The earliest memory Patrick remembers was of when he was a child, small hands, careless thoughts, and a world of wonder for him to explore, was his mother, cradling him in her arms and singing lullabies that he's since lost to time. Baby blues, blond strands, a white blanket. Maybe it was all a dream, but there's something inside of Patrick that doesn't feel that way. It was the way he would stare up under the sky, going around and around on a ferris wheel that never ended.

            He remembers it all vaguely, the screams of the children on rollercoasters and teacups in the background of the fair. He doesn't know what fair, or even if it was a fair in the first place, but he does remember it resembled a fair. He remembers the smell of kettle corn and hamburgers and hot dogs and all the others that would run from ride to ride and all of the darts thrown at balloons and the stuffed toys but what resonates with him most is the way his mother smiled. It was wider, toothier, and brighter than anyone he'd ever seen. He remembers his mother vaguely, he remembers the way she would kiss the other man, but he was not his father. He knows that. Even if biologically, they say he is, he is not. He will never be.

            Other than that, Patrick doesn't remember his childhood as much as he wished he did. He doesn't remember anything, really, but he rarely questions it. He just remembers the fair when he was a baby, and that grin, and the blond hair. The same blond hair that covers his head now. The same blond hair that falls unto his pillow when he screams at night and rips it out, sending pain to his scalp that numbs.

            Patrick remembers his mother, though. It is his earliest memory. Something to grasp when all else seems to slip through his fingers. Patrick loves the thought of having someone out there somewhere that he belongs to and being here just seems to reinforce that prayer. There is something out there for him, though it is far away, it is there. If only he could find it, he knows it would be okay.

            But now, he is in pain, too much pain to be able to think or to focus or anything. He is in his bed, he is gripping his pillow and he is screaming at the voices in his head, pleading them to stop. They tell him to fall off the roof, they tell him to slice his wrists and drown in an ocean, they tell him to mix the bleach and the ammonia they have under their sink and to bathe in the mixture. They tell him to open himself up for them. They claw at his sides, they claw at his clothing, they touch him where he screams for them not to, and they only laugh at his anguish. They only laugh because he is pathetic and weak. They laugh because he is afraid and they laugh because he wants them to stop, but they will not stop.

            Patrick is choking on his tears, a hand around his throat when they fade into the blackness in the distance, and he sees the hands fade into his room, gone. And they are gone. Patrick is shuddering, and he is heaving and he is gasping for breath. His stomach is twisting painfully and he is afraid, he is terrified that the wires are going to wrap around him and drag him down in to the darkness.

            She is there, though, and she strokes his hair as he sobs into the pillow, shaking, trying to breathe despite the fact that he is gagging on saliva and bile and he is begging it to stop but the aftermath is still coursing through his body. The wires are twisting around him but he is safe. He knows he is safe. He chokes on air as he blinks and she is gone, in her place is him and he jerks away, gasping as their eyes meet. He has no wires, he is okay. Patrick coughs, several times, and he asks if he is okay, as if he would know what Patrick is going through. Patrick doesn't say anything, he looks away, glaring and the man sighs. He is looking for pity that Patrick does not have.

            "Are you okay?"

            Silence.

            "Patrick?"

            Silence.

            He sits on the side of Patrick's bed, taking up his space, his room, his area and he feels violated, more than the hands and the wires. The man says something else, TV static, and Patrick watches as he stands and leaves, with one final sigh. Patrick is holding back tears as he leaves, and Patrick wipes them away as soon as he's out of sight, then shuts his door and locks it. Nobody else is allowed in this room. Not ever, he decides.

            Patrick is staring at the ground under him, he is trying to comprehend it, but he lets it leave with his thoughts of the hands and the wires and the men who stalk him. He shuts his window, closes the curtain, paranoid, and he puts on three more t-shirts and another pair of jeans before pulling on a hat and laying down, trying to ignore the ghosts.

