Chapter Text
It was just another grey day in a long line of them. Patrick threw himself out of bed. Or more accurately off the mattress on the floor, as he still hadn’t gotten around to ordering a bed for his ‘new place’. As he stumbled into the orange-painted kitchen he hoped once again that his new place wouldn’t be his place for very long. He cursed the lack of clean dishes from his four roommates apparent inability to clean a dish. He decided a Friday Tim Hortons run for breakfast wasn’t unreasonable. Especially to fortify him for a day of what was possibly the world’s worst temp job.
The snow had turned to slush in the last few days which made the trudge to the bus stop even less pleasant than usual. And did nothing to stop his mind circling over ‘how the fuck did I get here.’
Really it was just bad luck. Bad timing. Not his fault. That’s what he tried to tell himself. That’s what his Mom kept telling him too. It wasn’t his fault that the firm he’d worked for since graduating was laying off people. The economy had gone to hell, and it was bad luck that he was one of the ones affected. He had options, she reminded him. He could go back to school. Or come home for a bit. Going home felt like giving up. So he’d stuck out six months in the last temp job until they ran out of work for him. And then his lease had been up. A year ago the plan had been to move in with Rachel when his lease was up. But that wasn’t going to happen either.
She hadn’t talked to him in a month. He was relieved. When she talked to him he believed her when she said they could work it out. After eight years of on-off-on-off ‘we can work it out’ he thought they’d know better. He always thought he did. Until they started talking again. And he remembered she was nice and kind. And given he never had any success making anything work with anyone else either, he always ended up going back. So it was better she wasn’t speaking to him this time. She was speaking to his Mom he knew. But he tried not to think about that.
He tried not to think about any of it. He went to work, inputting numbers for data analysis. Nobody really talked to him which most days was fine. But it was also lonely. His roommates didn’t really talk to him either. They were all younger- just graduated but luckily a bunch of computer nerds who liked to spend most of their time in their rooms playing video games. Despite feeling like he was back in College with the dishes, and the lack of cleaning, it was better than the other options he’d seen. And Toronto rents were creeping up. And he’d had to move so fast in the end, when things ended with Rachel, it was this or the room in the old lady with the cats’ house. It could be worse, he reminded himself. It’s only temporary he kept telling himself.
Except it had been another three months.
And he hadn’t seen his friends. Lots of his friends were Rachel’s friends really, so they were out. Baseball was on winter break so he didn’t have that. He hadn’t played hockey in a while so he hadn’t bothered to try out for any teams this winter. A few of his friends from College were here now, like him moved here for a job. But they all seemed to have lives- and girlfriends mostly. He figured they wouldn’t bother with him. So he kept to himself outside work. He went to the movies sometimes, that was a safe solitary activity, and gave his brain a rest for an hour or two. Or he drove out of the city to go hiking. Or he went home to his parents’ house for the weekend. His Mom joked- half joked- he spent so much time there he might as well move home. But that felt like giving up. So he trudged through the grey slush once again.
The smallest thing could set him off lately. Today it was his coffee. He hadn’t been paying attention. And when the girl behind the counter had said ‘regular’ he’d said ‘yes’ and now his coffee had sugar in it. And it was disgusting. On impulse he threw it into a passing trash can. Then was annoyed at himself for wasting the coffee- and the four dollars. He flopped down and tried to eat his bagel. It tasted like straw in his mouth. He threw that away too. He was so angry at himself. His on-the-way-to-work breakfast was the one treat he had to look forward to. Hell it was currently the only thing he had to look forward to. And it was ruined. In a vile mood now he stormed towards the office.
He wasn’t looking where he was going as he crossed the street and a car screeched to a halt as it tried to swerve around him. It missed him by a fraction. He held his hands up in apology and scurried across the street. An elderly lady waiting to cross on the other side asked if he was ok, he nodded a yes and rounded a corner out of the way of prying eyes.
He was shaking a bit with the adrenaline. But he was fine. He leaned against the wall of the corner convenience store. And breathed. It was fine. He was fine.
