Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > And I'll End This Direst: a Frerard story

Chapter 35

by xDescendingAngelx 4 reviews

The words never spoken.

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres:  - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way - Published: 2009-06-26 - Updated: 2009-06-27 - 2208 words

Frank's POV

Gee and Elena waited quietly by the door as I walked over to Mom’s hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, but I could tell she was awake. She opened her eyes and took a strained look at me.

“Frank…” she said tiredly. I didn’t know whether I was angry at her for doing this to herself or if I was glad she was okay, or even if I was even a little disappointed that she was okay. I winced at the last option; she was my mother, for God’s sake. I couldn’t be disappointed that she was okay, even if she did continuously take her anger and frustration out on me.

“Mom,” I started, but I was cut off.

“Frank, where the hell were you? You can’t just leave here for three days without telling anyone where you were! What the hell were you thinking?” she spat angrily. She tried to swing at me with the arm that wasn’t hooked up to the IV machine, but I took a step back before her fist could come in contact with me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Gerard take a step forward, and I glanced back at him to let him know I had everything under control.

“I was helping someone with a problem they had,” I told her calmly, thinking it would be best not to bring Gee into this conversation.

“Someone else’s problem? Do you know what I did while I was worrying about you at home? You are the reason I’m in this damn hospital!” she nearly yelled, picking up a plastic dinner fork and throwing it at me.

“No, the reason you’re in the hospital is because you can’t control your drinking problem!” I replied, a little less calmly. Behind me, Elena escorted Gerard out of the room and followed suit, cracking the door to leave Mom and me to talk in private but still giving Elena a chance to barge in if anything went wrong. I loved Elena.

“I don’t have a drinking problem; I can damn well control my drinking,” Mom argued, her face turning red out of rage. I could only imagine mine was the same way. “If you hadn’t been so stupid in running away, I wouldn’t have a reason to drink so much.”

“You don’t need a reason to drink!” I retaliated. “In fact, you’ve never needed a reason! You just drink until you lose control, and then everyone suffers! You’ve always had a problem, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“Shut up,” she barked. If looks could kill, I’m sure we’d both be dead by now. I felt a sudden pang of regret for voicing my argument; never had I told her my opinion of her lifestyle.

“No. For once, it’s my turn to talk. I’m tired of your late-night binge drinking, and the house not meeting sanitary living conditions, and you coming home completely wasted every night. Most of all, I’m sick of you giving me bruises because you take all your anger out on me.”

She glared at me, ready to shoot back with her own remark, but she could find none. Finally she said, “Frank, have you even considered the fact that maybe I only punish you because of your own actions? You try to make it seem like everything is my fault, don’t you? Well, it’s not working. If I hit you, it’s because of something you did, and you need to toughen up. I mostly drink because of you.”

I was taken aback, still angry. “I don’t have to do anything for you to hit me. You just drink until you can no longer think straight, and then you just lash out because you hate your life. And I’ll tell you again: I don’t make you drink; you drink because you have a problem.”

“The only damn problem I have is you, boy,” she said, sitting up in the bed.

“Me? Who’s the one in the hospital, Mom?”

She reached over and locked a death grip on my arm, squeezing so that her fingers were like iron claws.

I winced in pain and fear, trying to break free of her ever-tightening grip on my upper arm. She laughed darkly, as if she enjoyed seeing me writhe like this. “You see what I mean? I’m only doing this because I’m trying to teach you manners. It’s bad to talk back to your elders, and it’s not good to lie, either.”

“Get off me,” I whispered desperately, my eyes wide. It probably wouldn’t have hurt so much if she wasn’t pressing on an older bruise, but since she was, the pain was nearly unbearable.

“Now, you listen to me. As I was saying, the only problem I have is you. Every time I see your damn face, I regret it. You shame me to the point where I’m ashamed to call you my son. I don’t want to see your face again, you hear me?”

I blinked back tears; she still had the iron grip on my arm, which was hurting considerably worse. “Are you saying…” I gasped. “You’re…?”

“I’m disowning you,” she finished, releasing my arm. I breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing the sore purple marks her fingertips left. “I no longer see you as my son; you embarrass me. I want you out of my sight.”

I was shocked: should I feel relieved that I was finally free? Or heartbroken because my mother just disowned me out of shame? She wanted nothing to do with me anymore. I was embarrassing to her. I stood in silence for a few moments, but the silence was interrupted by her.

“Why are you still standing there? Get the hell out of here; I don’t care where you go. Just get out of this room.”

“Gladly,” I replied, but found myself unable to move. “I’d rather die than live with you anymore, anyway.”

“Maybe you should do us both a favor and just go kill yourself then,” she said coldly.

I was very shocked to hear this; my mother had never told me she wanted me to die. “Maybe I will,” I said, then turned and walked out of the hospital room.