            Someone calls for dinner. Patrick does not go down. He sits and grabs his journal and a pen and he writes down the date. 11-15.

            /i am tired./ Patrick never uses contractions, they are for people who are lazy and people without wires, /sleep has not come around for a few weeks, maybe months, who knows. i do not know how much longer i can keep this up before they find me out. the hands are coming for me and they are not going to stop if she does not protect me. i fear for the day she will not be here, because i know it is coming. she is ill. i wish i could meet her. but it will not happen soon. she is gone. and i am here.

            /i've said it too many times but i don't know where she is. i want to find that ferris wheel. it is out there somewhere, i do not know where. but it's somewhere. i wonder, sometimes, if i will ever find it or if it is lost. a lot of things in my life seem to become lost. the voices are lost, she is lost. i am lost. my memories are lost. maybe deep down, i know them, but i do not know if i want to know them./

            Patrick's eyes rise from the notebook to the door.

            /i do not know if i want to know them.

            /i have counseling tomorrow night, i am not excited, but nobody ever is for these things, unless they're insane, or just too dumb to care. i don't know who will be there, i don't know if anyone cares enough to be there right now unless their parents force them there.

            /i am not ready./

——

            "Welcome back everyone," Dr. Grove, Steven, as he prefers everyone call him says, "It's nice to see all these new and old faces here."

            Patrick looks around. He sees May, as always. David, and Adam, and Sam, and then a couple newer faces that he hasn't seen before, but he also doesn't care to see again. Dr. Grove parts his lips, "Now, let's go ahead and do introductions. Say your name, and one thing you like."

            Dr. Grove looks to his left, and a few people go. May, David, a girl named Savannah. Then Adam, Maria. Dr. Grove looks to Patrick when all attention turns to him, "Do you have your notebook today?"

            Patrick's been diagnosed as 'selectively mute' by Dr. Grove, as a side effect of his... 'obstacles' as he calls them. So, Patrick has a notebook on him, for his writing, but Dr. Grove suggested he give his words out through the pages. Patrick disliked that idea more than he could comprehend and had been taken home that session.

            But, what Patrick has learned is some sign language, it defeats the purpose of being mute, but it helps in situations where he absolutely has to say something. He raises a hand, fingernails bitten down, reddened by his constant rubbing. He gets it out, though. P-A-T-R-I-C-K. He then gets back to sketching in his notebook. He isn't sure what, or who, but it's something.

            "And would you like to share one thing you like?'

            Patrick doesn't give him even a glance of acknowledgement, just rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath before releasing slowly, calming that temper that comes in a heartbeat and leaves at the snap of your fingers.

            "Alright," Dr. Grove smiles as he looks to the boy beside Patrick who introduces himself as Sam, and finally Harriet. Dr. Grove begins the actual counseling once everyone's come through and given a name, "Today, we're going to talk about how trauma has affected our mental health. I know many of us have different... obstacles in our life. Schizophrenia, DID, BPD, PTSD." Patrick's sure he's just spouting letters. "And often what enforces whatever trauma we went through can be those obstacles. Personality Disorders and Delusions tend to really make it harder to recover from trauma and other obstacles we went through, so let's go around the circle and we can start a discussion about how our own mental obstacles can make it hard to recover from trauma."

            Patrick rolls his eyes from where he sits at his seat and decides it's probably time to block out what they're saying because he doesn't care. He's never been through trauma, as far as he knows. And he sure as hell doesn't think he has personal obstacles.

            "Patrick?"

Patrick looks up.

            Dr. Grove gives out an artificial smile, "Can you tell us how your personal obstacles have made your trauma harder to recover from?"

            Patrick shrugs, unsure of what to say, and looks back down at the paper. He doesn't think Dr. Grove should be the counselor in these stupid group sessions. As much as Patrick hates him, it's strengthened by the fact that he has no wires that pull him into blackness. Almost everyone else here does. May has three, Maria has one, Adam has four, Sam and Harriet both have one. Savannah and David both have none, but Patrick can tell they used to have some by the redness of their wrists and the purple under their eyes. They are colorful masterpieces that the wires painted themselves.

