Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]

Like Clockwork

by eccentricpaige 2 reviews

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama - Characters: Frank Iero - Warnings: [?] - Published: 2011-09-02 - Updated: 2011-09-03 - 1569 words

The bus lets off in front of my house around a quarter after three and I brace myself for the bickering at home. A day hasn't gone by where I haven't wished to live alone, and I'll probably feel this way until the day I graduate.

My hands are shoved deep down into my pockets as I walk the front steps and stare at the glass for a few minutes, wishing that I didn't have to go inside. Finally, I man up and search for my key.

"Frank? Is that you?" my mother says almost instantly as I walk through the doorway. I mumble a quick "Yeah." before heading for my room.

"Stop right there. Where were you last night?" my mom asks in an icy cold voice. She's calmly sitting at the kitchen table, eying a stack of salespapers.

"Uhm, I went to Stephen's. I thought I told you." I said quickly. My parents are the only people I lie to. Home life is just one of the few scenarios where honestly isn't the best policy.

"I don't remember you ever saying a word about it. You know how worried I've been?" she says dramatically. I can't help but sink my nails a bit into my wrist to keep from laughing right in her face. I'm nearly positive that she hadn't noticed I was gone until this morning when she checked in my room to see if I was awake for school.

"Sorry, mom. They piled us with homework today, can I go?" I ask hopefully. She huffs a few times and sends me on my way.

I never have homework.

As I trudge up the stairs, I start to think back on my day. It's nearly pathetic how uneventful my social calender is. I've come to accept it, though. I'm just not cut out for the Friday night football, pep rallies, homecoming dances et cetera. Never have been.

Once I make it to my room, I lock the door and flop onto my bed. This has been my schedule for God knows how long. Everyday, like clockwork, I barricade myself until dinner time, creep out of my room to grab a plate once my parents have eaten, and come right back here to eat in silence.

I like it this way, though. I've never been one for pointless conversation, and I sure as hell would prefer it over the hustle and bustle of a public restaurant or family bonding.

I slowly strip away my jacket and shirt, trying my best not to knick the forming scars. Sometimes, I'll just stare at them. I'll be functioning normally, going on with my life, and then I notice them and have to set time aside to gawk. They're beautiful, in some sick and backwards way. The very first time I caused them, I couldn't stop touching the raised skin. I'd never been so fascinated with injuries before in my life.

I glance at my clock and think about setting it just in case I oversleep, but decide better of it. What would be the harm, anyway?

The only time my parents ever seem to pay attention to me is when they feel the need to claim impulsive control. It's happened more times than I can count. Everything will be normal, and the next thing I know, they're threatening to take away my music and strip me of any remaining dignity.

It's unfair, in many ways, how some kids have the type of family that doesn't give a shit on their whereabouts. I've heard it countless times from my mother how fortunate I am to "have a mother who cares!", but I honestly don't see the advantage.

Once I'm nestled under the comforter, I grab my ipod and set it to shuffle. The music calms me instantly and within moments I'm drifting off to a faraway collection of dreams that I know I won't remember when I wake up.

I wake up to muffled yelling.

"FRANK! What is he doing, Carl? I swear, all the boy does is sleep. We need to do something." my mom is explaining to my dad. "Linda, you know how teenagers are. Just give him some space." he pleads. I hear my mother's mocking tone and decide I'd rather not listen in on their discussion.

I roll over, hoping to drift away again, but a minute later I hear knocking -no pounding-, on my door.

"Stop being so lazy, Franklin. Dinner's been on the stove for ten minutes and you still haven't made a plate!" she says. Oh, God forbid my food be exposed to the air for a few minutes before I have to shovel it down my throat to appease the ones who were gracious enough to buy it from the frozen freezer section at Wal-Mart.

"Coming!" I call. I fumble around in the dark for a long-sleeved shirt to dress in. Once I find it, I emerge from my room and slowly adapt to the familiar sounds of the rest of the house. The television is turned to an hour-long drama and the exhaust fan is buzzing in the kitchen. It takes me a moment to recognize the smell of corn and chicken and my stomach starts to churn.

Without a word, I grab a paper plate and pile the canned corn as high as it'll go.

"Now, Frank. You know that's not all I fixed. Have some of this." my mother says, gesturing over to the skillet full of bubbling grease. "Mom, how many times have I told you? I don't eat meat." I grunt. She rolls her eyes and scoffs. "And how many times have I told you that it isn't healthy to completely get rid of an entire food group. Please eat some?" she starts to whine as a last resort. I stick firmly to my decision and scoot passed her, down the hall and over to the steps.

I can faintly hear her complaining to my father again about my anti-social behavior, but I'm already dead-set on spending the rest of the night, locked away.

I can't seem to taste my food, and I'm desperate for any form of relief from the incessant zips of pain that shoot across my arm. I search for some Tylenol and gulp three down along with some water.

I've not had it in me to watch TV in quite some time. Tonight won't be different than any other.

My throat's been scratchy all day; undoubtedly from sleeping in the rain the night before. I decide to stop scraping my fork through the bland food and I start readying myself for bed.

After mumbling a quick goodnight to anyone who'll listen, I go back to my room and turn off the lights. This is probably my favorite part of the day. In this moment, I'm left with nothing to do but feast on the many ideas that have been dancing around in my skull.

I start to develop lyrics; I recollect a funny quote from a few days back and make myself smile. It's cheap entertainment, but that's most always the best kind.

I'm far from tired, but that's never kept me from sleep before. It's my only way to escape the pang I receive from everyday life. To be completely realistic, my life is probably the most boring one in history. I relish any form of excitement but those moments flicker quickly and are widely spaced out.

The shadowed silver from the moon is leaking, only slightly, through the top of my window where the curtain is furthest away from the frame. I focus on it and wonder what the world would become if moonlight became full-time.

Thoughts and the sporadic buzzing of my household fill up the empty spaces of my room and my senses become sharper than they are during the day.

For a moment, I strain to hear the dialog coming from the TV, but it doesn't interest me, so I switch over to what's happening outside of my window.

Dogs barking, cars jutting by. It's a fairly slow-moving town, here in Jersey. Nothing decent enough to explore, and no one worth staying in the state for.

All too soon, the sounds begin to bore me. I ache to cancel out the pointless noise and reach for my earphones.

Within a matter of minutes, I'm captured by the instruments and the lively exuberance of the artist. I can't help but wish to one day be in their place.

Eventually, I can feel the blinking slow down, until I'm not doing it at all. My eyes are closed, and my head and mouth seem to be stuffed with cotton. My breathing grows heavy and I'm out like a light.

The only echoes I can seem to grab hold of before succumbing to whatever limbo my mind offers, is a distorted recording of my mother. Her words tear me apart and sting with a violence I can't fathom.

If only she cared. All I want is for her to understand that she hurts me. Because she does. Her proclamations of disappointace reverberate over the soft tissues of my brain and I'm left feeling weak and hurt as I dwell, unhealthily, on her words.

The pain she causes is terrific, and I can't help but wonder how the complaints and frustrated sighs she utters seem to burn stronger than these cuts ever will.
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