Frank Iero had many problems in life; rape, abuse, addiction... however, falling in love with a convict was not one of the obvious.
Anyway, I don't have much to say for this story, except it will be quite graphic and may contain scenes that some people may not want to read. I will warn you in advance, so read every single author's note in case.
Thanks. Hope you like it!
The alcohol burned at the back of his throat as it trickled down, and the boy slammed the shot glass down like it had infuriated him beyond belief. It's bottom cracked a little and a remaining droplet of vodka leaked out, pooling out on to the table.
"You alright there, son?"
Frank only nodded, ignoring the worry that rose inside him like bile; men. Deep voices. Alcohol. Smoke. He was so used to it - perhaps so much so, that it was hardly legal - and the musty scent in the room almost killed him. But whatever - he was used to such displeasure. He could handle it.
"Fine," he replied stiffly. He turned his back in the direction of the husky voice and fumbled with the cigarettes in his pocket, quickly pulling one out and slotting it between in lips. He pulled out a lighter and ignited the flame, holding it to the fag until it lit and he drew in a deep, relaxing breath of smoke, blowing it out in thick whips of white cloud.
What was he doing with his life? he often wondered, but not too often; if he let himself think about his life and his choices more than necessary, then things tended to hurt a lot more - a lot more - and he found it easier to pretend everything was fine, normal, and completely average. He tried to pretend that once he went home, he would not be abused until he could not stand, and that he did not drink to knock himself out and - hopefully - die from some sort of poisoning.
So far, he was shit out of luck.
Frank sighed heavily as he finished the cigarette, stubbing it out of the pub's table. He quickly looped a finger around the edge of his glass and pulled it towards him, cold fingers curling around it like he'd die otherwise. Then, in a swift motion, Frank downed his pint.
Within the next two hours, Frank had managed to drink more than he had in his life - and could not, for the life of him, even remember his name. Everything was blurred, enhanced, and he found his heart drumming inside his chest as he danced to some crappy pop song, sung by a woman with fake tits and an easy-as-shit, spoiled life.
Not that Frank cared. He only cared about the way he body started to thrum, his ears rung, and he danced to music like he was born to. He was wildly head banging and jumping around, aggravating the spin clouding his mind, until someone's hands hitched around his waist.
He still didn't care; the alcohol made him forget. It made him at peace - at ease.
But then that person spoke.
"Well, Frank, aren't we looking... peachy tonight," the man growled. His alcohol-soaked breath swarmed over Frank's skin and the boy froze, his own breathing coming a little quicker. "Fucking fine!"
Frank ignored the way his throat closed up and drunkenly tugged himself way from the man's grasp, but he was no way near as strong - or as in control - as he usually would be; in fact, he was half-dead, barely able to stand.
"Nu-uh-uh, Frankie," the man said, tugging the boy so every inch of their bodies touched. "Where do you think you're going?"
Frank tried to tug out of his sleazy grasp again, especially when one of his hands closed so tightly around his wrist the boy actually whimpered, and slapped away the other wandering hand. "Get the fuck off me!" he cried, thrashing in Derek's grasp.
Derek only snapped his hand round so Frank's wrist twisted to the point of breaking, and the boy screamed in agony - but his pain was lost under the thumping music.
"Listen, you fucking whore," Derek growled in his ear. "You're coming back with me. Now. If you don't, I'll tell your father everything he wont want to hear - and we wouldn't want that, would we?"
Frank, inebriated beyond belief, froze. However, because he was so under the influence he simply ended up stumbling and he retched, slumping back against Derek.
He could do nothing; this was going to happen. Drunk, passed out, or wide awake - this was going to happen.
Derek tugged the boy through the to the back and he shoved the boy out into the alley, where he stumbled over and his jaw slammed against the concrete. The side of his cheek chafed against the ground and he could feel blood rising; gravel scraped at his eyes.
"Stand up!" Derek roared, grabbing the boys elbow and tugging him on to his knees.
Frank retched silently, wobbling around and falling back on his ass.
Derek grew impatient; he grabbed fistfuls of Frank's hair and pulled him upright, growling under his breath as he fiddled with his zipper. He ignored Frank, who started to gag and gasp under the man's painful hold, and tugged down his jeans.
Frank, meanwhile, was starting to breathe in painful, short bursts, his vision spiraling in his panicked, drunken state. He rocked around on his knees, the world spinning as he tried to stay upright. He squeezed his eyes shut and blearily opened them again, tugging weakly at Derek's tight hold on his hair. His thoughts were everywhere, his eyes glazed over, cheeks flushed, heart black.
Frank gulped, tears stinging at his eyes, though he resented himself for it. Weak piece of shit; suck it up and get over it! This was his life! He had to get over it.
But no matter what, no matter how many times he told himself that, he never could.
So Frank did what he did best in times like those; in times where he was so drunk he couldn't remember what his name was, never mind his perpetual pain and self-loathing.