Dear Patrick
Letter Three
Monday, September 2, 2013
Dear Patrick,
Now you're just being a dick. It's been a whole month since I've last spoken to and seen you. I'm your best friend, Patrick. Does that even mean anything to you? I'll stop being so selfish, though. What about your god-damned mother? You're an asshole, Patrick. When people need space, they leave for a couple of days, maybe a couple weeks- not a whole month without any assuring words. Your mom's well on the way to losing her mind. I can swear she'd've committed suicide already if it weren't for your sisters (who, by the way, are being strong and supportive as they always are- not that you cared to check in). But, you could give a rat's ass, right? Who gives a shit about your mom when you're okay?
Are you okay?
Your old number's not even in service anymore. Your dad's taking all that sadness and turning it into rage. If you care about the safety of your damn sisters, Patrick, come home. You should see how drunk he gets, how much money he gambles, how many times I've seen him stare at his shotgun like it was screaming in his face. Patrick, please, for the love of hockey, for the love of God, come home. I miss you, man. I miss you like crazy. I know your dad's an ass, I know. I remember when he beat you in third grade because you got an 94 on your math test. I swear I remember it like it just happened. I remember when he yelled at you for not scoring that shootout goal in Junior High. I remember the way he treated you and how he spoke to you. You know what else I remember though? I remember that he sat with you all night before that third grade test so you could get the 100 you always wanted to put on the fridge, even though it meant he'd go to work tired the next morning. I remember that he'd skipped a job interview and traveled 86 miles from where he was to watch that game when you didn't score the game winner. I remember that he used to brag about you everywhere he went. I remember how he used to say, "My boy, Patrick- he's gonna be a star, I just know it." I remember how long and how hard he cried in front seat of his rusting, blue 2005 F-150 when you went into the ER. I remember it so perfectly because my mom and me were just leaving and we could see him through his non-tinted windows. I remember when he got out, he tried to act tough, Patrick, but his eyes were too red and his voice was too cracked that he just bawled out and stuffed his crazy bedhead into my mom's shoulder and cried. Patrick, come on, buddy, please. Give me a sign, something, I miss you man, I really do.
Love,
Lana
P.S. I really miss you.
Dear Patrick,
Now you're just being a dick. It's been a whole month since I've last spoken to and seen you. I'm your best friend, Patrick. Does that even mean anything to you? I'll stop being so selfish, though. What about your god-damned mother? You're an asshole, Patrick. When people need space, they leave for a couple of days, maybe a couple weeks- not a whole month without any assuring words. Your mom's well on the way to losing her mind. I can swear she'd've committed suicide already if it weren't for your sisters (who, by the way, are being strong and supportive as they always are- not that you cared to check in). But, you could give a rat's ass, right? Who gives a shit about your mom when you're okay?
Are you okay?
Your old number's not even in service anymore. Your dad's taking all that sadness and turning it into rage. If you care about the safety of your damn sisters, Patrick, come home. You should see how drunk he gets, how much money he gambles, how many times I've seen him stare at his shotgun like it was screaming in his face. Patrick, please, for the love of hockey, for the love of God, come home. I miss you, man. I miss you like crazy. I know your dad's an ass, I know. I remember when he beat you in third grade because you got an 94 on your math test. I swear I remember it like it just happened. I remember when he yelled at you for not scoring that shootout goal in Junior High. I remember the way he treated you and how he spoke to you. You know what else I remember though? I remember that he sat with you all night before that third grade test so you could get the 100 you always wanted to put on the fridge, even though it meant he'd go to work tired the next morning. I remember that he'd skipped a job interview and traveled 86 miles from where he was to watch that game when you didn't score the game winner. I remember that he used to brag about you everywhere he went. I remember how he used to say, "My boy, Patrick- he's gonna be a star, I just know it." I remember how long and how hard he cried in front seat of his rusting, blue 2005 F-150 when you went into the ER. I remember it so perfectly because my mom and me were just leaving and we could see him through his non-tinted windows. I remember when he got out, he tried to act tough, Patrick, but his eyes were too red and his voice was too cracked that he just bawled out and stuffed his crazy bedhead into my mom's shoulder and cried. Patrick, come on, buddy, please. Give me a sign, something, I miss you man, I really do.
Love,
Lana
P.S. I really miss you.
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