost and hurt puppy. His eyes closely following behind. Ever quiet, ever masked. The only emotion I ever got out of him was sadness, grief, sorrow... He was a mirror that reflected every bad thing people felt. A plague.

"Peter," I started, opening his file.

The notes held barely any information. Only his biography and that he had intense depression and cut himself. The rest of my note section was blank. He was a sealed jar of toxic gas; he looked harmless, but upon being opened it killed you. He looked up at me, quickly, eyes darting around the office he had to have memorized by now.

"Are we ready to talk today?" I asked. He shook his head, once again.

"Is Sally treating you good?" Again, I questioned him. This time he nodded a twitch of his mouth, almost a smile. I knew that sometimes he could be happy. Sometimes he could feel something other than depression.

That was when he was with Sally.

He hated it here, I knew all too well. But he was a work of art in himself. I wanted to get to know him. To break the lock we call a heart. The lock we call a mind. I hate it here too.

"All you have to do to get out of here is to talk. Tell me why everything you see is black and white. Why everything is such a tragedy to you. Why you bleed black makeup and stitch close your would with salted thread." His mouth slacked down, like what I said was some sort of alien language. His eyes told me different. He was inquisitive, for what I don't know.

"You hate it here. You can get out if you'll speak to me," I said in my softest tone.

"I've been where you are before, Pete."

His eyebrows contracted downwards, in an almost angry expression. He looked up at me, almost incredulously, and bit his lip.

He wasn't talking.

And that's when the timer decided to go off.


I glanced up from gripping the steering wheel to find Pete walking down the snow covered path, the winter rain sprinkling over his slowly walking body. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, shaking his head as I parted my lips.

"Peter," I whispered, reaching over to grasp his hand that lye in his lap.

His hand tightened around mine and he hunched over a bit more, tears racking his body. He shook and I turned to face him, leaning over the console to wrap him in a hug. Pete tightened his fists into my jacket, his sobs circling around my neck.

"I know it's hard," I whispered, pulling away to wipe his tears away. "But you have to try,"

Pete nodded before taking the notebook I had in the glove compartment. I observed his shaky hand move across the page as he formed words the only way he could.

But why? Why do I have to try?

I rubbed more of his tears away and made him look at me.

"Just try, Pete," I whispered, kissing his forehead. "Try for me, Sally," Pete forced a smile. "Can't you make me proud?"

Pete nodded once before returning to his notebook, writing more words for me to read. His eyes lowered and he closed the book before giving it to me, looking away as I took it. I glanced up as I opened to the first page, my heart skipping as I read what he had written.

You're the only thing in this world that makes me happy...


When the next boy was brought in, almost an hour later, the weather had lightened up. The sky was still gray, but the office was drastically warmer. The office I spent more than half my days in, it was in a Chapel, near a hospital. It was built of stone in the Renaissance, drafty and cold. I furnished it as well as possible, insulated it. But the smell of failure and downcast spirits never went away.

And that was what made it so unwelcoming.

I can't afford anywhere else, and I've already made this place my home. I don't expect my 'patients' to start going somewhere else either. But this boy, he was brought in by Police, parole officers, sheriffs, whatever authority had been closest by at the time. This time, I sighed audibly.

"Joe." I stated.

"/Doctor/," he drawled, a hint of weed stained his taste buds and lungs.

No, he wasn't high, but he /wasn't clean/.

"What did I prescribe you? Didn't I say any drugs," I grabbed a bag from his front pocket. He immediately tried grabbing for it, but failed, his sense of vision was hazy. My tone of voice wasn't harsh, nor was it gentle.

I was precise.

He huffed, reclining further into his seat. He acted like he didn't care. But he hated my guts, wanted me dead. Just because I was trying to 'fix' him.

"I don't even need to be here!" He said, throwing his hands into the air, before refolding them across his chest.

"Well fortunately for you, it wasn't my decision, but your girlfriend's and the police-,"

"She's not my girlfriend," he interjected.

"Granted," I said, hating myself for scribbling down every word he said. It was mandatory, but I hated the fact that they knew I was doing it. Hated the fact that I hated it myself. I wanted to help, but I was always making things worse it seemed.

"You do live with her though, correct? You were dating in the past."

"Well I don't know about that anymore. She was bitching about me being out-"

"Joe," I warned.

"She didn't like me being out," he grimaced. "Like I was some sort of kid. I can stay out as late as I want, can't I?"

It was a rhetorical question, but I answered him anyway, "as long as there are no drugs involved." He just rolled his eyes at me.

