Patrick Headcannons
Do you know how it feels to be properly mind-fucked? Brain turned into delirious vision, making reality dissolve in a tidal wave, losing control of your own body, only to snap back in a moment and see the horror your own hands have made? People can try to understand, but they can’t quite imagine the pain. Going in and out, it feels like some kind of drug trip with a high that doesn’t do anything but throw all your senses into a blender. Coming back is so much worse, though. It hurts, when that thing leaves his mind. It’s like just after getting stabbed or burned. Maybe the knife’s out, maybe your arms not in the fire, but the wound aches. And when the wound is all of you... it’s not pretty.
He’s still not sure what possessed him. It’s easy to say demon--too easy. Whatever they conditioned him for and shoved into his mind... it wasn’t easy. It was some skittering thing that would sink its claws into him when it heard the music. It was something much smaller and made specifically for him, he’s sure. There were moments where he could feel it; moments where he was so close to giving it a name, being able to understand it. But he never really did in the end.
Patrick has never been a hard man. After everything, he still not, surprisingly. But what he is is scared, and deeply so. He’s paranoid of people, terrified to go out most days. It took him a long time to be okay with playing a radio, after what their music did to him. He still has nightmares--moments where his wrist throbs with the ache of having his hand cut off, only to look down and see it’s still there.
He may have been made whole or restarted by God or the universe or Rock and Roll itself, but there’s a part of him that will always be broken. If it heals, it will be an ugly, ugly scar on his soul.
