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

Chapter Forty Five: Sometimes To Stay Alive, You Gotta Kill Your Mind

Don't forget to read the italics because they're really important- anyways, I dedicate this to yesnomaybeidrk for being really nice and supportive.

||Cole Wentz|| First Person||

"Cole, just breathe." Tyler Joseph is telling me through the receiver in my smartphone. I listen to his voice as he goes on. "It's going to be okay."

"I want to just claw into my head and turn my brain off." I tell him. I mainly have his number and know him because his band, twenty one pilots toured with Panic! and FOB in 2013. Him and Josh Dun seemed like cool people, so when Mom and Dad got sick of me wasting my free time, I'd visit the guys on tour for a week or so. They were the opening band, so when the others were playing, I'd hang out with them. "Just for a little while."

"You give your head too much control, Cole." Tyler tells me softly, and I can imagine him fiddling with the collar of his baggy shirt. "You're in charge."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Just listen to Pete because he knows what he's talking about. I'll visit you as soon as I can, I swear." Tyler says. I hear mumbling in the background, and then Josh Dun's voice is clearer.

"AYY, COLE!" He shouts. "I miss you! Did Tyler say we'd visit you guys in Vaughn? Canada's Wonderland?"

"Somewhat." I was aware of a concert/festival happening in Vaughn because that would be the last show in the lineup. Twenty one pilots, along with All Time Low and bands like them, would be doing thirty minute sets as the closing of the Discomposed Composers tour.

"Well, we have to go, but we'll see you in a few weeks!" Josh says, and I can already picture his smile. "Bye!" Him and Tyler chorus together before we're hanging up.

A few weeks.

Thirty minutes later, I'm shaking in my skin, pacing back and forth in the bunk area, my hands clasping around the back of my neck. I let my fingernails dig into my skin, not even feeling pain at all. I bit them down too much to the point I can't pierce the skin and tear into my mind. I'm trembling, lowering myself into a seated position. I wrap my arms around my legs and rock back and forth, my hand jerking up to look at my left arm. I trace the indentations of my palm, digging my nails into the line and tracing my way down to my bandaged wrists. I glare at the gauze, almost ripping it off and clawing at the cuts beneath them.

I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane.

Whether it's the weather

Or the letters by my bed

Sometimes death seems better

Than the migraine in my head.

I pick at the loose the thread on my grey sweatpants, wrapping the string around my index finger, ignoring the tightening pain as I yank it out. I unwrap the string and flick my wrist, watching the thread float lightly to the ground like a light feather in the wind. I shake my head for the billionth time, just wanting to feel something other than this numbing pain.

Please let me paint a mental picture portrait

Something you won't forget,

It's all about my forehead

And how it is a door that holds back contents

That make Pandora's box's contents look non-violent!

I can't be alone, not again, not when I'm like this. I want to call for my brother or my boyfriend, but a sudden pulse in my head sends me reeling forward. I'm clutching my head in between my palms, pressing my forehead harder into the carpeted ground.