What I believe, is that there is good in everyone. Drugs, alcohol, depression, cutting. They don't make you a bad person. What makes you a bad person is the way you treat others, and your willingness for change, for improvement. All these boys, they were good people. There were just years of decay and dust that covered the shoebox-under-the-bed's of their souls. It wasn't just me cracking these boys open like eggs. There were others involved.

I was just a part of the process.



My ears perked to the sound of my name, but I remained still, recognizing the voice. I snuggled up against my pillow more and pretended to sleep, but I was fully aware of my surroundings.


I felt the bed indent and the strong smell of weed that stained his clothes, and mine, eternally crept up my nose, causing me to hold back from reaching up and rubbing from the irritation.

He was going to apologize.

Say he was wrong, and that he'll follow the rules next time. He was going to promise to try and get better and try to get a job and help pay for this shitty house. All he ever did was promise, and try. But his promises were always broken, and he never tried hard enough. He only said those things to get his guilty conscious clear and then he'd go out later on, repeating the whole process.

I was tired, physically and emotionally.

"I know you hate me right now," he started, scooting closer to me and placing his hand against my arm, I restricted from shrugging it off, "I know I was wrong to do what I did. I should've called at least."

That wasn't the point, but then again, what was the point?

"I'm going to try and clean up, for real..." the words hung in the air, indicating to me that he wasn't even sure of this. He was never sure of anything.

"And I'm going to make it up to -"

I rolled over and faced him, interrupting him mid-sentence and causing him to stand up and step away from the bed. He stared, his eyes half-way open and his pupils dilated... still. I sighed inwardly, shaking my head against the grey pillow.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

His eyebrows retreated to each other and he frustrated groaned. Without a word, he stormed out of my bedroom, slamming the door. I counted each step as he ran down them, and I heard the front door slam, again.

It was going to be a long day.


"You're drunk," was my first statement.

It was the next day, a new day.

Not any better, nor any worse.

"Of course not," he said, that same blank smile on his face.

It wasn't smile really, his mouth wasn't curved at all, it was a flat line, like a heart monitor on empty, but his eyes shone with brilliance. Not intelligence, but brightness, and happiness.

They say alcohol takes away your worries.

They say it makes you happy, makes you forget.

That is until you wake up.

Until the sweet nectar is strained from your body. Until you realize you're just as worthless as you were before. Alcohol is a depressant.

And many don't know.

His speech is slurred, if only in the slightest, but it's his mannerisms that catch my eye. His fingers are bruised from smashing ivory keys, creating beautiful notes no one but he understands. His eyes are rimmed black and red with fatigue. Carved out black holes.

"We agreed to lower the alcohol intake, did we not?" I questioned. With the same smile, he nodded, his glasses slipping slightly.

"That would be once a week, Patrick," I asked with a flat tone.

Again, he nodded.

I sighed. His skin held that starch whiteness that tinged green and black soot that you could only get by staying inside. Never seeing the sun.

"What was the last time you left the house besides your visits with me?" He paused.

"I can't remember," he said with the same soft voice he always used, almost unsure about each word that passed his lips.

The look on his face said enough for me that he did in fact have no idea. Alcohol clouds your memories. But not your thoughts. I swear my timer keeps getting set shorter.

Our time is up, and still I know less about Patrick Stump than I could have wished.


He sat in the car seat next to me completely silent. However, this was normal.

"Did you have a good session?" I asked, prodding- hoping that maybe she'd managed to make a break that I'd missed.

Anything could be helpful at this point. He nodded slowly, not pulling his gaze from the city streets that passed by outside the window. Despite the growing cold and impending snow he played with the button on the window. Forcing the glass back and forth, in an up and down exchange.

"Patrick." I scolded, pressing the child lock on my panel. He looks at me with the ghost of an impish smile playing on his lips.

"Sorry." He mumbled, looking at me fully now. His eyes lock with mine for a moment before I jerk mine back to the Chicago streets before me.

"I know." My grip on the wheel tightens, almost to white knuckles.

This is every ride back from the clinic.

Like a ritual. He sits in silence refusing to talk about the meeting he's just had with his 'shrink'. I hate that he calls her that, I wonder if he realizes that's what I'm on my way to being. Then again I wonder if he resents me.

It wasn't his choice to keep me around, not mine either really. Dr. Jenn and the Stumps decided that it was imperative that I stay. That Patrick not but exposed to a new case worker, fear of set back.

What they didn't understand was that was my fear too, if I stayed.
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