By that same time the next day, Patrick is sitting at home, staring at the ceiling in his room watching the minutes tick by like seconds. The world is spinning around him, but he is not spinning with it. He is writing about things that don't make sense and dreaming about things that will never be a reality.

            /a boy came to my dreams last night. maybe it is because of the man yesterday but the hands did not come last night. but there was a boy. he had black hair and sunken eyes and he told me about how horrible life is and how we should all just die because it will happen eventually someday. it resonated with me, but i brushed away the wires anyway and pretended they were not there. Justin has been acting strange lately, it was because of last night, though. at the store, i know it was. he never acts strange like that to me. maybe i am just afraid of change, but i really hope what happened last night didn't mean anything. that man was scary but maybe he was just lost. maybe he just needed some help. i do not think i saw wires on him, but I may have. i was not watching for the wires. i had been looking at him. i had been staring at him and the way his lips had curved. i thought i had seen it before, but maybe not.

            /maybe i am as lost in this world as she is. i think i am. everything is just so strange and scary right now and i do not know if i can take it right now. i have dreams of college and aspirations and i dream of something more out there, but maybe that's all they are. just dreams. dreams that are trying to make me normal even though i am not normal. i am anything but normal. i see the wires and nobody else does. i see things that nobody else does. it scares me. what am i meant for in this world? am i meant to be taken by the wires? am i meant to be tortured by the hands and left for dead? what am I here for?

            /these questions scare me. i am scared but it seems that more and more wires come for me every day. i am afraid.

            /please help me./

            Patrick isn't sure who he is asking for help, but he asks anyways, then turns back through his notebook to the sketch he was working on the other day, at the group therapy. He sees what he was drawing clearer now and he gasps at the sudden realization, then throws his notebook off of his lap, eyes wide in surprise and fear and astonishment.

Before him on the ground, sits the boy from his dreams, reaching out towards something, Patrick isn't sure what, but it's something while wires upon wires plunge into his back and a stain (what Patrick can only assume is blood) stains the front of his shirt. Patrick's art style is cartoonish, but he can tell that that's who it is. It's the exact same boy from the dream. There's no mistaking it. Certainly not for Patrick. He blinks, he doesn't know how he knew, what made him draw it, but he knows this is no coincidence. Patrick takes a deep breath, and he tries to play it off. He picks up the notebook, and he tears out the page, careful not to rip the drawing itself, he grabs himself a pin from his drawer and finds an empty space just above his bed where he can keep the drawing until he finds something more to this. Until he can discover what this means.

            Patrick swallows anxiously, still surprised, still confused, still holding a feeling in his gut that makes this harder to comprehend than it should be. Patrick takes a deep breath and releases as he looks around at all the drawings around himself. Wires, there are lots of them. Maybe more than he can really truly comprehend, but they are all there. Some are directed to other people, some dig into their skulls and paint the backs of their necks red, some push into the heart. Some are directionless, don't have a purpose, some are colorful. But this man, with the long black hair and the wires stabbing his heart. He is hurt.

            He watches the way all the drawings all blend in together, but it is hard to make sense of it all. Even harder now that he knows who this man is. Do the rest of the people have relations, too? Does he know them?

            Patrick sits there for a moment, pondering the drawings, before he picks up his notebook again and begins drawing something else. But this time, with hands. It takes him a good hour or two before he's satisfied with it, and then he draws more. When he decides he needs a break, he heads to the bathroom and then downstairs to grab a snack. He hears mumbling from the living room, and as he's about to head upstairs, Patrick stops to listen in. He knows he probably shouldn't, he's a better person than that, but deep down he knows he isn't really. He stops at the foot of the stairs and breathes through his nose silently as he hears Justin and Mrs. York in the other room.

            "Hey, Linda?"

            "What is it, Sweetheart?" Mrs. York asks, probably with that smile on her face that really only Justin cares about.

            "Do you know why Patrick is so weird?" Justin asks, and Patrick's heart skips a beat.

            "What do you mean sweetheart?" She replies, and Patrick can tell she isn't entirely comfortable with this conversation already.

            "I mean, he doesn't like to be touched and he's never in the mood to play and he doesn't like Mario. He screams a lot at night. Why is that?" Justin replies.

            "Well..." Mrs. York pauses, unsure of how to phrase what's to come, "Well Patrick isn't... like us. He has some problems that sometimes bother him."

            "What type of problems?"

            "The type that make people different. Or... or /sick/. Patrick isn't sick in a bad way, but he is sick and he has a problem."