Gerard’s POV

Grandma and I were sitting in the waiting room just down the hall where Frank was talking with his mom. Bored, I looked around for something to do. I spotted a piece of paper and a pen nearby, and reached over to grab them.

“Whatcha doing?” Grandma asked.

“Just writing,” I responded. I remembered the events of the past three days: running away, Mikey, the fight, Bob. I lifted the pen and began to write:

Running away and hiding with you
I never thought they’d get me here
Not knowing you changed from just one bite
I fought them all off just to hold you close and tight

It sounded like a good verse to put in a song, I thought. I liked the words I had chosen; I felt they best described Frank's and my situation. Grandma read what I had written and nodded.

“That’s poetic,” she told me. “Is that a new piece or an addition to another one?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I responded. “It’s probably not worth using at all.”

“Everything is worth using if it says what you feel.” She read it again. “Have you finished writing the one about your seventh grade year?”

I thought for a second to try to remember what she was talking about. “Oh, you mean the one that doesn’t have a name?” She nodded. “I don’t know. That song isn’t really a song; it’s just something I wrote. This thing is sort of about Frank and everything that happened.” I loved talking with my grandma; she always listened and never judged.

“Well, you could combine the two songs,” she said. “It could help you get over everything.”

That was an idea. “I’ll see if I can.” I smiled at her. “Thanks, Grandma.”

“Anytime,” she replied. Just then, Frank walked out with a sulky frown on his face.

“What happened?” I asked him worriedly, and stood up to go meet him. He took a step towards me, paused when he got in front of me, and then collapsed. I caught him and hugged him tightly, silently shrugging at Grandma, who was looking at Frank and me with deep concern.

“Tell me what happened, hon,” Grandma said, rubbing Frank's back. Frank sniffed and looked up at us, smiling weakly.

“Mom… disowned me,” he said, and I shrieked, “What?!”

He nodded. “She said I embarrassed her, and that she was ashamed to call me her son. She told me it would do us both a favor if I just killed myself.”

At this, Grandma’s face flushed with rage. “She said what?!” She began making her way down the hall towards Frank's mom’s room, but Frank stopped her before she could get very far.

“Just leave her. It’s over, anyway. What’s done is done,” he told her.

“Well, I can’t have anyone telling their own son it would be best if he killed himself,” she said with even more anger in her voice. He shook his head at her and hugged me a little tighter.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said, burying his face in my chest. I rested my chin on the top of his head, and Grandma slowly walked back to us, joining us in a group hug.

“It’s late,” Grandma whispered after a few minutes. “We should be getting back home.” We nodded and followed her out of the hospital. I kept one arm around Frank's shoulder, and he kept his arm around my waist. We sat in the car in silence on the way home, but I kept my hand on his. Once we pulled up in our driveway, Grandma got out of the car, muttering something about dinner. Once she’d gone into the house, Frank said,

“Gee, what’s going to happen? I can’t live with my dad, but I don’t have any other family anywhere else.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I told him, but the worried look on his face didn’t go away.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, dropping his head.

“You’re not going to lose me,” I whispered back, though fearing the same thing. I felt bad for not being able to comfort Frankie, but I tried to do my best. I scooted closer to him and used both arms to gather him in a hug. He rested his head in the crook of my neck and murmured something incoherent. I kissed his forehead and told him everything would be alright, and he muttered something about Bob.

Bob! I had completely forgotten the hospital was supposed to call! “Frank, let’s go inside,” I said, and he followed me out of the car and into the house. “Grandma? Did you put my cell phone in my room?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Listen, Frankie, dear? Would you like to stay with us for a while?”

I went to my room to find my phone, leaving Frank in conversation with Grandma.

“Of course! I mean, if it’s okay with you,” I heard him say quietly, a few rooms away.

“Well, of course it’s okay! It’s always going to be okay with me, sweetie. You should know that by now,” Grandma replied. I could hear the smile in her voice. I looked down at my cell phone and turned it on; no new calls. Bob’s hospital better hurry up and call! I pocketed my phone and turned to leave when something caught my eye: the glass bottle that led to all this.

No, you can’t blame the alcohol for your stupidity, I scolded myself. The voice in my head continued: it’s your own fault you dragged everyone out to the middle of nowhere, and now it’s your fault Bob is seriously injured.

I knew it was true. It was my fault, and I couldn’t blame the alcohol before me for my actions. After all, the alcohol was only helping me forget all my problems, as it had done for me multiple times in the past.

No! That’s not true, either, I was told again. Sometimes I swore I had two minds talking to me instead of just one. The second voice reasoned: this alcohol you were drinking made you believe what you were doing was right. It’s not your fault Bob is hurt, it’s Mikey’s. After all, what could you possibly have done? You can’t control your brother’s actions.

I liked the second voice better; it made me feel less guilty. However, I knew it was a lie, and if Bob ended up dying, I would have his blood on my hands.
Sign up to rate and review this story