He wasn't crazy. He would never be crazy... But his mother thought opposite, and as, one day, his mother goes to send him to get help, Frank runs. he runs as far as possible. But maybe a run to pro...
New story! Dear God, do you know how many unpublished stories I'm working on? Five. And do you know how many ideas I have for new stories that I hope to start this week? Eleven. Oh, and do you also know I'm working on four stories (including this one) that I've published? Yeah?
Oh. That along with coursework.. I'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO DO, RIGHT? So let's get to it!
See ya motherfuckers on the bright side!
PS: what the hell is with the saying 'The grass is greener on the other side' or some shit? The grass may be greener, but dammit, green does not mean good. I don't care if that grass is a metaphor, and that green in associated with being positive, because GREEN GRASS DOES NOT MEAN A GOOD SITUATION/LIFE/LOVE/WHATEVER.
..Sorry. Pointless ranting. Do excuse me; it seems sense (because the word has slipped my mind and damn that makes me frustrated, does it you?) brings out the worst in me. As do hyper moods.
Geez, Amber, on with the fucking story.
Brilliant scarlet leaked out of Frank's pale skin, exquisite pain burning in the cut. He loved every minute of it; he loved the feel of cold metal against his milky skin, the sting of pain, the punishment. He was a little screwed like that, he guessed - but he was not alone in that. Many other people did it just like him, but perhaps not because they were accused of being mentally ill, depressed, or suffering some sort of personality disorder. Just because he gets angry when people suggest he's mental, he suddenly suffers with ADHD or some shit!
The frustration made the boy lash out again and he dug his blade in deeper, watching a magnificent line of red rise up. He kept at it, repeating it over and over. Until at last, his pain was gone, the frustration was gone, and mainly, the anger and sadness.
His emotions brought him the most strenuous of torture; they haunted him constantly, left him ambivalent at best. But now was not the time to worry; his mother was calling him.
Quick as a flash, as soon as he heard her soft voice, strained by age and stress, he pulled down the sleeve of his misfits hoodie and tucked the razor blade into his pocket.
"Yeah?" he called back, getting steadily up from the bed. It creaked slightly and echoed in his room - a field of dark ebony, beaten strings and raw, ripening guitar lines that bled honest emotion. His room reeked of that - the honesty he could never share with anyone bar his guitar, and perhaps Gerard.
Gerard.. Gerard was the only person that could even REMOTELY understand Frank. And that made the boy happy that at least someone could understand him; if he didn't have that one person who could comprehend everything about him, could fathom his frustration.. well, perhaps he would have given up on trying to prove his sanity long ago.
"Could you come down here for a minute, please?!" she practically screamed back up.
It was now Frank sprung into action. "Yeah, just lemme take a piss first!" he shouted back.
He collected a rucksack and starting stuffing it full of clothes, his phone and Ipod, chargers, some food he kept under his bed for emergencies such as this, Kerrang! magazine, fake mustaches, hats, hair dye, water, dry shampoo... He needed disguises and food and water, and obviously music. Why? Well, the last time this had happened Frank's mother had tried to send him to an asylum, and that shit did not go down well.
Sparing gory details, Frank had spent the next few hours getting men's blood from his teeth and nails, then having to scrub his hands free from the dry blood that had painted itself on his palms.
"No, Frank, now! We need to talk! This is urgent!"
Frank zipped up his bag quickly and nodded. He had done it in lightening speed - one and a half minutes, tops.
"Coming!" he replied. He unlatched the window and opened it, making sure the drainpipe was steady, before exiting the safe comfort of his poster-smothered room and heading down the stairs.
"Where are you, mom?" he asked, his voice travelling through the house.
"Lounge, honey. I'm in the lounge."
Frank didn't like the sound of that. Carefully, and as quietly as he could, Frank crept down the last stair and walked the short distance to the double doors of the lounge. He peered in and was met with the back of his mother. Relieved, but somewhat worried if he was ill with paranoia like had been suggested to him many times before, Frank walked in.
That worry, the small worry that he actually was mentally ill, the worry that only fondled with the mush of his cranium, faded within seconds; he was grabbed from behind and lifted about 5 inches from the ground. Strong arms held him up roughly, forcefully, painfully, as he kicked and screamed and struggled to escape, desperately wishing he hadn't been so stupid.
"What the FUCK!" he all but screeched, wriggling in the two well-built orderlines arms, struggling to get free from their vice-like grips. "WHAT THE FUCK, MUM!"
"I'm sorry!" was all she replied, though tears tracked down her face. "I'm so sorry! It's for the best, Frank, I just.. you're ill, honey. I'm just.. I'm so sorry."
Her back was to her son. She could only hear his pants and cries and screams as she huddled over and started to sob, wishing his fate could have been something better than this.. but he was so adamant not to seek help; he was disillusioned - he thought he was well. Her son, her Frank, was sorely mistaken.
"You CAN'T do this, mom!" he growled, spitting and glowering, still putting up a fight. "How dare you! I'm not fucking ill, I'm not fucking ill! You have NO right!"
Linda shook her head pitifully as a single tear dropped from her eye. "I have the right to choose what's best for you.. and this is believed what's best."
"No, no! Fuck that shit."
And, at lightening speed, Frank shoved his elbows back with maximum force and jabbed both the orderlines in the eyes and nose, making them stagger back and loosen their grip. Frank took his chance - he swung his legs back and kicked one knee of each orderline, finally being released as their faces contorted in pain.
They had no idea who they were messing with.
But, Frank couldn't -- he simply couldn't show them what he's capable of right now! He had to leave!
The boy scrambled up from the floor where'd he'd been dropped with a thud, ignoring the shouts and cries of his mother as he charged up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him. His hands, trembling from the adrenaline, secured the door with it's stiff lock and gathered his things: his rucksack, his coat and his shoes.
He put them all on in a space of 5 seconds and climbed onto his bed, gripping the chipping paint of the window frame with bitten-down nails. Wind swept up his charcoal locks as he stuck his head out and a banging began on his door.
He knew they'd figure out he was escaping and--
"He's leaving! We've gotta get round the back!" exclaimed a thick, muffled voice. "Where's his bedroom window?"
He stopped listening and instead focused on getting out the window. He crouched down and under, grabbing the drainpipe with all his power, and balanced on the creaking windowsill. He could feel it breaking beneath him, slow and sure, and decided in a split second to go.
So he jumped.
Not to the floor, he just swung, clinging onto it's plastic, to the drainpipe, and glided down it quickly. His rucksack pounded into him, but he didn't care anymore. He needed to escape.
It was then, as his feet slammed to the floor and he recomposed his disorientated self, that he heard the panicked rush of feet, and he knew, no matter how dizzy he was, that he had to run.
And run he would.
So I hope you like it! Has it gripped you? That was kinda the idea but I'm kinda shit at writing so it probably didn't do so much as batter an eyelid. :')
Anyway, tell me what you think! Much obliged! :D