Three Times [Peterick]

Three Times

Sleep used to come so easy to Patrick. Before - well, before everything, before his entire life was grabbed and shaken vigorously, he'd slept like a baby, simply crawling between the covers and falling into a deep slumber, dead to the world. But it'd been eight months since he and his friends were kidnapped and tortured, and a good night's sleep had become the stuff of myth. He can never seem to lie still, his mind insisting on replaying the darkest moments of his life over and over. And by the angels, had Patrick seen darkness.

He became interesting when they took him; I'd never paid much attention to him before, he was average. I knew the flaws, of course, the temper and the insecurity, the tendency to be both too arrogant and too shy, but they'd smoothed themselves out over the years and to be frank, the only peculiar thing about him was the mole on his forehead - a creative afterthought on my part. But when they took him, oh, how intriguing he became. They tortured him to hell and back, it was gripping, seeing his little life get torn apart. And, indeed, his body.

The hand was a shame, I'll admit. I watch him cradle the stump of his wrist, it's hurting again, twinging something horrid. He hates it, he hates looking at it, he hates waking up every morning and remembering that he can't play guitar anymore.

He'll take that, though, over another sleepless night. Even when he does, for an hour or so, fall away from his reality, he dreams of blood and fire and ghosts with yellow eyes, and when he wakes, a cold sweat covering his body, he feels a slow boil of rage in his stomach, feels himself begin to panic. He had learnt to deal with the rages, the occasional echoes of the monster they turned him into, but he hadn't had one for a while, and he'd rather hoped they'd stopped.

Feeling across the sheets in the darkness, he confirms what he already knows: Pete isn't here. Pete is at a work thing, because he'd been sensible enough to get a job, to drag pieces of his life back into place. Patrick feels his chest clench a little; he can deal with the episodes without Pete, but it's always easier with a hand to hold. So he simply breathes, slow and steady, sitting up in bed and turning the light on, focussing on the numbers of the clock, the faint hum of air conditioning, grounding himself in and closing his eyes to keep away the yellow.

Thinking of Pete helps - I'm not usually one for romance, but the relationship that blossomed between them was a rather sweet twist - and Patrick tries to remember what Pete usually says, replicating the shushing in his ear with his own breaths, running his fingers over his face and imagining Pete's lips against his own. He reminds himself who he is, one piece at a time, ignoring the throbbing in his wrist. He's not there anymore, he's here, he's Patrick and he's okay.

That fact turned out to be rather tenuous, but Patrick doesn't know that yet. He sips at his glass of water like it'll cure him of his ills, running fingers through his thinning hair and redrawing the worry lines in his forehead. I didn't make him ugly - I never make ugly people - but the world did, the lattice of scars across his body horrifying to everyone but Pete, who kisses them like he doesn't miss the unspoiled porcelain I gifted specially to Patrick. It's a shame to see my work so dreadfully ruined.

Patrick doesn't cry this time; he seemed to have got past the crying stage by this point, opting instead to stare blankly at one of his silly self-help books, as if anything but divine intervention can help him now. He's just about got the hang of reading with one hand without wanting to throw the book across the room, so he reads until his eyes feel heavy again, until he's sure the monster has gone. Then he turns out the light, a pillow hugged tight to his chest.

He's five minutes in to what promises to be a solid night's sleep when he's jolted awake by a sharp bang on his bedroom door.

Panic seizes in his chest; he scrambles for the light, keeping his eyes on the door, searching for movement. You'd think that the weeks of ordeals he'd been put through would have made him brave - I certainly hoped so - but they simply made him scared. It takes him a whole minute to pluck up the courage to climb out of bed, and every second of that is spent praying it was simply a picture falling from the wall, or a book from the shelf.