That time was the first of many where I would "save" Pete from going under. Because Win was right - he didn't know when enough was enough. He just kept going and going until he either ran out of whatever substance he'd gotten his hands on or his body gave up on him against his will. But that wasn't the only reason.
Pete and I were - and still are - two completely different people, with paths that theoretically would've never crossed. Yet they did, and somehow the two of us became great friends, best ones at that.
The band and those meetings were the only parallels between Pete and me, but they didn't last like the misery we both carried on our shoulders. He described his misery to me (while using an old razor blade to crush up the white powder he had in a line on the coffee table he had in his apartment) like this:
"It's like an ocean. Some days the waters are calm and everything's fine. Other days, the waters are rough and everything's not fine. Some days are light and sunny. Other days are dark and stormy. There are low tides and there are high tides. And at some points it's really deep, at other points it's shallow. The only difference is that, with me, it's not predictable at all. Because just when I think it is, the unexpected happens and it all goes to hell. I just want to know the unknown, you know?"
I think that was the real reason why Pete always went overboard. Because when he was high, the misery that consumed him would fade away, it "calmed the waters". Because when he was high, he was happy. And that's something Win never understood. She wasn't miserable like Pete and me. She didn't even want to die.
A couple of years after those meetings ended, Win finally disclosed to me why she really went to those meetings. It wasn't because she was suicidal, no, it was because she was bored.
"I also kind of like the people," She added when she answered my question more than three hundred and sixty five days after I asked it, "I don't know why, but people who want to kill themselves just fascinate me." She never explained that part to me, always claiming that she couldn't. "They just do," was her usual go-to response.
Well, it had been four years since I started going to those meetings. Joe and I graduated from high school. The two of us and Pete were in an all new band with this other guy, Andy - he was actually someone we met at the meetings (he had joined after me, obviously). And Win and I had gotten together and the two of us were living in the same house. Things were going...well. I wouldn't say they were great, but I wouldn't say they were bad either. That is until this one call.
I, as well as Win, were used to his calls. It was how he stayed in contact with us when he wasn't with us, which had started getting increasingly more common as time went on. It wasn't personal, or intentional, it was just something that started to happen. He started becoming more withdrawn. Like at band practice, for instance. It was like he was there, but he wasn't. He did his own things and kept himself detached from the rest of us. When asked about what he thought of an idea that any one of us had suggested, he would just shrug his shoulders or say, "I don't know." Some days he wouldn't even show up. But despite his evident change in behavior, I always got his calls. Always.
The conversations ranged from a variety of subjects and topics. Some night were playful, lighthearted, senseless jabber we would have that didn't mean much to me but meant worlds to him. Other nights weren't so playful, the talk we'd have going in directions I usually prepared for.
A lot of times he talked about why he was here, how he knew he had a purpose but he didn't know what that purpose was. And he would go on and on talking about all the things he had done in a failed attempt to find that, the reason he walked this earth and did the things he did and met the people he met. Sometimes, though, he would talk about how his endeavor was pointless. That he was never going to reach his full potential - whatever that may be - and that everything about him was a waste of life and space.
It was more times than not that I could talk him out of his slump, give him reassurance that he wasn't a "waste of life and space" and that one day he was going to "reach his full potential". But tonight, with this call, I couldn't seem to do that. He was set on finally making things better, at least that was what he'd convinced himself would happen if he were to do this.
I jumped in my car and started it up, going to pull away when I heard someone scream my name. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Win standing in the doorway of our house, dressed in only her bra and underwear, a sweatshirt of mine wrapped around her shoulders. She ran out to the car and I rolled the window down.
"Where are you going?" She asked me, slightly breathless.
"I'm just going to Pete's," I answered her.
"Why?"
"He called me and told me he couldn't take it anymore. That he was going to...do it." I couldn't bring myself to say that he was going to kill myself, but luckily I didn't have to. Win knew what I meant.
My girlfriend of about a year and a half scoffed. "Really, Patrick? He's not going to do it. You know how many times he's said that? Tons. And you know how many times he's meant it? None. He's probably just high or something."
"I don't have time to argue this with you, Win!" I snapped, my heart pounding against my chest as adrenaline surged through my veins, "I know you never took these kinds of things seriously, but he's not high this time, I swear. I could tell it in his voice. He's really going to kill himself and I need to stop him before he actually does. I'll be back home in a little bit, I promise." I reached my hand out and grabbed hers, bringing it to my lips and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "I love you."
"I love you too, Patrick, but this is ridic-" Before she could finish her sentence, I let go of her hand and let my foot drop down on the gas, backing my car out of the driveway and into the street. I slowed to a stop and spun the wheel, making a right and speeding down the deserted city street. I glanced back in the rear view mirror to see Win step out onto the sidewalk, throwing her arms in the air as if to say to me, "What the hell are you doing? You're overreacting! He's fine!"
But I wasn't overreacting.
Pete wasn't fine.
And I needed to get there before he put that knife to his wrist.
Because I couldn't have him do that to himself.
Not now, not ever.
