No Fact or Fiction: Chapter Five
Title:No Fact or Fiction
Author:
secularsaint: Katie
Rating: R
Summary: Pete's been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder and Patrick is his therapist trying to fuse his personalities together. In this chapter we go back in time a little bit.
Author Notes: I sent this to my beta a couple of weeks ago, but I never got an answer from her. If anybody would like to be my new/secondary beta please tell me when you comment. Also, this chapter is a FLASHBACK. This chapter's weird even for me. Might be my least favorite chapter to write. And, bold writing's Peter, italics is Pete.
Warnings: Pill-swallowing, forced vomiting, cutting.
Previously: Chapters 1-4
Peter stared in the mirror in his bathroom and made a face at the person blinking back at him. It was him, but not. Same features, same hair, same shit colored eyes, different expressions. Absently, he picked up a bottle of pills and unscrewed the cap. He filled up a glass with water out of the sink and put one, two, three, four, five in his mouth, took a sip of water and swallowed. Suddenly he realized what he had just done and clutched at his stomach, as if he could feel the chemicals already. He ran to the toilet and shoved his hand in his mouth, he scratched at the back of his throat until the dry retching brought up bile, coffee, and what he hoped to be dissolved pill residue.
He washed his hands and looked back up into the mirror, something took hold of himself again and he found himself reaching for the pill bottle. He managed to throw the pills in the toilet and flush them away before he took anymore.
He was restless, he went to his room and opened the window, then lay in his bed. Slowly, sleep curled around him.
Towards three, something woke him up, nothing present in the room, surely. It was empty, completely empty. He looked at his desk and his eyes caught his pencil sharpener. That strange, cruel thing caught hold of him again and he saw his hand reaching for it, breaking it against the headboard and prying the small razor out of it, disregarding the cuts it opened on his fingers. He studied it for a moment and then decisively ran it up and down his left forearm. Cruel, painful, red. The feeling was completely...Red.
He dropped the razor, looked sickeningly at his arm. His arm. It didn't connect somehow. Throbbing, painful, but...his? 'Yes.' Something whispered in the back of his mind. 'Yes, it's your arm that's bleeding like that. Do something.'
"But I can't..." He spoke aloud and the harsh sound of his own voice startled him. Somehow the words echoing of the walls brought reality to the room and Peter started crying. 'For fuck's sake, kid...'
Peter suddenly felt as if he had been kicked out of his own brain. As if he suddenly had no control over himself. The feeling was peculiar, and distantly he noticed that his arm didn’t hurt anymore, though he could plainly see it was still bleeding.
He felt his body moving, getting up, crossing to the phone. Dialing a number. Such a strange thing, not to be in charge of your own body, he thought. Eventually he gave into the sensation. He heard himself talking to the 911 operator. "Hello! Hello! My friend's cut himself!" He didn't recognize the voice coming from his mouth. It was deeper, rougher, stronger. Not his, but, his mouth... "Where has he cut and is it serious, sir?"
"His wrist you dumb-ass, I wouldn't fucking be calling if it wasn't serious." He felt the impatience, the burst of anger. Coming from his body, from him. Not from him. He felt himself press the end button on the phone, watched himself, but did not feel the phone, he didn't feel anything at all.
Suddenly he was tired, very tired. He drifted off, into sleep. Into release. Then into memories. A young boy on his knees in front of an old man, the boy slightly older this time in front of a different man. More images, more pictures of his life, steadily getting worse and worse, clearer. But not his life, he kept thinking. He remembered none of this. But certainly, that was him. No mistaking it.
He felt like he was drowning. He couldn't breathe, could no longer think, it felt like his heart was going to explode, like his lungs were going to collapse. Then Black.
Peter but not Peter woke up in a hospital bed. His arm was bandaged and his head hurt. He still had the strange feeling of being dissociated with his body. A doctor came in and started talking to him. Peter spaced out but felt, heard, himself giving answers. He came back to when the doctor pulled the IV out of his arm (the right one, the one not wrapped in bandages) and thrust papers at him to sign. His hand scrawled out Pete Wentz on each of them and felt himself sitting up and pulling on real clothing.
He suddenly found himself facing a mirror and as he made contact with his own eyes something happened. He felt the floor beneath him, felt the pains in his arm, and felt the coolness of the room. He frowned and realized he missed the feeling of not having to control his own body.
He left the room and waved at the nurses on his way out. On the street outside the hospital he hailed a cab and went home.
He sat at a table and tried to write. The old fashioned way, with paper and pen. Instead of his own words on the paper though, he found somebody else's. He watched his hand write in an unfamilar script.
What the fuck were you trying to pull? You could've seriously fucking hurt us! Killed us, is that what you wanted? What? Peter wrote the word carefully, fully thinking that he was for sure crazy, not just maybe. But, something in himself used his hand to write the next few words. Jesus, don't tell me you haven't realized. Realized what? You haven't? Really? Dumb-ass. You're a fucking multiple. A what? Kid, are you for real? After all this and you still can't venture a guess? Go Google it or something. I'm tired of you.
Peter waited for something else to spring onto paper, but it didn't happen. He waited a long time in his seat at his kitchen table until, slowly, he walked over to the couch and opened his laptop. He typed the word 'multiple' in Google Search, and read.
The next time his 'alter' assaulted him he was ready. He fought back as hard as he could but he was only laughed at and pushed casually to a corner of his mind, where he was surprised to find others...
