Around four in the afternoon was when Gerard and I had finally split for the rest of the day because he got a call from his art school saying that if he wanted to catch up on his art work, he could do an afternoon class. Gerard saw no other way but to take it.
We had exchanged phone numbers, though, in case we ever wanted to meet up again, which I feel won’t be for a while more, seeing how busy his life seems to be.
Sighing, I rolled from my stomach to my back and stared up at the lounge room ceiling. Stretching my limbs out with a small groan before shutting my eyes and placed my hands on my stomach. But they slowly opened when I heard a heavy sigh and my mother’s voice ask, “Are you stoned?”
“What!?” I frowned, sitting up and looking at her. She was standing in the doorway looking at me with her arms folded across her chest. “Why would you think that?”
“Frank, you’re lying in the middle of the lounge room in silence, that’s not like you. It’s kind of weird.” She frowned. “Are you stoned? It’s ok, you can tell me..”
“I’m not stoned!” I groaned, covering my face with my hands and lying back down. “Just a little bored.”
“If you’re bored go for a walk.” She sighed.
“I’ve already done that.”
“Whatever. I’m going to start dinner..”
Not until I had heard my mother start fiddling with stuff in the kitchen did I realise that we had just, for the first time in months, had a convosation. It wasn’t a huge convosation, but it was still a convosation.
I frowned to myself, surprised.
I can’t believe that I had just had the opportunity to actually talk to my mother and I just shouldered it off. What is wrong with me?
“Mom..” I mumbled as I stood up and made my way to the kitchen.
My mother was cutting up some vegetables with her back to me, so she merely asked, “Yes?” Without bothering to glance at me for even a second.
Gathering up all my courage and swallowing down my childish nerves, I asked, “How.. Uh.. How come you never talk to me anymore?”
My mother stopped what she was doing for a few seconds and we both just stood in silence, but then she reached for a carrot and begun to cut it up and said, “Oh, don’t be silly, Frank. I talk to you allot.”
“Yeah, but it’s never a proper convosation, Mom!” I frowned.
“We were having a convosation before.” She stated blankly.
I hung my head back and made a noise that sounded much like a frustrated laugh as I ran my hands through my hair. “Mom, that’s the first time you’ve actually spoken to me in months. It doesn’t fucking count.”
“Watch your language young man.” She mumbled.
“Don’t try to change the subject!” I snapped. “Why are you ignoring me, Mom? Have I done something?”
My mother sighed and put everything down before turning to face me. “Just drop it, Frank.” She sighed. “I don’t want to put up with one of your tantrums right now.”
“One of my tantrums!?”
“Frank, you aren’t four.”
“I’m also not throwing a tantrum! I just want to know why you’re ignoring me!” I snapped.
“Stop acting like a child who needs to cling to their mother to survive. You’re turning seventeen in a few months. If I don’t talk to you, get over it.” My mother said, ending the convosation once and for all.
I could feel the tears welling in my eyes as her cruel words repeated themselves over and over in my mind, so I still looked look to the ground. My mother had never see me cry before, and I wasn’t planning on ever showing her that sight. So I waited. Waited until she let out her usual frustrated sigh and then turned her back to me.
I turned my back to her and walked stiffly out of the kitchen, through the hall and up the stairs.
When I reached my room I shut my door.
As soon as I heard it, the little click of my door shutting completely I let my tears fall with a silent whimper. They fell slowly at first. One, two, three.
But then My mother’s words repeated in my mind louder and louder and they started to fall harder and faster. Faster than I could count. And as my tears fell, the emotions started bubbling inside of me again. Hurt. Anger. Self hate.
But, I had a solution to all the negative emotions that dwelled inside of me.
I slightly gathered myself together and walked over to my bed, pulling my bag out from underneath it. Wiping my eyes with the back of my arm to unblur my vision before unzipping the bag. I then pulled out what I had been looking for. My scalpel.
I raised the scalpel to my arm in one quick motion, and, before I could even consider thinking twice about what I was doing, I stabbed the inside of my left arm.
I then pulled the scalpel up my arm. Slowly. Painfully. Watching the crimson blood ooze out of the wound I had created. But I didn’t stop there, I kept going until it was halfway up my arm and then I removed it.
It hurt. I admit that. I might be doing this on purpose, but that doesn’t mean the pain still doesn’t hurt me. But, no matter how much it hurt, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t whimper either. I just wanted the rush of knowing that, in some way, I could be punished for being, well, Frank Iero.
At this exact moment, the pain was the only thing I cared about.
Relaxing my back against my bed, I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling. The tears were only drops in my eyes now, and my arm stung. I could feel the blood running down my arm as I released my once tight grip on the scalpel and let it fall besides me on the ground.
I let out a shaky breath and tried to let the pain continue to take over my body, but it just didn’t seem real to me. Nothing seems real to me.
It’s all an illusion. A lie.