eight

                                    

                                          
Pete sat in his moms car, in the near-empty school parking lot. He had driven it to school that day. It was old and painted brown but the only one they could afford.
                          
The seats were sticky in the heat. The sun with still beating down, long after school had finished. It cast shadows over his tear-streaked face. He was still wearing skinny jeans and full black, which he regretted, but he didn't own any other clothes. The heat added to the mountain of pain he was feeling.
                          
Pete's head was full of emotions and thoughts and pain. He just wanted that blissful floating feeling again. Everyone hated him now, including Patrick; his lifeline. 
With shaking hands he retrieved from his pocket the bag of pills. He carried it everywhere so it couldn't be found. 
He tipped them all into his hand. 
                          
He dry swallowed one. The pain was still there. 
He swallowed another. 
He wanted the pain gone. 
He swallowed another.
No-one likes you. Worthless fucking whore emo.
He swallowed another.
His head was light.
He swallowed another.
Darkness crept into his vision.
He swallowed another.
He couldn't feel anything.
He swallowed another.
Before the world went black, Pete thought he heard someone call his name.
                          
Patrick needed to find Pete. He needed to apologise, make things right. He was so fucking sorry. What he'd said to Pete had been unacceptable, horrible, disgusting. And the slap had been out of order. It meant their relationship was abusive. His anger had worn off and he needed to find Pete. He'd noticed that Pete was in a bad state recently, but he'd ignored it, too focused on himself - now he couldn't even find him and was desperately worried. 
                          
He exited the school, plunged into the blistering heat. 
                          
"Pete!" He called. "Pete!" His voice was desperate. 
                          
He spotted Pete's mom's car in the corner of the parking lot. The brown paint was peeling, and shadows were cast on it in the beating sunlight.
Patrick rushed to it.
                          
"Pete, thank God, I've been searching..." He trailed off. 
                          
Pete was unconscious in the front seat. White pills were spilled over the floor.
The car door wasn't locked, and Patrick frantically yanked it open, yelling Pete's name over and over, shaking him - and he got no reaction. The yells turned to great racking sobs.
He checked Pete's pulse. Slow but still there. 
His heart was trying to force its way up his throat, and tears streamed down his face, as he pulled out his phone and dialled 911.