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"...Patrick, Patrick!" I felt a sharp slapping on my cheeks. "Patrick!" It was a strange, unfamiliar voice calling my name.

"Tricky!" I heard a soft sobbing. "Oh, wake up Tricky!" Janae! It was Janae!

"Janae," I whispered weakly.
"Stop, he's awake!" I heard Joe yell.

"Where am I?" I sat up slowly.

"You...you're at the album launch," Janae sobbed. Big, racking sobs.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"You...my boyfriend just passed out in front of about three hundred people!" she explained tearfully, an edge of anger to her voice. "There'll be pictures all over the internet within ten minutes." I spotted my phone on the ground just in front of the platform, screen slightly cracked, and it all came rushing back to me, engulfing me. I felt like I was drowning. I felt a panic attack come on. "Patrick? Patrick?"

"Maybe we should take him to the hospital," Andy suggested. They were completely oblivious to the thoughts and fears swirling in my head. I took a few deep breaths.

"No!" I spoke out, defiantly. "I...I just need to go out and clear my head!" I got to my feet, with effort, and left the platform. Janae followed. I held out my hand, "Alone. I need to go alone."

"Oh, but why, Patty?" she asked.

"Don't," I said, angrily. I ignored the hurt look on Janae's face. "Don't call me that. Only one person has ever called me that and...and..." I felt myself descend into tears, but shook it off. "I need to do this alone."

"Do what alone?" she called after me. "What, Patrick? What?"

But I had already left the venue, leaving my worried family and friends behind. It was a cold November night outside. Exactly the kind Pete used to love...no. Pete was still alive. He had to be. I tightened my jacket, and shivered. But it wasn't because of the cold. I couldn't tell them. Not yet. Not until I was sure. I had to make sure. It probably wasn't true...it couldn't be true...but I had to make sure. Pete was probably back at the launch, wondering where I was! Yeah...he was just late...that's it. But I kept walking, and I finally reached the hospital.

"Is the morgue still open?" I asked the receptionist, completely devoid of emotion.

"That depends," she paused. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I said, sarcastically. "I'm here to look at what's possibly my best friend's body for the hell of it."

"Of...of course," she stuttered, taken aback.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" I pulled myself together. "It's been a tough night."

"I understand." she nodded. She talked to somebody on the phone, and then placed the phone back in the cradle. "Just buzz in, and display this card." She handed me a card, which I accepted with shaking hands.

"Thanks," I muttered, beginning to walk off.

"Good luck," the receptionist called after me.

I didn't look back. I didn't want her to see the tears in my eyes. After what seemed like hours, and yet another trek through the snowy Illinois outdoors, I arrived at the harsh, limestone building that is Wilmette County Morgue. I paused, to gather my nerves, drawing in a few shaky breaths, before I nervously pushed the buzzer, finger shaking.

"Name?" a voice crackled through.

"Pa..." I swallowed. "Patrick Stump."
I heard the latch on the door unlock, and I pushed the door open. I stepped in slowly, and immediately recoiled. The intense smell of disinfectant engulfed me. I fought the urge to turn around, and dart back to the safety of my house.

"No," I whispered to myself. "I've gotta prove this to myself. Pete will be hysterical when you tell him about this." So I stepped in and closed the door behind me, blocking all traces of normality.

"Are you Patrick Stumph?" a technician in a long lab coat asked, pronouncing my name wrong.

"Stump," I automatically corrected him. "And yes, I am."

"Follow me," he said grimly. We walked along the cold, dark, tiled corridor. "You may find it hard to recognise Peter. It was a suicide, and he used a petrol bomb."

"A petrol bomb," I whispered.

"This is a very rare method," the man informed me. "Do you have any idea what may have incited him to use this method?"

"I do...if it is Pete. Which I doubt it is."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Well, I'm Irish," I explained. "And one night a few months ago, my Mom made me, Pete and my girlfriend watch a movie about Ireland. About twenty or thirty years ago, there was a civil war kinda thing between North and South, which is why my Mom moved over here. Anyway, the main weapon they used was petrol bombs, and I remember Pete asking me lots of questions about it."

"That explains a lot," he nodded. "He took his car out to a secluded spot and..."

"Lit the rag," I completed his sentence. "That is so Pete's style. But it couldn't be him. He's not that thoughtless."

"Here we are," the dude opened this room. There was a metal table, with a cover over it. The techie whipped the white cover off, revealing a charred body. I gasped and took a step backwards into the tiled wall.

"No," I whispered to myself. "I must do this. Remove all trace of doubt. Pull out every splinter of hope." I took a step forward. "See, here's the first mistake. Pete's hair has red in it. That's just solid black."

"Burnt black," the techie said, somewhat sympathetically.

"That's not a face," I scoffed. "But...I suppose...it could be...didn't you take off his clothes? Try to resuscitate him?"

"There was no point," he shrugged. "He was long dead by the time we got near him."

"The hoodie...that's his," I recognised the faded Motion City Soundtrack logo. "But anybody could have that. The jeans. Any emo kid wears skinny jeans, I'm wearing skinny jeans. His pockets. What were in his pockets?" The tech pulled a cover off another, much smaller table. "Those are his keys. See, there's his key to my place."

"And this," the technician held up a wallet. "Is this his?" I opened it out.

"That's Pete's niece, Vada," I said, no emotion showing through as I looked at his wallet photos. "That's his Mom and Dad. That's..." I choked. "That's Pete and me. It's Pete. It's Pete," I repeated. "It's Pete. Pete's dead. He's dead," I sank down to my knees. "He's gone!" I sobbed, tears flowing down my cheeks. "My best friend, he's gone!"



Title is from 'Start The Machine' by Angels And Airwaves. I reference a poem called 'The Identification' by Roger McGough repeatedly in this chapter, and I just made up Patrick's family's back story. It's a topic quite close to me, being born and raised here in Ireland.