            At Patrick's extended silence, Dr. Grove hums, as if it's interesting what he just did, not answering that question.

            Patrick feels something wrap around his wrist and he jerks his hand up, forcing the wire away. The difference between the wires that always stay with you and the wires that try to drag you away is how thin or thick they are. The wires that wrap around your wrists and make you struggle are copper, thin, but they wrap strong and tug, they make you want to follow them, but Patrick knows what happens when they pull you along with them. Then the ones that stay with you, they are like tree trunks, they wrap and twist and they push straight into your heart, they are larger, and they

            Patrick sees a wire around Adam's wrist, but Adam doesn't budge, and Patrick feels his heart sink. The wire is going to take him tonight. But it isn't his life, not his problem. The wires are the only ones who can decide that.

            By the time counseling is over, Patrick is the first out, and he's following the man, who he's supposed to call his "Dad" out to the car. He has a simple life. He has no wires. None. He is a foster parent and he is not Patrick's father. He is a man who is supposed to replace Patrick's old father, who is a man that Patrick doesn't associate with at all. He doesn't remember his real father, but he remembers his mother. That is all he remembers. Then he remembers the past few years he's had with this man, Mr. York. He told Patrick to call him Dad, but if that was too hard, then Eunice was okay. But Patrick doesn't call him Eunice. He calls him Mr. York, or just York. He's undeserving of something more than just York because he is not Patrick's father. He's someone that is a replacement with a wife who can't have kids, so they became foster parents.

            Patrick doesn't like the system. He vaguely remembers being with other families, Davidsons lasted a month, before that it was Love, and before that Sanchez. Before Sanchez, Patrick barely remembers, he was small at the time, maybe eleven or twelve, but he thinks it was the Barley's for a while. Maybe three or four months. They lasted alright but they had a kid and they decided their life became too full for Patrick and Patrick was no longer a priority. So Patrick left,, and he was with Sanchez. It was Mary and Cylis Sanchez, and they loved Patrick, probably more than any other family, but Patrick didn't believe in love, he still doesn't. He is 17 now and he doesn't think it's important. It's an excuse to breed, an excuse to hate. Love gives people wires, and lost hope and it makes people like Dr. Grove turn into people like Patrick.

            Patrick doesn't like people who don't have wires. He agrees that people are better off without them, or recovering from them, but he just doesn't bond with people who don't know them. He thinks it may be because people like to think they suffer most, but it's never long lasting, it never hurts like Patrick knows it does. It's here, and it leaves. The wires never leave.

            Patrick doesn't know how he got the wires, though, and he wishes he did, but he also knows he would probably regret it. Adam has four wires, and Patrick's heard details of what he's been through. He was raped, when he was little, and then again when he was ten, and another time when the was fourteen. There was a family member who sexually abused him and since then, he's identified himself as asexual, maybe because he doesn't think he could ever have sex after what he went through again, or maybe because he just doesn't feel comfortable with it, but Patrick knows it has something to do with abuse. Or trauma.

            May has three wires, Patrick doesn't know her well, but he knows her mother committed suicide right before her eyes, and it made things hard for her since. Her father, committed suicide later that year and tried to bring her down with him, but she managed to get away to her uncle's house. Her father killed himself anyways, and she was left in the care of her uncle. She doesn't comprehend things easily, she has PTSD and BPD, though. It makes her irrational, arrogant, and impulsive. Patrick's seen the wires reaching for her wrists, too, but she swipes them away, though. He knows she doesn't see them, but he knows that she feels the wires trying to pull her away. She doesn't let them.

