Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
1 review
Frank Iero has lost everything; his mother, his youth, and his hope. But when he's sent to a special place across the country for teens who need a reason to live, will he find love? First MCR fic o...
0Unrated
Okay, well, this is my first MCR fic (on this site, at least) so be gentle on me, lol. Umm, I know it may not really seem like much at first, but it builds, I guess. So, comment. Criticism is always appreciated, as long as it's not mean:) ~Jessica Plague
I+E+R+O
“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”
~Edgar Allan Poe~
_____
There was no escaping the loneliness when it came, and for Frank, it came all the time. How can you escape something that follows you even into your deepest dreams and thoughts? Simple: you can't. He had lost his mother to the fire. The only woman who ever loved him for both his flaunts and his flaws. But now, he had no one to love him, no one to hold him when he got home from school with a busted lip or a bloody nose. He knew he was different from them, the people who beat him up and jeered at him, but it's because he was better. Kinder than any of them, and smarter than they were in every class. But that's why they hated him. And he tried to fight back, oh, he tried. But all it ever led to was more fists.
But he was leaving them now. Not like his mother had left him, though. She was gone. Dead.
Death.
It was all Frank thought about. Everyday, all he thought about was ending it all. Instead of trying to make friends with the other foster children, or even glance at his homework, he'd strum his guitar until his fingers ached, thoughts of cloaked figures coming for him in the night and the dark, empty, lonely abyss he envisioned Hell as fuelling him as he played. And he knew they would come for him, because one blessed day, he finally found a razor blade, and ended it. For a short time at least. For a week. When he woke up from the mini-coma he was in, they'd already filed the papers for him to be sent away to a place where he could “get better.”
The 16 year-old wasn't sick. Physically, at least. Or so they thought. He wasn't sick mentally, either. Unless you'd call depression a sickness. So, he had a feeling they were sending him to a mental institution. What he didn't know, however, was why they were sending him to one across the country, or without someone to watch him on the last transport there. He turned into a train car and sat down, pulling out his guitar, intending on spending the 6 hour ride to Westport, Washington playing, and thinking. Thinking about where he was going, and how he would try to kill himself once he got there.
And so he did. He spent the entire ride staring out the window, and occasionally at his guitar, playing until his fingers went numb. He was so lost in his own little world, that he didn't even notice it was his stop until a man knocked on the sliding door to the car and told him. He silently grabbed his stuff and walked off the train, seeing a man who had to be in his sixties with a sign that said, “FRANK IERO” on it. He slowly walked over, an indifferent expression on his face as the man smiled down at him.
“How was your trip, Mr. Iero?” he'd pronounced it ee-AIR-oh.
“It's eye-YEAR-oh, and it was long and boring as fuck. Can we just go to this shithole?” he wasted no time with small talk. He just wanted to go there and be done with it as soon as he found some self-harming tool.
The man kept his smile. “My apologies, sir, on both counts. And yes, we may, if you'll just follow me. I shall explain to you what it is you're going to in the car.” frank stuffed his bags in the trunk of the old car the man had and slumped in the front seat.
“It's a sanitarium, isn't it?” he asked in monotone.
The man chuckled. “No, of course not. It's natural for you to think that, given the circumstances. Our first resident thought so, too, and so on, but it's actually a home for parentless children between 13 and 18 who are mourning to come and live under supervision of the owner of the house.” He explained, turning down a long road of packed sand. Frank could see the ocean out the window, and oh, how badly he wanted to just jump off a cliff into it.
“So, it's pretty much a foster home, but for older kids.” He clarified, an eyebrow raised.
“Technically. But we only bring in children, like you, who have attempted suicide. We want you to feel better, and appreciate life, to make friends. To find a reason to live, basically.”
Frank sighed. “It's a houseful of therapists.” He said as they pulled up to a huge mansion. The front yard was a lush garden with a pathway in the middle, and everything behind the house was sand, leading down to the ocean. The pacific northwest winds whipped Frank's bangs in front of his eyes as he got out. The sky was overcast, but the water still looked beautiful. He squinted though, and he could swear he saw someone sitting on the beach.
“No. there's only one man in the house. My older brother, Joseph Sullivan. I'm James. I only come by occasionally to see how the kids are doing.”
“Who else is here, anyway? Am I gonna have anyone to talk to?” he grumbled as he carefully pulled out his guitar.
“Yes, three young men named Gerard Way, his brother, Michael, Robert Bryar and a young, rather optimistic, lady named Jessica Delacroix.” The man replied.
“Least I got four.” He mumbled, though he doubted they would be any different than the assholes in his school.
The man nodded optimistically, opening the doors, revealing a grand foyer with two staircases leading to the second floor, and a huge chandelier, lighting the marble floor. “Welcome to Sullivan Manor, Mr. Iero.”