            "Like the cold?" Justin replies.

            "Yeah, kind of like the cold, but in your brain," Says Mrs. York, "He has an illness called schizophrenia."

            "Schito-phrenia?" Justin asks, then giggles, "That's fun to say."

            "Yes, but he doesn't think he has it," Mrs. York says, "And you shouldn't talk to him about it."

            Patrick begins walking towards the room they're in.

            "He believes in a lot of things that aren't true," says Mrs. York, "So don't bring it up with him."

            Patrick enters the room and gives Mrs. York a glance that screams hatred for her. When Mrs. York looks up, Patrick can see the color draining from her face. Justin doesn't get the memo that something is wrong.

            "Patrick! We were just talking about you!" Justin grins. Patrick ignores him completely, though, as his temper snaps and his patience is completely erased. The look he gives Mrs. York isn't one that someone would take kindly to, and Patrick knows Justin is lucky to not know much of the world around him. He doesn't understand social cues, Patrick knows about his little issue, he's been listening to Mr. and Mrs. York's little talks about his autism and how he doesn't really understand anything about how society works and how people communicate that doesn't involve talking.

            'What was that?' Patrick signals. Mrs. York doesn't know much, neither of them really do of sign language, but Patrick signals sometimes, and Mrs. York understands.

            "Justin, you should leave, sweetheart. Go play Mario with Juliet and Caleb."

            "But I don't wanna—" Justin starts.

            "/Go/," Mrs. York snaps. Justin realizes, then, that he'll be in trouble if he doesn't leave and decides he should go. Once the door shuts behind Justin, Patrick is on her.

            'Don't ever speak again about what you think goes on in my mind,' Patrick signals, 'Especially not to Justin. I am not sick, I do not need help. I do not have an illness. I am healthy.'

            "Patrick, you know he didn't mean anything by it," Mrs. York tries to say, trying to defend Justin rationally but just by speaking a word of it to Justin made it all irrational for Patrick.

            'No, you will not ever say anything like that again to anyone else in this house,' Patrick signals, anger coursing through his veins. 'I'm tired of you people acting like you know everything about me. I'm sick of everyone in my life trying to analyze me like a test subject, I am not a test subject. I am not your experiment. I'm normal and I'm not sick.'

            "I'm sorry," Mrs. York says, "That's just what they told me."

            "Well what they told you is /wrong!/" Patrick screams. With his voice. The entire house hears, he knows they do. He immediately begins to freak out and pulls away from Mrs. York who is staring at him with obvious shock.

            Patrick takes a few sharp breaths before he swings open the door and bolts out the room to the front door. He isn't supposed to talk. He was never supposed to talk again, people around him are being told a lie. He doesn't have schizophrenia like they say, he isn't sick like they say. The wires are wrapping around his wrists but he's too busy putting shoes on to notice, and with one sharp tug, he feels everything freeze up and someone screams.

            "/Stop it! Please!/"

            Patrick feels tears rising to his eyes and sharp pains pulsing through him. The hands are here, the wires have come around his wrists, around his legs. He's just barely got his shoe on before they tug and he falls to the ground and all of these voices are screaming inside his head.

            "/Stop it! Stop it! Help! Help!"

            /"It hurts!"

            /"Please!"

            "/Gerard, HELP!/"

            Everything goes black.

            Patrick isn't sure when he wakes up what day it is. Or where he is. All he knows is the room is white. Whiter than the sun and whiter than the shower walls after they've been sprayed with bleach. The pillows that surround him are white. The walls that hold him are white. The window to his left holds a dark black sky, with dark gray clouds that he immediately yearns to be with. It drives him absolutely insane and Patrick frowns when he looks back to the white clock on the wall in the dark moonlight. Four o'clock, most likely in the morning. When else would the sky be dark at four? It's only November. Patrick blinks away the blurred vision and tries to sit up but his muscles immediately cramp up and he grunts as he collapses back on the bed.
            He guesses he had a seizure, they're never that bad, though, so it might have been an emergency. He probably lost consciousness and now he's here in the hospital. Jones will probably visit soon, bring him a bouquet of lovely tulips, dark purple like her favorite color. She wears the same lipstick. That dark violet-red with that unmistakable black overcoat and the chestnut skin. Patrick knows she isn't like that, though. She is different. She has wires, too. Only two, but she has them and Patrick appreciates that.
            Patrick blinks as he settles back into bed and looks to his bedside table to see his notebook and a pen. Patrick gasps and wastes no time in opening the pages, flipping through each entry. May, June, August, September, November. Patrick clears the pages, and sees his last entry, and immediately writes in the date. 11-17.

