I'm sorry I've been gone. I have no excuse. And then, after I finally sit down and write, I delete this chapter by accident. Fuck.
Frank had decided, by the time Gerard got back, he would be able to write. Not if he got back, but when. Of course he was coming back. It had been a whole school week now.
He tried to feel as sure as he sounded.
He had almost full mobility of his left hand now. But just his hand. Sometimes his hand would just cramp ups and he couldn't use it anymore.
He sat there, running his fingers over the soft fabric of the blanket that covered him.
His mom was taking another one of her daily naps.
He couldn't sleep as he laid in bed. C'mon it was nine thirty. What teenager goes to bed at nine thirty?
He wished he could do something. But his mom had convenutely left the tv remote at the otherside of the room.
He decided to try something again, that he hadn't had much sucsess with in the past.
He focused on his arm. Wanting it to move, his shoulders to roll, something, simple.
So he tried harder, still nothing.
Then his arm spasmed, the muscles twitched. It was the oddest feeling. But it was there.
And then, just as fast as it had come, he lost it.
His arm was limp. Still.
Frank's mom came up, Saturday morning. He smiled at her. Nothing could get him down right now.
As she gave him a bath, he started signing things to her.
'Hi mom' he spelled out in sign language.
He had learned sign language from the back of the door to his old classroom at school. He had memorized, though never being able to put it to use. Not like he had had anything else better to do back then.
After a breakfast of French toast, they sat on the couch, conversing. His mom could never get enough of what he had to say. She ate his words up.
The conversations were a lot of work on Frank's part, awkward, with long pauses in-between things. He could communicate now, and that was the best feeling, ever.
The talk about anything and everything. Subject bouncing back and forth.
It felt good to get everything off of Frank's chest.
Mrs. Iero was finally getting to know her son, for the first time.
Paper, he spelled out.
"Paper?" she repeated, confused.
But without further questioning, she got up. When she got back, she sat back down on their couch, pad of yellow lined paper and pen in hand. Placing the pen unto his hand and the pad of paper into his lap.
He drug the pen down the paper. He ended with a long shaky line. He conitued on. When he was done, he had written his name. It was childish and squiggly, slanted and letter running into letter. It was most certainly not Gerard's beautiful calligraphy.
But it was there.
And he had done it.
He had felt the smooth pen, it's gripper under his fingers, the glide of paper across he side of his palm.
His mom threw her arms around him, squeezing his shoulders.
His smile never left his face.
He would keep on practicing.
Gerard laid on his bed. He had been so anxious to get home, now that he was, he didn't know what to do with himself. He had been at the hospital for four days. The doctors had wanted to keep him for obseration, though, they hadn't told him much of anything.
He ran a hand through his hair, it wad growing shaggy again, he realized wearily.
Mikey was pissed at him, and Gerard didn't know why. This time, he honestly had no clue. Mikey spoke to him as little as he could find possible. Whatever.
He stared at the ceiling, the rafters, covered in dust. He supposed he could call Toro. He hadn't seen Ray since the other night a the pizza place, and that had only really been a 'hi!' 'bye!' sort of thing. Actually, Gerard hadn't heard from Ray or Bob, or any of his friends really, in months. Since he was sober.
When Monday rolled around, Gerard was dead to the world. He rushed around as best he could, trying to get to the school on time.
The shower had had no water pressure and was cold, thanks to Mikes. Then, he had difficulties getting his pants on, the left leg kept getting stuck. To make matters worse, he lost a contact, and proceeded to be unable to find it.
Needless to say, Gerard was not having a good morning.
He was one of those people you tell to arrive fifteen to twenty minutes earlier just so they would arrive to events and such on time.
When he reached the school and made it to his classroom, Frank was already there, waiting.
Gerard stared to organized and sort through all his things.
"So, did you fare well without me?" Gerard struck up conversation, glaring up, looking for Frank's nod or shake of head.
Instead Frank was staring down, intently at his lap.
Gerard walked over to him.
What he found shocked him.
Frank had written, and when he was done he looked up at Gerard expectantly with a cheeky grin.
'Yes, but it sucked.' read the sloppy scratch.
Gerard laughed, glad things were starting to look up for Frankie.
Did you catch that shit?
Oh and yes, I do indeed know that Frank isn't left handed. And that Gerard doesn't wear contacts. Shrugs
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