Brendon P.O.V.
Patrick seemed like he was finally getting better.
He has gained some of his color back and stopped throwing up constantly. The doctors were able to take the stitches out of his head, but he had a nasty scar that might be permanent.
But another thing I was worried about: he had gotten really skinny. Most of what he ate, he threw back up. So he didn't really eat. He had been eating a little more lately, but still not enough in my opinion.
His arm was thickly wrapped in bandages. I still hadn't seen his arm yet. Patrick had, though. And he wouldn't let me see it. Like he was embarrassed or something.
"Bren, it looks disgusting. Trust me, you don't want to see it," he had said to me.
I don't care how Patrick looks. He'll always Patrick, a cute little dude who would take a bullet for someone.
One day, after almost a month of Patrick being in the hospital, I decided to surprise him.
Patrick had been pretty down lately. He's disappointed about letting the fans down, despite everyone saying it was okay and wishing him well on Twitter.
He isn't even worried about himself, he's worried about the fans. That's the thing about Patrick. He's literally in a hospital bed, miserable (and stunning, I might add), and he's thinking about the fans.
So I decided to bring Patrick his guitar to cheer him up. He's always happiest around music, whether it's listening to it or making it.
I texted Pete that I was at the hospital and to let us in. He opened the door and I saw Patrick looking sad in his bed. "Hey, man. I got a surprise for you," I said.
His head looked up, but his eyes were still full of sadness. "What?" he said, no real emotion in his voice.
I grabbed his guitar from outside the doorway and showed him. Suddenly, he sat up and his eyes were bright and happy.
"There he is," Pete said with a grin.
I set the guitar in his lap. He placed his left hand in front of the strings, but I saw him looking at the fretboard. Just looking.
His right hand just lay limp on the bed. Oh shit.
Pete and I looked at each other. His eyes were full of fear and sadness. I assumed mine were the same.
We looked back at Patrick and saw silent tears dripping down his cheeks. I moved the guitar and wrapped him up in a hug. Pete joined us.
I felt my t shirt getting wet with his tears. "I can never play guitar again," he whispered, more to himself than to us.
I pulled away. "No, Patrick. You just need time to heal-"
"Brendon!" he shouted. "It's been a month. If it's not healed by now, is it ever going to? And my voice has been scratchy ever since the fire. My throat constantly hurts. I'm fucked up. I ruined the god damn band!"
Then I saw doubt in his eyes. "Wait a minute," he whispered. "I was never that good... My voice was always horrible. Fall Out Boy will find a new singer while I rot away in this damn hospital bed." He almost sounded like he was talking to himself.
Pete pushed me out of the way. He enveloped Patrick in a hug and said ,"Patrick, we will never ever leave you. We would never find a new singer. We would never ever get a new singer for Fall Out Boy. Patrick, you were my little golden boy. Without you, we would still be in basements. Hell, I wouldn't be alive! 'Trick, never, ever think that we would continue the band if you couldn't."
Patrick let go of Pete and scooted back into his bed. "Pete, I'm not that important. Don't break up just because my bad voice got worse. And I can't play guitar for shit. I'm not worth breaking up over..."
Pete was about to open his mouth and say something, but was cut off by Patrick's heart monitor beeping rapidly. The little line was frantically bouncing up and down.
I grabbed Patrick's hand. "Patrick, I need you to calm down," I said tentatively.
He looked at me with wide eyes, then they scrunched up in pain. "Pete, go get a doctor!" I shouted.
Pete ran out of the room and I took Patrick's face in my hands. "Patrick, look at me."
His eyes were still closed, the pain he was in looking unbearable. "'Trick, look at me, man."
He struggled to keep his eyes open. "Patrick, can you look at me? There you go. Buddy, calm down. Look into my eyes. Focus on me," I said, squeezing his hand.
Suddenly, I was pushed out of the way by doctors and nurses. They took one look at him and said ,"Heart attack."
Oh my god.
Pete and I backed up, not wanting to get in the doctor's way. We didn't want to do anything that could... oh god... kill him.
The fast beeping from the heart monitor suddenly stopped. I couldn't see Patrick from all the people surrounding him, but I'm guessing it wasn't good.
One doctor started doing CPR on his chest, but the steady beeeeeeep kept sounding.
The CPR wasn't working. A doctor got an AED from under the bed and stuck the paper stickers on his chest. He said ,"Clear!" and pressed the paddles to his chest.
Patrick's back arched, but he didn't wake up.
They did it again. "Clear!" the doctor shouted.
His eyes stayed closed.
They repeated the process several times.
He still didn't open his beautiful ocean colored eyes.
"Time of death: 4:05 PM."
