MEnAce (peterick)

12 - Patrick

The psych ward; the plain white rooms; the interrogations; the menaces strapped into chairs to pay for the trouble they have caused. They weren't rumours. Of course they fucking weren't. This is where all the crazies are supposed to go.

And I'm not called crazy for nothing.

The dull room serves its purpose well. I'm extremely claustrophobic, entirely immobile. I'm seeing and hearing things that aren't actually there. Mostly angry. The only indication of my discomfort is the purple aura pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and my eyes, dancing lanterns, flooding the room with colour.

My fingernails slice open my palms, my veins pop, and beads of sweat drip down my forehead. All the while, my expression remains neutral, even so as the cell door unlocks, and Pete enters the room.

I am no longer alone.

He leans against the wall, making an effort to stay as far away from me as humanely possible. I give him the satisfaction of not looking at him. Good plan.

"I asked them about Brendon."

"And they answered?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you manage that?"

I look at him, eyes flashing. Only for a moment. His skin goes pale with distress, and I smirk. "Same way I manage anything."

He swallows, stares at the floor. "What did you find out?"

"He doesn't have ADHD. He's got a really sick kind of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He has a history of attaching himself to, and sexually abusing people – specifically males, none under the age of consent. He manipulated them. Many of his victims became depressed and killed themselves, while others completely lost themselves to him. Take Dallon, for example. He's been in here for anxiety since he was little. Thought he would get better, but when Brendon came along, Dallon started going downhill. He's got Multiple Personality Disorder. His behaviour isn't like it used to be."

"Brendon manipulated me," Pete announces. "To be jealous of you."

"I know. I don't expect you to apologize."

"I got scared. Angry. Of my own accord."

"You're still scared. You don't want to be here, I can tell."

"I'm fucking terrified."

"Angry?"

"I am. At Brendon, not you."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Confront him."

"Hurt him?"

He shrugs. "If needs be."

The conversation dies. Pete takes this as an opportunity to leave me be, but I stop him before he can open the door. "Do me a favour. I don't care what happens to Brendon. Just get Dallon away from him."

Pete nods, his hand hovering above the door handle. "I'll try."

"He's the only person I've ever met that I haven't thought about hurting."

"You're not gonna try and kill me again, are you?"

"No promises. However, I do know, that if this little exchange of ours had taken even the slightest detour, you would be dead on the floor with my broken hands clutching your throat."

"That's reassuring," he stutters. "But... say I could get you out of here-"

"Sorry, honey. I'm not going anywhere."