And that was the first time he thought it:
‘What if I’d let it hit me.’
It started as an innocent question ‘what if it had hit me.’ but it morphed into ‘what if I let it’ quickly. Too quickly.
But there it was.
Not enough to- he barely let himself think this part-kill him. He told himself. Just enough that maybe he’d be in the Hospital. A broken leg. Some broken ribs. Something. Enough to give him a break. An excuse not to be making progress in life. Just an excuse to check out for a bit. That would be enough.
He shook his head and made his way to work. Dropping into the convenience store to buy a granola bar and an energy drink. The Korean man who ran it, who Patrick spoke to on his lunchtime trips there sometimes, was chipper and friendly and snapped him out of it a bit. He pushed the thought away. Stupid of him.
A week later, the same thought was back. This time he’d been standing on a corner after work, heading for a drink with an old College buddy he’d forced himself to send a message to. He was dreading it. Feeling like all he had was bad news. He didn’t want to talk to a virtual stranger about bad news. A Streetcar was coming down the hill, and he heard a voice in his head asking ‘what if you walked out?’ again, he wasn’t looking for it to kill him. He just wanted an out. He wanted a break, a reason not to go to this stupid drink where he’d end up feeling stupid and worthless all over again.
When the drink was every bit as bad as he imagined he went over and over that moment in his mind.
A few weeks later, he asked to leave work early. He only had one week left of the miserable job anyway. He faked a migraine and asked to go home. He walked instead of getting the bus. And every street corner he had the same thought. ‘What if I just let the car hit me.’ he was running out of alternative answers too. So what if they hit him he mostly came back to. It wasn’t like he actively wanted to step out in front of a car he just...couldn’t think of many reasons not to. And the dark voice at the back of his mind also said ‘as long as it didn’t kill you, you could have a break.’ The idea of laying in a hospital bed, where nobody could argue that he should be doing something, doing better, should feel better. If his only job was to heal from some actual physical injury for a bit. That would be the break he needed. He made himself laugh at the dark pun.
You couldn’t just break your arm playing hockey or something? He asked himself. And he was ok for a bit.
When it finally happened, he was the one in the car. He was driving home from his parents. He’d cried once he’d turned away from their street. It wasn’t the first time. It was the first time he’d realised that a car could have the same effect. Perhaps a better one. Maybe it would be better, his brain told himself, late on that Sunday night. Maybe it was better if he just...wasn’t here anymore? So quickly the realisation stacked up. So quickly that he didn’t even register he’d made the decision.
It wasn’t really a decision, more an absence of one. He didn’t break. At the busy intersection, barely ten minutes from his parents’ house. He just didn’t break. Halfway through the collision instinct took over and he tried to steer to safety. But it was too late. His car was certainly wrecked. ‘I can’t afford to replace it’ followed by ‘My Dad’s gonna kill me’ were the last things he remembered thinking.
He woke up in the hospital and they told him he had broken ribs, and his arm and a cut to his head- and a concussion to go with it. That he’d likely go home the next day. He was lucky, they said. Clearly his brakes had failed on the ice, lucky he’d slowed down for the intersection, any faster and it could have been far worse. He nodded along, asked questions about recovery time, and felt a wave of relief when they suggested at least a couple of weeks off work. He didn’t like to say that once again he didn’t have a job to go back to. But the excuse not to find a new crappy temp job for a few weeks was nice. He closed his eyes and let the painkillers lull him to sleep for a bit.
When he woke up, his Mom and Dad were there. He’d protested that it was late, that they should go home that he was fine. They insisted that of course they’d come as soon as the Doctor had called. It wasn’t as late as he thought, his brain felt fuzzy and scrambled. His Dad offered to go and find some snacks so he didn’t have to eat the hospital food, and he accepted gratefully. When he was gone, his Mom pulled her chair up closer to the bed and fixed him with a look of concern.
