Hand of God (Peterick Fanfic)

Part Twenty-Eight (Clinic)

i'm aware the timeline is probably messed up a little. shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh :))

heads up - this chapter contains various things that aren't true/are inaccurate

i just finished writing the last 3 chapters (including this one) and heads up: this chapter and the last ones are pretty long but the 29th isn't very long (at all. unless i edit it, which i probably will haha). anyway, enjoy it while it lasts.

ok, so, leave a comment below on what you want me to do with the last two chapters. post one a week from now, and the other a week from then? post them both tomorrow? post them a couple days apart? lemme know what you guys want, because then it'll be over<3

POV: Patrick

March 29, 2013. The day the band convinced me to get on a bunch of medication, right after a show in New Zealand, no less. Brendon played no small role, either. So here we are, April 1st, 2013, heading to a fucking clinic. 

Pete's driving, and I'm attempting to breathe evenly. Oh, man, I do not want to do this. But maybe I'll be okay. Maybe I'll get medication, and then I'll feel good. 

Or maybe they'll hand me a bottle of pills and I'll swallow every single one of them at once. 

I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Don't think that, what the fuck? No. No, no, no. I'm gonna get better. I'm gonna be alright. 

Too soon, the car is stopped. Too soon, we're walking in the doors. Being able to sit in the lobby and wait is a small comfort. There's paperwork to be filled out, so I focus on that instead of how anxious I am. Pete nods encouragingly. After I drop the clipboard and papers off with the secretary, I stay in the lobby, staring at the door that the doctor or nurse must come out of. 

When they call for me, I am shaking. When they tell Pete it'd be best for him to wait in the lobby, I panic. I swing around to face him, my eyes bulging. His face softens, but he gives me an encouraging smile. I do not want to leave him here. 

"Go ahead," he says, almost a whisper. "I'll wait here." All I can do is nod.

When they perform all of the routine checkup inspections, I am numb. When I wait in the room for the doctor, I feel like crying. I sit close to the armrest of the chair, forever wishing Pete was sitting next to me. I clasp my hands together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it doesn't really help.

Then a nurse comes in, and when she opens the door I jump. Why am I so jittery? Calm down. She asks a couple questions -- if I have allergies, if I'm on any other medication, things like that. I tell her no, and do my best to answer the questions. Then she leaves and says the doctor will be in soon. I've forgotten his name already -- or was it a woman? I do not know. 

A soft knock on the door. I take a deep breath and wring my right wrist with my left hand. 

A woman opens the door -- so it was a woman, then -- and smiles kindly. She has soft brown eyes, a little lighter than Pete's. Her chestnut-colored hair matches. Her smile eases a small knot in my stomach. She seems kind. I notice my fingernails digging into my hands and part them, rubbing my sweaty palms down my legs. 

"I'm Doctor Evanson, and you must be Patrick." I nod again. 

"Before we get you on any medication, I'm gonna have to ask you a couple questions, is that alright?"

More nodding.

"Have you spoken to a psychiatrist?"

This time, I shake my head. I knew that I might be able to get a better diagnosis from a psychiatrist, but I did not want to deal with the hassle. Maybe I'll consider that if this doesn't work out.