Author:
secularsaint: KatieRating: R
Summary: Pete's been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder and Patrick is his therapist trying to fuse his personalities together. In this chapter we go back in time a little bit.
Author Notes: I sent this to my beta a couple of weeks ago, but I never got an answer from her. If anybody would like to be my new/secondary beta please tell me when you comment. Also, this chapter is a FLASHBACK. This chapter's weird even for me. Might be my least favorite chapter to write. And, bold writing's Peter, italics is Pete.
Warnings: Pill-swallowing, forced vomiting, cutting.
Previously: Chapters 1-4
Peter stared in the mirror in his bathroom and made a face at the person blinking back at him. It was him, but not. Same features, same hair, same shit colored eyes, different expressions. Absently, he picked up a bottle of pills and unscrewed the cap. He filled up a glass with water out of the sink and put one, two, three, four, five in his mouth, took a sip of water and swallowed. Suddenly he realized what he had just done and clutched at his stomach, as if he could feel the chemicals already. He ran to the toilet and shoved his hand in his mouth, he scratched at the back of his throat until the dry retching brought up bile, coffee, and what he hoped to be dissolved pill residue.
He washed his hands and looked back up into the mirror, something took hold of himself again and he found himself reaching for the pill bottle. He managed to throw the pills in the toilet and flush them away before he took anymore.
He was restless, he went to his room and opened the window, then lay in his bed. Slowly, sleep curled around him.
Towards three, something woke him up, nothing present in the room, surely. It was empty, completely empty. He looked at his desk and his eyes caught his pencil sharpener. That strange, cruel thing caught hold of him again and he saw his hand reaching for it, breaking it against the headboard and prying the small razor out of it, disregarding the cuts it opened on his fingers. He studied it for a moment and then decisively ran it up and down his left forearm. Cruel, painful, red. The feeling was completely...Red.
He dropped the razor, looked sickeningly at his arm. His arm. It didn't connect somehow. Throbbing, painful, but...his? 'Yes.' Something whispered in the back of his mind. 'Yes, it's your arm that's bleeding like that. Do something.'
"But I can't..." He spoke aloud and the harsh sound of his own voice startled him. Somehow the words echoing of the walls brought reality to the room and Peter started crying. 'For fuck's sake, kid...'
Peter suddenly felt as if he had been kicked out of his own brain. As if he suddenly had no control over himself. The feeling was peculiar, and distantly he noticed that his arm didn’t hurt anymore, though he could plainly see it was still bleeding.
He felt his body moving, getting up, crossing to the phone. Dialing a number. Such a strange thing, not to be in charge of your own body, he thought. Eventually he gave into the sensation. He heard himself talking to the 911 operator. "Hello! Hello! My friend's cut himself!" He didn't recognize the voice coming from his mouth. It was deeper, rougher, stronger. Not his, but, his mouth... "Where has he cut and is it serious, sir?"
"His wrist you dumb-ass, I wouldn't fucking be calling if it wasn't serious." He felt the impatience, the burst of anger. Coming from his body, from him. Not from him. He felt himself press the end button on the phone, watched himself, but did not feel the phone, he didn't feel anything at all.
Suddenly he was tired, very tired. He drifted off, into sleep. Into release. Then into memories. A young boy on his knees in front of an old man, the boy slightly older this time in front of a different man. More images, more pictures of his life, steadily getting worse and worse, clearer. But not his life, he kept thinking. He remembered none of this. But certainly, that was him. No mistaking it.
He felt like he was drowning. He couldn't breathe, could no longer think, it felt like his heart was going to explode, like his lungs were going to collapse. Then Black.
Peter but not Peter woke up in a hospital bed. His arm was bandaged and his head hurt. He still had the strange feeling of being dissociated with his body. A doctor came in and started talking to him. Peter spaced out but felt, heard, himself giving answers. He came back to when the doctor pulled the IV out of his arm (the right one, the one not wrapped in bandages) and thrust papers at him to sign. His hand scrawled out Pete Wentz on each of them and felt himself sitting up and pulling on real clothing.
He suddenly found himself facing a mirror and as he made contact with his own eyes something happened. He felt the floor beneath him, felt the pains in his arm, and felt the coolness of the room. He frowned and realized he missed the feeling of not having to control his own body.
He left the room and waved at the nurses on his way out. On the street outside the hospital he hailed a cab and went home.
He sat at a table and tried to write. The old fashioned way, with paper and pen. Instead of his own words on the paper though, he found somebody else's. He watched his hand write in an unfamilar script.
What the fuck were you trying to pull? You could've seriously fucking hurt us! Killed us, is that what you wanted? What? Peter wrote the word carefully, fully thinking that he was for sure crazy, not just maybe. But, something in himself used his hand to write the next few words. Jesus, don't tell me you haven't realized. Realized what? You haven't? Really? Dumb-ass. You're a fucking multiple. A what? Kid, are you for real? After all this and you still can't venture a guess? Go Google it or something. I'm tired of you.
Peter waited for something else to spring onto paper, but it didn't happen. He waited a long time in his seat at his kitchen table until, slowly, he walked over to the couch and opened his laptop. He typed the word 'multiple' in Google Search, and read.
The next time his 'alter' assaulted him he was ready. He fought back as hard as he could but he was only laughed at and pushed casually to a corner of his mind, where he was surprised to find others...