            He doesn't think he's met anyone else with wires besides the kids at his foster house. There are three other kids who live there with them. A boy, his name is Justin. Then a girl named Juliet, and a boy named Caleb. Justin doesn't have any wires, but he is small. Patrick knows he will develop them. Juliet has five, which is the most Patrick thinks he's ever seen. And Caleb has two. Juliet doesn't talk about what gave her the wires. Patrick's asked, and she's always given him a strange glance, somewhere between anguish and confusion and sadness. There is a lot of sadness inside of her, more than Patrick can truly draw from her, but he tries to let it go.

            But the most wires that Patrick has ever seen on a person, is himself. They like to pull from the back of his heart and sometimes when he isn't thinking, his heart skips a beat and he has to gasp to get it back to pace. He thinks it's the wires that do that, but he isn't sure. But he sees wires. Too many to count. Sometimes he is able to count them, but there are a lot of them. The highest he's gotten to is eleven, maybe twelve. There are enough that they do not wrap like a tree trunk, they are all singular and stick out like a porcupine, and they leave to God knows where.

            Patrick doesn't have as many wires on his wrists, but they're much more frequent than they are on others. Sometimes the wires try to scratch into his wrists, but he always swipes them away, and he always makes sure they never stay on too long or else they begin to drag him away.

            The wires usually only ever come at nights when the hands come as well, and when Patrick feels himself sinking on his boat to the drifts below where anyone's ever discovered before. This boat is always out in the middle of nowhere and somehow, it always finds its buoyancy. Patrick doubts it matters, though, because the wires bring us all down someday.

            By the time Mr. York's brought them home, Patrick's too deep in thought to say anything to him. It's raining outside, and the day is coming to an end in the distance as the sun sets on a pink and black horizon. Mr. York asks him something, but Patrick doesn't hear, he heads inside, grabs himself a bite of whatever the hell Mrs. York made and follows his own feet upstairs to his room. The house is big enough that they all can get their own rooms. Justin is sitting on Patrick's bed when he reaches the room and he rolls his eyes, pointing to the door for Justin to get out but Justin stays.

            "Patrick, can we play?"

            Patrick shakes his head.

            "Please? We never play, and I'm lonely. Juliet and Caleb won't play cuz they're downstairs playing Mario."

            Then go play Mario, Patrick thinks. He shakes his head and grabs Justin's hand before pulling him up and pushing him out the door, shutting the door right after and locking it. Patrick sighs, pulls down the bags of his eyes and falls back into bed, trying to keep his temper in check. Justin calls for him on the other side, whining, and Patrick only pulls a pillow over his face and groans silently, barely a whisper. He hates the kids here, he really fucking does, and maybe it's just his own thoughts and the fact that everyone in this stupid world never has a fucking wire and the only ones who do, don't ever know him that well, they just look away and pretend he isn't there.

            One of the things that bothers him most about those with the wires, though, is how distant and dead they look on the inside. Maybe it's just because he can't remember but, there's something about it all that makes him feel bad, not sympathetic, though, just bad. Wrong. It isn't right to him, and there's something about it that makes him so anxious, like they're going to lash out at any moment and tell him off. He isn't like the rest of them. He has no memory. And he doesn't want a memory.

            Patrick begins crying then, he isn't sure why, if he feels any sort of badness to it or if it's just because he feels like crying, but he does. He's quiet, muffled by the pillow under him as it slowly turns more and more wet with his tears and spit. The hands don't come for him as he excepts, they keep their distance and they stay as far away as they possibly can. He guesses it isn't late enough. He guesses the wires are wrapped around their fingers.

            The darkness slowly overcomes his room, he stops crying eventually, and he just stares at the way the light outside of his window fades and the sheet that covers the glass slowly grows less and less illuminated until it's completely black outdoors. He is not surprised. The sun has set now, and the world outside is drowned in thunder and rain and the tears of the clouds. It's like a blanket that covers the sky, holes cut and snipped from the material to show the stars. He doesn't see many stars out here, not with all the light pollution and he doesn't care enough about the universe to want to leave the light pollution. Patrick finds himself sitting there for a few hours. Justin left a while ago and he's depressed by the way he just sits there, staring at his clock, and counting his heartbeat and his breaths. Counting the amount of steps that creak through the house. Counting the light switches as Mr. and Mrs. York tuck Justin and Caleb and Juliet into bed.

