How to Not Fall For Patrick Stump For Dummies #Wattys2015

Chapter 4

An oxygen tank forced cold air into my weak lungs, forcing me to breath. Medicines and drugs of all kinds kept me from wanting to kill myself. All the while, I could barely lift a finger, more or less my big toe. What if I'm paralyzed?

I've made up my mind. I hate Patrick Stump. I hate him. He's done this to me and he's right, he will never be able to repay me. There's absolutely nothing he could do that would ever make me forgive him.

Patrick seemed so worried about me that night. He looked like he actually cared, but he's a good actor. He doesn't care. He never did. That's the reason why I still haven't seen him and it's been an entire week. Patrick only dressed to impress me for a charity case and that's it.

It was literally a hit and run.

No one's come to visit me, not even my parents or any of my family. I wonder if they even know. I doubt they'd care if they knew. They don't need me for anything besides doing their dirty work and I've had it.

I wish Patrick would've finished me off.

Nathan and I used to joke around and say, "I would pay Patrick $20 to run me over and then I would thank him. He's probably too nice to do it though."

I actually mean it this time. I'd rather be dead. I was dead, I think, for a while. I was happy with Nathan for only a minute and then was sent straight back to the hellhole of life.

To think, I used to hide up in my room and worship Patrick is sickening. I would drown out my depression with Pete's lyrics and Patrick's vocals. My finger would scroll through Instagram Patrick spams and I would fangirl over every single one. I had over one thousand pictures of him on my phone and it took up all of my storage.

Everyone in my school used to make fun of me because I was the quiet, emo girl in the corner of the room. I had both headphones in and struggled to keep my grades up. I wore dark makeup and clothes. After a long break, I would come back with a different, exotic hair color. Just when they thought I couldn't get any more emo, I did. Basically, I was the definition of emo.

I was made fun of for obsessing over Patrick. My username, my wrists, my walls, everything had his name written into it as a reminder. He was my first and only band crush, until he crushed me.

And so I sit alone, in this cold, dark room with nothing but a blurry television screen. Irrational thoughts and fears run wild through my throbbing head. Casual whirlwinds of pain spiral up from my toes and up my entire body.

There has never been a worse point in my life. Sleeping is the highlight of my day, if I ever do knock out. I haven't been able to without a drug and I don't want to rely on them. So, I'm stuck staring at the ceiling with my thoughts and hatred towards my once favorite man.

I sat like that for another week before anything started to get better. Thankfully, I wasn't paralyzed for life, but it took a lot of painful therapy to be able to do anything.

My broken leg and arm are healing up pretty quickly. I can't get up and trip over myself anyways, unless it's to go to the bathroom, so I'd imagine it would heal quickly.

There was still no word or sign from Patrick. He didn't even bother to check if I was still alive. My burning hate towards him grew everyday, to the point where I hated him more than I hated myself.

One morning, after I had just finished therapy, I plopped down on a couch in the lobby and looked up at the tv screen. The news was on. It went from a weather report to a concert report...on none other than Patrick himself.

He's been busy burying himself in music and doing shows here and there. I almost couldn't stand to see his face or hear his voice. It would be easier to handle if it was Fall Out Boy, but the band's been broken up for a while. I can't turn away to watch Pete or Andy or Joe this time.

A few nurses at the front desk seemed to remember him. They whispered to each other and pointed to me. How embarrassing. He's ruining my life without even being here. Well played Stump.

I turned my attention back to the tv when I heard his voice speak up. My face contorted into a scowl as I attempted to understand what he was saying.

His bleach blonde hair was soaked with sweat and his dark black shirt was stuck to his skin. He held two drumsticks in his hands and tried desperately to wipe the beads off of his forehead.

"Patrick!" the reporter asked, catching his attention, "Tell us about your lover!"

He raised an eyebrow, "Lover?"

The reporter held up a magazine, barely visible to the camera. We were both on it.

His face went pale and he looked like he might pass out, "Uhh... I don't know her..." he said when he couldn't think up anything better.

I buried my head in my hands and walked myself back to my room, something I've never done alone.

"That's fine Patrick," I mumbled and threw my crutches onto the floor, "I don't know who you are either. You can keep doing shows while I'm busy dying."