Breathe Me Back To Life •Patrick Stump+Fall Out Boy•

Chapter Thirty Nine: Ain't It Good To Be On Your Own?

||Patrick Stump|| First Person||

I've probably been at Pete's place for an hour, just talking like old times and trying to forget about everything crazy that's been happening to us all. All I know is that it's nearly eleven o clock at night when Pete's closing the door after I step out of his hotel room. I lean against the hallway wall, blowing out a breath of cool air. I love Cole and nothing will ever change that. I just wish Derek would be a man and stop disappearing whenever we came around.

I would love to kill him.

The thing with Cole is that she hates asking for help. It might not seem like it, but she only asks for help when it's absolutely necessary. She tends to feel like she's weak when she can't handle something on her own, even if it would break her bones if she were to do it by herself. That's the problem with her. With the whole Derek thing, she can't do it by herself. She needs our help, but she feels weak and fragile when she takes our help. Like when Derek beat her up, she knew she couldn't fight him by herself, but she felt bad about it. And when we got separated today and was chased by Derek, she felt bad that she relied on Joe to keep her safe. When I left her an hour or two ago to hang out with Pete, she kind of just sat there and stared vacantly at the television screen. Like maybe the images would swallow her up. She feels bad for asking help, but she needs to realize that she is not weak for getting a little bit of help.

I dig my hands into the pockets of my black skinny jeans for the room key, slipping it into the lock of the hotel room. I half expected to see Cole in bed, fast asleep, or in that in between place she finds herself in because of her insomnia, but she hasn't even been in her bed yet. The TV is still on MTV, a stupid reality rerun buzzing in the background. It was on that channel when I left two hours ago. The only thing strange about this picture is that the window curtains are open. I walk over to the window, peering out into the moonlit streets of Whistler for a moment before I flick the curtains together.

Drip,

Drip,

Drip.

Bathroom. Of course, she was in the bathroom. I cross the room from the window, feeling some sort of déjà vu that someone has done the exact same actions not long ago. I shrug my shoulders and knock on the door lightly, clearing my throat. "Cole?" I get no answer except for that steady drip of water. I sigh and knock again. "Cole, are you in there?" Still, no answer. I jam my nail into the extremely weak lock, twisting it into an unlocked position before I push the door open.

Holy smokes.

Cole is in the bathtub, in her pajamas, her eyes shut. The old T-shirt she's wearing is lifting up slightly, exposing her abdomen. Her right arm is hanging over the side of the tub, and I find three jagged slits that are still bloody and blotchy around them on each arm. She is almost completely submerged under the tainted water, her head just barely totally underneath.

Unconscious.

"Cole," I trip over to the bathtub, barely taking note of my razor blade covered in dry blood on the floor. I don't know how long she's been in there, but she's deathly pale as I hook my hands underneath her arms and lift her up. She's heavier than usual, and I'm careful to put her on the green bath rug. Her pajamas cling to her body with water, her shirt damp and her pants wet. I look at her hands, three cuts lining each wrist. "SOMEBODY HELP!

"You forgot something." I mumbled into her hair. I bet she would have raised an eyebrow, but I couldn't see her face.

"Forgot what?"

"The promise."

She pulled back from the hug and looked me dead straight in the eye. I noticed that she was staring into my eyes, her lips parting slightly as if she almost forgot to speak. "I promise I won't do something that stupid again."