            He counts the amount of objects in his room, and he counts the seconds as they pass. And he counts the hours as they pass from five to six to eight to eleven. He just counts. That's often the only thing that can bring himself away from the things that bother him most. Counting. He sniffles, his nose stuffy from the dust in his room, he never cleans it. But sometimes if he's on a mania, he feels the urge to put everything back in its place.

            Patrick doesn't tire when eleven turns to one and he can hear the vague chirping of birds from their backyard. He never tires when the wires are out there for him and everything is coming down fast on him. Patrick loves nothing more than he loves the way he screams when the wires loop around his wrists as they do now. He does not scream, though. He only feels a tear escape his eyes as the hands wrap around his throat. Maybe this is his trauma coming back to hurt him. Maybe this is the trauma bringing him back down to the ground. Maybe this is what the wires mean. Maybe this is what he was meant for. To be used and abused and hated and hurt. He cannot breathe as the hands tug hard on his hair, he cannot breathe as it chokes him into the bed and he cannot breathe as he grips for the hands to stop. He chokes, he gasps for air and he cries out, but they will not leave him.

He whispers out for them to stop, but the wires have him pulled down. He cannot move, he is losing his vision, it is black on the edges and right as his eyes close to accept this death, they jolt open and he finally fills his lungs as they scream. He is staring at the wall opposite his bed. The hands are gone, and the only wires around are the ones pulling on his heart and the one wrapping around his wrist, dragging him back to the bed. Patrick swipes it away, and coughs hard as he wipes away the tears. He cries, more than he thought he would. Oceans pour from his eyes and his head is in the clouds as he grips his hair, those blond locks. His mother wouldn't be proud, not even if she knew what was wrong with him. She would not be proud, not if she knew how hard he cried, not if she knew about the wires. She would leave him. He is weak. His guard is down. Everything is low, and he is running out of time.

            He knows that there is something worse happening here. Patrick just isn't sure what yet. Or how he can stop it. Or anything. There are too many things at play, there is something wrong. He does not know what. Or how to know.

            Patrick spends the next two hours writing before he finally manages to pass out, he isn't sure what he writes until the following morning, and even then, everything is foggy for him.

            He needs to find out why.

——

            The next morning, Patrick wakes up and drags on a shirt and a sweatshirt. He brushes his teeth, then pukes into the toilet, then brushes his teeth again. He lowers his eyes from the mirror when he sees the way the scars reach his legs and he steps back when he sees them down his arms. He takes a breath, ignores them, and pulls on some jeans to hide the burns and the cuts. The bruises have faded, but the scars are still there. He wishes they weren't. He sniffles again as he buttons the top and leaves the bathroom, pushing the sweatshirt sleeves down to his hands and shoves his hands in his pockets. He greets Justin and Juliet and Caleb and Mr. York and Mrs. York good morning then grabs his textbook and his worksheets for the day before setting up in the living room. Mrs. York smiles at him as she sits in the chair, Juliet and Caleb gathering around. Homeschooling is one of the few things that he will actively participate in. He isn't sure what he wants to be when he gets older but he knows he wants to be something bigger than what he is now. He wants to make an impact.

            Even if it isn't much. The future is out there, everyone has one. He wonders sometimes if he doesn't, though, there is so much that he has that limits him. Dr. Grove says he has schizophrenia, but he knows that is a lie. Dr. Grove also says he suffers from delusions and paranoia, but Patrick also knows that's not true. Dr. Grove says a lot of things that aren't true. Patrick knows that for a fact. Patrick doesn't like Dr. Grove much, though, he doesn't like many people that are men. Maybe it's because most of the men in his life are people Patrick doesn't want anything to do with, or maybe it's because he just hates people, men especially, but he does know he hates Dr. Grove. And Mr. York (especially more than Mrs. York) and he hates Caleb, and he hates Justin. Justin is young, and innocent and pathetic and Patrick wishes he would realize that there's much more to life than Legos and Star Trek and Mario. Patrick knows he is a kid, so maybe Patrick just hates kids.