‘Is everything ok honey?’ she asked, ‘I mean, aside from this?’
‘Sure Mom.’ he lied, but he couldn’t stop a flicker of something across his face. He wasn’t very good at lying to his parents. Curse of being an only child. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You haven’t been yourself. Don’t argue with me. And this accident, it’s not like you, you’re such a careful driver. They said you didn’t stop? At the intersection? You’ve been driving that route since you were 18, I just wondered…’
‘What Mom?’ he snapped. ‘Sorry.’ he muttered ‘Look like they said, it was the ice, it was, stupid I wasn’t careful is all.’ he looked down, at his arm in a cast, and felt the pain in his ribs shoot through him and closed his eyes against it. ‘And you know, other than that things haven’t been great but…’ somehow he longed to tell his Mom the truth suddenly. To beg her to help him. But he didn’t know what with. He didn’t have the words for whatever he was feeling.
‘Honey, you know you can tell me anything right?’ his Mom reached over and stroked the bit of hair flying loose from the bandages. He’d let it grow for months now, again really unlike him, and it was all over the place. ‘I won’t be angry, I promise.’ she tried to flatten it down, with little success. Her son looked so pale and small. She was sure he’d lost weight too, but she hadn’t asked. He already seemed so beaten down by everything she didn’t want him to feel like she was interfering. But maybe she should have. It all fell into place when they’d got the call, all the fears she’d had and brushed aside. All the things Clint had said she was reading too much into. And she felt terrible. ‘Sweetheart.’ she tried again. ‘Tell me this wasn’t you trying to do something silly?’
He went to reply no. That it had all been a stupid mistake. A total accident. That his car was a piece of crap that needed the breaks fixing. Anything not to admit it. Instead, he felt his face crumple into tears. He lifted his good hand up and covered his face.
‘Patrick sweetie what’s wrong? Are you in pain? Shall I get a Doctor?’
He shook his head and sniffed. ‘Mom?’ he said, his voice small as he dropped his hand and looked down to his lap.
‘Yes honey?’ she resumed stroking his hair. Patiently waiting for him to work out what he needed to say.
‘Mom do you think I could move home for a bit? Just until...I get a bit better.’ he looked over begging her to understand. It took a long second but he saw it register and she nodded with a soft smile. ‘Of course.’ she leaned over and kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll get your Dad to collect your things from the apartment, so you don’t have to go back there, you can come straight home as soon as they discharge you.’
He felt the tears run down his face now. ‘Thanks, Mom.’ he whispered.
She cupped his cheek in her hand. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of.’ she said ‘Sometimes we all need a bit of help.’ he leaned into her and she let her son cry on her for a while. He was still crying softly when his Dad came back.
‘I got chips and chocolate and that’s about all they had.’ Clint said before he noticed Patrick crying. ‘Hey, what’s up? Do you need something can I-’
‘We’re fine.’ Marcy said. ‘Patrick’s just decided he’s going to move back home for a bit.’ she played with his hair again, looking at her husband. ‘Until he feels better.’ she added. ‘I said we’d look after him.’
Clint eased himself onto Patrick’s bed, sitting at his feet. ‘Well of course we will.’ he said. ‘And hey, I forgot to tell you earlier, Pete is selling his son’s old car - it’s far better than yours was anyway, so we can fix it up while you’re arm heals, and have a far better car waiting for you when you’re ready.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Patrick sniffed.
‘Sure.’ Clint said ‘And hey it’ll be nice to have some company at the School Hockey matches again. We could use some tips from a College pro.’ Patrick smiled, his Dad helped coach the Hockey team at the Elementary school his Mom taught at. He liked to tell the kids he coached his son to college-level teams.
‘Yeah, that sounds fun.’ Patrick smiled.
‘Sometimes it’s good to take a breather, Son.’ Clint rested a hand on his leg. ‘Get some sleep and we’ll pick you up tomorrow.’
Patrick nodded his thanks and kissed his Mom goodbye. A break was what he needed, his Dad was right.