One More Troubled Soul

Thirteen-Good God, I wish

Joe's P.O.V.

After some time of scrambling and shouting, Andy was able to pull off my hood. I saw Pete curled on his side, tears streaming from his shut eyes. He panted and seemed to twitch without himself knowing.

I struggled to my feet and tripped over that Dawson kid to get to him. "Pete!" I kind of shouted. I know shouting wouldn't help, but I couldn't stop myself what with the levels of hysteria going through me. "Pete! You alright? What the hell happened?"

He blinked up at me with brown eyes full of torture, a clouded gaze of someone who has no clue of what's going on. Then the storm cleared and he leaped to his feet with many moans of pain, but with a yelled, "Patrick! That thing! The demon! It took him!" He was frantic, running to the spot I'm guessing Patrick had been, then rushing to the small window in the wall. "Patrick!" He screamed, pressing his face to the tiny glass opening.

It killed me inside to see him like this, so destroyed. He was like a five year old who just lost his mother and hasn't accepted the fact that she wasn't coming back. I picked my way carefully around Andy and Dawson to his side. Usually it was him who was the collected one, the one who'd calm the other down and let them know it'd be alright.

But now he needs someone else to return the favour. Patrick was like a brother to him, or perhaps his other half would be a more accurate description. You can't have one without the other. They aren't the same people when they're apart as they are when they're together.

"Pete, it'll be alright. We'll get him back." I said, wishing I could put a hand on his shoulder, but the rope around my wrists kept that from happening. Instead, I kind of rested my head on his shoulder.

He shrugged me off and turned to face me, his eyes now raging. "Look out that window," he jerked his head to the glass, "and then try and tell me it'll be alright."

Confused, I watched as he moved away to try and help take Andy's hood off. I hesitantly peered through the little window and audibly gasped out something that may have been, "oh shitty crap shit."

Patrick was sat in a chair, his arms and legs chained to it, and he was surrounded by some people in black cloaks. What the fuck is this? Some sort of cult? A woman stood behind him with her hands clutching the back of the chair, her eyes wild and she seemed to be stuck between a smile and a grimace.

Patrick, however, looked to be in pain. His face was contorted and though I couldn't hear anything, I could imagine his screams and felt my heart rip itself to shreds. "Patrick!" I yelled, watching helplessly as he writhed on the chair.

A hand came down on my shoulder and I turned to see Andy. Pete had somehow gotten their hands free and was helping Dawson. Andy started removing the rope from my wrists quickly, glancing out the window only once. But I saw the alarm in his eyes and his hands grew shaky.

Pete was next to us in a couple seconds with Dawson, his eyes glittering with hate. "Say he'll be alright and we'll get him back." His angry brown eyes bore directly into mine. "I dare you to say they taste the same. Because how I see it, we'll get him back in a body bag."

I sighed and shook my head, looking back through the little window. "Pete, isn't it you who tells us to keep up hope because giving up seals the deal?" I asked, meeting his gaze again.

"Wait, hold up. Pete? As in Pete Wentz? The Pete Wentz?" Dawson spoke up behind us, his eyes wide in awe as he stared at Pete. He nodded, not really acknowledging the obvious wonder in the kid's eyes. Dawson turned to me and pointed. "That means you're Joe Trohman," he moved to Andy, "and you're Andy Hurley."