            /i'm in the hospital. i think i had another bad seizure last night, i think. maybe i'm overreacting but it feels like they're getting harder to control. i know i have a seizure whenever the hands come. i know that, i don't doubt it. i have fucking epilepsy, but it feels like the yre getting worse. this one lasted more than five minutes. thats the number the doctor gave us when they diagnosed me with it. this doesn't happen often, that they're a medical emergency. but like i said, it's getting worse.

            /they never get this bad. ever. it's getting harder to keep track of but i think they have begun to happen almost every night and sometimes it gets so bad that mr. york has almost sent me to the hospital once or twice because of it. maybe he is overreacting and maybe it really is a big problem. sometimes it scares me how my seizures come and go. but everything scares you when you see the wires that connect us all together everything gets harder when no matter where you turn, you see trauma and illness and hatred everywhere. things are hard when you are me. i try not to let it bother me as much as it might bother others, but nobody is made of metal.

            /like i said yesterday, i need these things to not happen. i need to not be so vulnerable. i need to not rely on others as much as i do. it makes me weak, it makes the people scream at me. it makes the hands tug at my bones harder. it makes the wires cut into my wrists more than ever. i can still feel them wrapping around my ankles, wrapping around my wrists, wrapping around my neck. maybe it is the ghost of the hands. but i can feel it either way. i can feel everything they do to me. i can feel the vibration of their voices in my ears. i can feel the way their fingers drag up my scars and leave trails of red and blue and purple. i can feel the horrible, horrible things they do to me.

            /i can hear them screaming to let them out.

            /gerard./

            "Honey, are you doing okay?"

            Patrick looks up from his journal and blinks before smiling softly and writing in his journal, "Do you know where Linda and Eunice York are?"

            "We told them to go home," The nurse says, "I can get them on the phone if you'd like. But you should really be getting some sleep right about now."

            She doesn't know that Patrick is both nocturnal and diurnal. Patrick writes to her, "Don't bother, it's okay. I'll get some sleep, thank you."

            She smiles, "Of course."

            But Patrick gets no sleep when she shuts his door. He scratches his nose as he writes in his notebook, and eventually resorts to sketching out another drawing. Of a girl with long hair. Patrick thinks it's blue. And she's got a sucker in her mouth, the round ones that they hand out at Halloween and at the stores with candy bowls at the front and she's wearing sunglasses, a glare on them of store lights. Patrick squints at the picture and decides to save it to memory. He'll need it. He knows he will. Patrick watches the clock and notices it's turned to seven. The sun is rising outside and he decides to watch the pinks and oranges and lilacs rise through the sky, the clouds blowing away with the wind. By the time he's grown bored, another nurse has checked on him and notifies him that his parents are heading over with Jones. Patrick nods, he doesn't really care much for Linda and Eunice, but Jones is alright. He thinks she's the only person he's really grown to care for.
            Patrick writes more in his notebook after that, eventually lays back in bed, and falls asleep. It's quiet here, he can't stand the cleaner they use, but he likes the silence more than anything, really. He likes how the carts roll. He doesn't like the white, that's one thing he absolutely cannot stand. but otherwise, he doesn't mind it. He likes silence. He doesn't like much else than silence and his notebook. Maybe it's an obsession, maybe it's just his way of coping, but this is his bliss. This is his way of getting away from everything that plagues his mind. This is his way of getting a break. This is his way of relaxing when nothing else here will et him get a break.

            There is no Justin, there is no Juliet or Caleb or Mr. and Mrs. York. There is only himself and the peace that surrounds him. There is nothing better in the world.

            There are no wires here, he realizes. This is a place to heal, this is a place to cope. This is peace. And Patrick loves it. By the time eight has rolled around, the sun is far up and the door has swung open just as the second hand reaches its peak. Patrick's bliss fades when he looks up and sees Mr. York and Justin. He doesn't know why Mrs. York refused to show up, but Justin thinks it's probably due to the guilt. He hopes she's wallowing in it.

            Patrick sighs, lowering his eyes to his notebook as he shuts it and begins to move. His muscles have calmed and the original burst of electricity that sent a squeak through his lips earlier has faded to a burn. He takes a deep breath and then signals to them, 'Am I going home?'

            Mr. York nods, "They said it wasn't as bad as they'd thought it was."

