Frank is already silently dreading his appointment at the hospital, yet an unexpected appearance from a familiar face seems to definitely, liven up the visit. Or deathen, your opinion.
Frank sat somewhat timidly on the white, cool sheets of the hospital bed, Ray perched on the chair by his side. He nodded his head slightly, his greeting.
"I'm just gonna ask you a few general questions and then we're going to have a brief physical checkup, alright Mr Iero?" Dr. Whitedale flashed a white smile through pink lips, her voice professional and patronizing, the 'Mr Iero' tipping the scales even further.
"Okay, that's alright." Frank forced a simper across his thin, pale lips.
He flattened down the papery hospital gown with his long thin fingers as Dr. Whitedale went to get a clipboard from the entrance to the office.
"How're you feeling, Francesca?" Ray teased. Frank giggled and punched him playfully in the shoulder.
But if Frank was to be more indepth with his description, he might've said, 'I feel vulnerable. I feel like I've gone back in time. Back to when those stupid tubes going into my weak veins were the only things that were keeping me here after my mistakes. I feel like I could burst into tears of either extreme happiness or panic any second. And also, I feel awfully girlish in this goddamn gown.'
Dr Whitedale returned to her office chair, which was placed conveniently at the foot of the scratchy bed Frank had been directed to. "Okay Frank, I'm going to ask you some questions now, okay?"
I'm not fucking five.
"What and when was the last form of intoxication you consumed?" Dr Whitedale looked at him with an extremely intimidating eye.
"Uh, last, last week, I think? I had half of Ray's Carlsberg." Ray shifted in his seat, as if at a court hearing. Dr Whitedale nodded and wrote swiftly on her clipboard.
"And have you been sick or had any feelings of nausea recently?"
"No." she nodded again and wrote again. It was a very repetitive process.
"Have you had any anxiety attacks since our last meeting, Frank?"
Frank gulped. "I don't, I don't know, I'm not sure." Dr. Whitedale sat up straighter in her seat.
"What do you mean when you say you aren't sure, Mr Iero?" she asked, peering at him with those shockingly blue eyes.
"I've gotten, uh, worried, and sometimes uh, cried and not wanted to um, go to sleep," Frank paused, feeling slightly embarrassed about talking about crying in front of Ray, "but I don't think that's really an anxiety attack."
Dr Whitedale nodded, again.
Jesus, woman, you're not a pigeon.
"Okay," she paused for a second, leaving Frank wondering whether anymore difficult questions were bound his way. "and have you taken any other forms of drugs, Frank?"
You could almost taste the sudden tension radiating off her. Frank suddenly felt his heart pound at the word. Drugs.
He opened his mouth to speak, but found his mouth suddenly dry.
Damnit. I could really do with that coffee right now.
Frank lathered his throat as well as he could before croaking, "One or two paracetamols."
Dr. Whitedale laid a look of sympathy on him, then wrote as subtly as she could, as if if she did it quietly Frank wouldn't know she was doing it.
"And finally, Frankie,"
Frankie. Fucking cringe and a half, jesus.
"Have you had any sudden urges to inflict any sort of harm on yourself?"
Frank pursed his lips and shook his head, slow and slight.
Dr. Whitedale wrote down her final note and tossed the clipboard onto the desk beside her, as if a great pressure had been lifted off of her shoulders. She clapped her palms on her thighs and stood up, a more tired grin on her face than previously.
"Right then, Frank, we're halfway there. Ray, if I could ask you to step outside for ten minutes, thankyou dear. Now Frankie, this is just a mild sedative, you won't feel a thing, I promise."
When Frank's vision finally came back into focus, he felt much more tired than he had before. He could make out Ray, leaning over the side of his bed. A sudden pinching sensation shot up from his left arm, to which he turned to face, to see a small round plaster adorning his wrist.
"You're up?" Ray asked, trying to see deeper into his droopy eyes.
"Y-yeah," his voice was slurred and drunken.
"You think you can get down to the car, Pudge? You'll be much more comfortable at home, bud." Ray asked, his voice flooded with concern.
"Mmmhmm," Frank murmured his consent.
After pathetically trying to draw the seatbelt across his still hospital gown clad body with numb arms and palms, Ray interjected and did it for him, before pulling on his own and pulling out of park.
Frank let his eyes begin to droop, letting his slack head fall back. That was, until he heard the sirens.
And opened his eyes to see the flashing lights.
And feel Ray pull gently to a halt.
And hear the name repeated again and again by reporters and whoever else.
'Gerard! Gerard Way!'