            "Good morning," Mrs. York says.

            "Good morning," Caleb and Justin and Juliet reply in unison.

            "Yesterday, I think we talked about multiplication," Mrs. York looks back on the worksheet from the day before and Patrick looks toward the wall as she continues on about things Patrick doesn't care about much but knows he has to learn anyways because apparently things like this are requirements for everything out there.

            Mrs. York gives Justin his worksheet, then sets Caleb, Patrick, and Juliet up together. They are both 12 or so, Juliet is 13 but Patrick doesn't think that matters much. Justin is 6 or 7, Patrick can't remember, and Patrick is 17. But Mrs. York says he's at around the same level as Juliet at this point. Patrick isn't sure what that means, but he does definitely feel a little degraded, working with Justin and Juliet.

They're four years younger than him, shouldn't he be smarter at this point? But Mrs. York says it's easiest, and he's closer to a seventh grade level than the twelfth grade level that most kids his age would be at. Again, he has no idea what that means.

            The day goes well. By the time the day is over, it's around three and Patrick has grown tired of English and Math and History and Science. Juliet and Caleb have already gone to the other room, and Mrs. York is working on her knitting as Patrick sits on the couch and watches television. Justin is on the other couch.

            "Patrick, dear?"

            Patrick looks to Mrs. York from the TV and she smiles at him, "I think we're gonna have some hot dogs for dinner tonight. Would you mind running to the store? I can give you some cash."

            Patrick shrugs but before he can get up to grab the money, Justin gasps and jumps up from the couch, "Can I go with Patrick, Linda? Please?"

            Mrs. York, /Linda/, looks to Patrick, then to Justin, then back to Patrick, "Sure, just make sure you pay attention to Patrick, alright honey?"

            "I will!" Justin says, grinning as Patrick internally shoots himself and rubs his face, "I promise."

            "Alright, how about you hold onto the money for Patrick and then you two can run along," Mrs. York smiles, grabbing her purse and pulling out a $20, "Remember the Foster Farms beef, alright?"

            "Yup!" Justin grins. Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes as they leave and Justin begins skipping down the road. Patrick follows the sidewalk behind Justin as they go to the Safeway just down the block and Patrick watches Justin grin stupidly. Patrick hates that grin, probably more than anything right now but he also knows he was probably like that once. A long time ago.

            When they reach the store, Justin is the first one in and immediately heads to the section that sells deli meat and hot dogs. Patrick sighs as he looks through the different types, pork, chicken, turkey, tofu, and beef. He grabs the Foster Farms brand, the type that Mrs. York asked for and shuts the door, as he hands them to Justin, but as he turns to leave, he catches a glance of a man staring at him, and he immediately double takes to see him standing there at the end of the aisle.

            He's staring right at Patrick and he immediately feels his heart stop for a moment, then begin to pumping faster as he realizes that this man isn't here for a hot dog. He's looking at Patrick. Intently. Justin says something, but Patrick doesn't hear it as the man at the end of the aisle smirks slightly. Bleached hair, brushed to one side. A slight goatee, dark brown. And piercing blue eyes. Leather jacket, black denim jeans. He gives off a sideways, nasty smile and then turns and leaves. Patrick's staring at the blank space where he just was, and Justin says something else, a little more worried.

            "Patrick, are you okay?"

            Patrick blinks and looks to see the obvious concern etched into his face. Patrick shrugs, though he knows it was something he couldn't just brush off as nothing. He follows Justin through the aisle back to the cash register but the man is nowhere to be seen.

            An uneasiness settles over him that night. He knows it was probably not anything to be concerned about, but he knows it wasn't nothing.