            Patrick rolls his eyes as he takes a deep breath and sits up straight, then turns to leave the bed but before he can get far, the door opens again and his eyes land on her. Dark skin, black hair, black eyes, and that same fucking overcoat she wears everywhere she goes. Patrick smiles weakly, the first smile in months.

            "Jones," He says, optimism in his voice. Mr. York and Justin move back to make room for her.

            "Hi, Jones!" Justin grins, "Are you here for Patrick, too?"

            Jones smiles, "Hi there, Justin. Patrick." Her eyes lift to Mr. York and she gives him a slight nod before turning back to Patrick, "What's up, kiddo?"

            "I missed you," Patrick smiles, "It's been a while."

            "It has," Jones smiles, "I heard about the seizure from Linda, she said it would be nice if I visited. And I guess it's kind of my job to take care of you when I'm not busy at work. Are you doing okay?"

            "I could be better." Patrick looks to Justin and Mr. York before gesturing to the door. Mr. York takes Justin and they wait outside, despite Justin's immediate protests.

            "What's that about?" Jones frowns.

            "I dunno," Patrick replies before looking out the window.

            "I heard what happened," Jones says, bringing the conversation back to the seizure, "You need to be lighter on Linda, she's taking the time to love you and take care of you. She's offering up her time to teach you and give you a second chance."

            Patrick doesn't take well to that and looks back at Jones trying to hide the frustration and pain that comes with those words. "She doesn't love me, first of all, never say that again to me. Because she never will love me. She isn't my mom. I don't even fucking /know/ my mom. But I know she cares about me more than Mrs. York ever will. She's offering up her time for money, Jones. That's all she cares about, is the money that comes with taking care of me. I'm a fucking foster kid, I didn't get to choose this, I just am this way. And if this is my second chance, what the hell happened to my first chance, huh?"

            Jones looks away, hurt, "You know I can't tell you that, Patrick. For your own safety."

            "For my safety?" Patrick growls, "For my fucking safety you can't tell me what happened to my mom? You can't tell me what happened to the woman who fucking birthed me? She's my parent. She /loved/ me."

            "You don't know that, Patrick. We don't know what happened to your mother. We don't know anything," Jones snaps, "Don't act like that with me when you know it's much more complicated than just that. If I knew where your mom was, I'd take you to her, I promise that. But I don't know what I can do to make up what happened, Patrick. I don't know what I can do. I want to help, but your counselor—"
            "I want a new counselor," Patrick interrupts.
            "I- What?" Jones frowns, "I thought you liked Dr. Grove."
            "I don't, not anymore," he says, "I don't want any more therapy. I don't have anything wrong with me. Insomnia and epilepsies can't be treated with therapists, only meds."
            "Patrick, it's more than that..."
            "I don't care. If you really think I need a counselor, then get me someone who isn't Dr. Grove. Give me a girl or whatever. I don't... I dunno, he just makes me uncomfortable," Patrick mumbles, shrugging, "And I don't like the group therapy. They like to assume I have issues and I don't. I want to talk to someone individually."
            "Yeah, that's..." Jones clears her throat, "That's fine, Patrick. Whatever you want. I'm here for you."
            Patrick lowers his eyes, "Thank you."
            "Yeah," Jones replies, "Of course."
            "I saw a boy in my dreams the night before last," Patrick says but not before a long moment of silence, "And I heard a name. Right before I went into the seizure. I think they were connected somehow. Like the boy's name was what I heard. Or something. I dunno."

            "What was his name?" She asks.

            "Gerard," Patrick replies.

            Jones is swallowed in silence, unsure of how to reply, unsure if she should say anything. She takes a breath, takes a dive and she says to Patrick, "I think I can help you. I know a psychiatrist who can help if you'd like. And... if you want to. We can have a counseling session together. We can talk about this boy."

            "Is he real?" Patrick asks, "Or are they playing tricks on me?"

            "I don't think I've heard the name before," She says, "Like I said, though, we can talk over therapy. And we can figure it out if you'd like. Whatever you wanna talk about."

            "Okay," Patrick looks away and so does Jones. There's a silence in the room, but not the type of silence that Patrick likes. This is the type of silence that means she's either going to leave, or continue. Chances aren't in his favor. He likes her, he doesn't want her to leave. Maybe it's an attachment. Maybe it's just because he wants something more to hold onto than just this hospital and these empty halls and the wires that tug on him.