I+E+R+O
Mmkay, there's the first chapter, so review and tell me what you think, huh? Because I've already got the next couple chapters written, I just need a response for this:) ~Jessica Plague
I+E+R+O
“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”
~Edgar Allan Poe~
_____
There was no escaping the loneliness when it came, and for Frank, it came all the time. How can you escape something that follows you even into your deepest dreams and thoughts? Simple: you can't. He had lost his mother to the fire. The only woman who ever loved him for both his flaunts and his flaws. But now, he had no one to love him, no one to hold him when he got home from school with a busted lip or a bloody nose. He knew he was different from them, the people who beat him up and jeered at him, but it's because he was better. Kinder than any of them, and smarter than they were in every class. But that's why they hated him. And he tried to fight back, oh, he tried. But all it ever led to was more fists.
But he was leaving them now. Not like his mother had left him, though. She was gone. Dead.
Death.
It was all Frank thought about. Everyday, all he thought about was ending it all. Instead of trying to make friends with the other foster children, or even glance at his homework, he'd strum his guitar until his fingers ached, thoughts of cloaked figures coming for him in the night and the dark, empty, lonely abyss he envisioned Hell as fuelling him as he played. And he knew they would come for him, because one blessed day, he finally found a razor blade, and ended it. For a short time at least. For a week. When he woke up from the mini-coma he was in, they'd already filed the papers for him to be sent away to a place where he could “get better.”
The 16 year-old wasn't sick. Physically, at least. Or so they thought. He wasn't sick mentally, either. Unless you'd call depression a sickness. So, he had a feeling they were sending him to a mental institution. What he didn't know, however, was why they were sending him to one across the country, or without someone to watch him on the last transport there. He turned into a train car and sat down, pulling out his guitar, intending on spending the 6 hour ride to Westport, Washington playing, and thinking. Thinking about where he was going, and how he would try to kill himself once he got there.
And so he did. He spent the entire ride staring out the window, and occasionally at his guitar, playing until his fingers went numb. He was so lost in his own little world, that he didn't even notice it was his stop until a man knocked on the sliding door to the car and told him. He silently grabbed his stuff and walked off the train, seeing a man who had to be in his sixties with a sign that said, “FRANK IERO” on it. He slowly walked over, an indifferent expression on his face as the man smiled down at him.
“How was your trip, Mr. Iero?” he'd pronounced it ee-AIR-oh.
“It's eye-YEAR-oh, and it was long and boring as fuck. Can we just go to this shithole?” he wasted no time with small talk. He just wanted to go there and be done with it as soon as he found some self-harming tool.
The man kept his smile. “My apologies, sir, on both counts. And yes, we may, if you'll just follow me. I shall explain to you what it is you're going to in the car.” frank stuffed his bags in the trunk of the old car the man had and slumped in the front seat.
“It's a sanitarium, isn't it?” he asked in monotone.
The man chuckled. “No, of course not. It's natural for you to think that, given the circumstances. Our first resident thought so, too, and so on, but it's actually a home for parentless children between 13 and 18 who are mourning to come and live under supervision of the owner of the house.” He explained, turning down a long road of packed sand. Frank could see the ocean out the window, and oh, how badly he wanted to just jump off a cliff into it.
“So, it's pretty much a foster home, but for older kids.” He clarified, an eyebrow raised.
“Technically. But we only bring in children, like you, who have attempted suicide. We want you to feel better, and appreciate life, to make friends. To find a reason to live, basically.”
Frank sighed. “It's a houseful of therapists.” He said as they pulled up to a huge mansion. The front yard was a lush garden with a pathway in the middle, and everything behind the house was sand, leading down to the ocean. The pacific northwest winds whipped Frank's bangs in front of his eyes as he got out. The sky was overcast, but the water still looked beautiful. He squinted though, and he could swear he saw someone sitting on the beach.
“No. there's only one man in the house. My older brother, Joseph Sullivan. I'm James. I only come by occasionally to see how the kids are doing.”
“Who else is here, anyway? Am I gonna have anyone to talk to?” he grumbled as he carefully pulled out his guitar.
“Yes, three young men named Gerard Way, his brother, Michael, Robert Bryar and a young, rather optimistic, lady named Jessica Delacroix.” The man replied.
“Least I got four.” He mumbled, though he doubted they would be any different than the assholes in his school.
The man nodded optimistically, opening the doors, revealing a grand foyer with two staircases leading to the second floor, and a huge chandelier, lighting the marble floor. “Welcome to Sullivan Manor, Mr. Iero.”
I+E+R+O
Mmkay, there's the first chapter, so review and tell me what you think, huh? Because I've already got the next couple chapters written, I just need a response for this:) ~Jessica Plague
Sign up to rate and review this story