            Patrick looks at Jones and sees the wires, though. Patrick's fingers reach for them, and at first he tries to pull them away, but they are steady, spouting from her back like a spider web. She has another wire, he notices, and his heart sinks. She has three. No longer the two that he remembers.

            "You have another wire," He says.

            "Do I?" She asks, quiet as death.

            "What happened?" Patrick says, "What happened to you?"

            Jones shrugs, "I dunno. Can't remember. You shouldn't focus on those. They're probably not true anyways."

            "Yes, they are," Patrick says, "Who died? Are you hurt?"

            Jones shakes her head, smiling with a tad of sobriety to it, "You are one extraordinary kid." She pulls back her curly hair, "My dad died of cancer a couple months ago. It wasn't that big of a deal, I guess. It just happened. They were expecting it for years. but it happened in his sleep."

            "I'm sorry for your loss," Patrick says softly, pulling away, "Do you still not believe in the wires?"

            "I don't," Jones smiles, the type of smile that is illegitimate and the type of smile that isn't happy. The type of smile that says something bad is coming, or has already happened, or is still happening, but there is nothing that can be done and all you can do is just smile and hope for the best.

            "I wish you did. Because it's true. I wish they would all cut," Patrick says, "Then everybody would be happy."

            Jones shakes her head, "Being part of the FBI just means I deal with it all, you know. Trauma is something that comes naturally. You learn to live and move on. You learn to forgive and forget. Sometimes that's what you need. That's what Linda needs."

            Patrick rolls his eyes, "Sure, whatever. That's not true."

            "You should," Jones replies, "For me. You don't have to do much, but enough for her to pick up on it. Bring her some flowers. Give her a smile once in a while, it's not about the money. It's about the kindness in her heart to care for you and your sister and your brothers."

            "I rarely talk to Caleb and Juliet," Patrick says, "They're too busy playing video games all day or just hanging out on the couch to care about much else. Justin is the only one who really gives two shits about me and I think that's just obsession. Just obsession with everything I do and everything that happens with me. He wants to be with me all the time."

            "Doesn't matter, just give her some love. For me?" Jones smiles softly, "I know you can be nice, no matter how hard it is for you. You can be a sweetheart for me, can't you?"

            "/Jones,/" Patrick grins, bashfully, "Alright. I'll try. Let me know when you get contact with her."

            "I will, promise." Jones opens her coat and pulls out a tulip, just as Patrick expected, dark violet just like her lipstick, "For you good, Sir."

            "Why thank you, Miss," Patrick acts despite how stupid he finds it. Jones chuckles as she lifts herself up and says to him, "I'm leaving now, I start work at nine."

            Patrick looks up at the clock and sees it's already 8:20 and he frowns slightly, "I'll see you at therapy then?"

            "Yup, I promise," Jones says, "I'll see you later, Patrick."

            The door closes before he can say goodbye back to her, but he doesn't let it bother him as much as it really does.

            "Bye," He whispers.

           
            /11-18, my bedroom.
            /maybe it is just the changing of the seasons but it feels as though everything is getting sadder and more depressing. time is passing by faster. Jones and i talked yesterday, i drew a sketch of a girl i don't now. Jones said that she didn't recognize the name gerard but i think she was lying. i sometimes wonder if everyone is lying to me. do they see the wires too? do they not see how they pull and twist and do they not scream at night for the hands to die away? maybe it is just me, but i am still afraid of something worse happening to me.

            /the man at the store seemed so strange, so scary. i am afraid he did not have good intentions. i know he probably did not but there is something about it that makes me more anxious than i should be about it. i am probably rambling about things that will not change, but he scares me. what if he knows me? what if he is coming for me?

            /i am too scared to do much right now. it does not help to worry, but i worry anyways. i cannot change that. not if i tried. i am anxious and that is a fact. i am afraid that he is going to find me. that he is going to take me and kill me.

            /he was a stranger, though. i know this it will be nothing. but my imagination can still run wild. it always will.

            /i will always know my imagination from my reality, though.

            /always./

            Patrick closes his notebook and looks down at the picture on his bed. He pins it up on the wall beside the other boy. Gerard. He doesn't know who this other girl is but he will find out, even if it kills him. This is something that's grasped his heart and it's something that he feels like he needs to find. He knows it's probably irrational. These people aren't real. The man at the store was a stranger. Jones knows nothing about Gerard and this girl and the man at the store and she knows the wires are real, but there is something inside of him that makes him that much more passionate about this all.

            He thinks it's the hope that's buried deep inside him.

            The hope that makes the wires snap.

            The hope that gives him a reason.