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

The Loss of Something Good

by eccentricpaige 2 reviews

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama - Characters: Frank Iero - Warnings: [?] - Published: 2011-09-24 - Updated: 2011-09-25 - 2090 words

I manage to stay out of the sight and mind of Gerard all throughout my hospital visit. After waiting nearly half an hour to be seen, I quickly sign the wavers required and give a secretary at the front desk the information to my mother's insurance company.

Two hours and a long wait later, and I'm back at home, resting for a while in my room. Overall, I can honestly say today has been a good day. It doesn't take much to throw me into a rotten mood, but for some reason I've been very tolerant; and I can't say this slight change bothers me. I know how I can be sometimes; dramatic and reclusive. Maybe if I stopped trying to bottle things in so much, I wouldn't feel the need to let my frustrations out in a completely different way than most. But then I face the fact that absolutely no one cares to hear about any of my problems. Everyone is going through a situation in their lives; it would be incredibly selfish of me to pile mine onto their shoulders as well.

After aimlessly gazing at the ceiling for what seemed to be a long time, I decide to turn in early as I usually do and try to get enough sleep so that I can function tomorrow. It doesn't take long after I've gotten ready and said my goodnights before I'm fast asleep in the corner of my bed, blankets wrapped around me like a second skin. It's warm inside of this pool of nothing. The absence of thought is peaceful and brings me some form of comfort as I'm consciously taking in my subconscious' surroundings. Eventually I do let go of that small string that connects me to awareness, though, and I'm off into a dreamless sleep as I usually am.

Of course Tuesday brings on an entirely different chain of events.

I wake up feeling like lead's been injected into my veins. I know what today is, and the fact that I'm able to remember brings me absolutely no comfort. It takes longer than usual to get ready for school as I'm weighing the pros and cons of skipping once again. From the very start, I can already tell the day is going to turn out poorly. It's like knowing the ending to a movie you're unable to eject, or hearing about the final scenes of a book that is forcibly being read aloud.

After grabbing a comfortable jacket, I slip into the hallway and feel a sense of finality as the click from my doorknob sounds throughout the upstairs portion of the house.

"Are you ready, dear?" my mother asks as she stands near the door in her night gown and house shoes. Her and my dad both have the day home together, which means I'll most likely be coming home to an argument or proposition.

"Yeah, I'll meet you in the car." I say quietly as I walk passed her and out of the house.

After school lets out, I'm rushing to make it to the bus. Of course, a perfect way to end this school day would to have been held up in my fourth block class as our teacher happily hands out review packets like party favors. I can feel the bile rise in my throat at the prospect of having to read over these tonight. All I really want to do is sleep, at this point.

When I get home, I'm instantly bombarded with chatter, as it seems my smaller cousins have come over to visit. They mostly keep to themselves in the living room; their mother, my Aunt, quietly talking over things with my own. I glance around the room for my father and notice he's no where to be seen. He's probably already there.

"Frank, honey, come over here will you?" my mother's voice calls to me from the dining room. I roll my eyes and comply; stepping over the children sprawled out on my living room floor.

"Yeah?" I ask nervously. I notice how she eyes my hands as they're jammed into my pockets, so I hold them down at my sides like it's a forced order. Once the atmosphere is less tense, she opens her mouth to speak.

"It's Romona's birthday, today. Your father's already at the cemetery. Do you want to come with us, this time? It'll be good for you; some closure." she says cheerfully, like we're talking about something happy.

"No, I still don't want to. Not now." I answer truthfully. Ever since my grandma died last year, I haven't been able to shake the feeling of pure and raw guilt. Her final moments were neither graceful, nor endearing. I sat in the next room as she gargled to death on the fluid trapped inside of her old lungs. The cancer had spread so quickly; none of us thought she'd be the first to go. After all, my grandfather is nearly a decade older and still living. It almost just didn't seem right for her to leave this Earth without him, and everyone thought so.

I can remember waiting for that perfect moment, where she would be lucid and I could give her a proper goodbye. She'd been there for me off-and-on my entire life, so it wouldn't seem right to spend the last night of her life absently staring at the television. Of course, that moment never did come, and by morning I was shaken awake with the news of her death as my greeting.

After withdrawing from my memory, my focus is zoomed back onto my mother, and I'm waiting for her reaction to spread across her face. All my aunt Carol can do is stare at the two of us as an outsider; her mother's still living and I'm sure she thanks God for that everyday.

"Fine. I just... it would mean so much to your father if you could stand at the headstone and pay your respects like any loyal grandchild would." she says in disgust. The sudden urge to scream loudly is so overpowering, that I feel I might burst if I don't leave this room soon. She senses my rise in blood pressure and turns her head to ignore me, giving me the perfect chance to leave before the hysterics start and I'm struggling to see through the tears.

No matter how little I show it, I still miss her with all of my heart. The way her face would double in size as she laughed, the way she'd find the most ridiculous things to be funny, and even the way she'd have her bouts of insanity, where the world made no sense to her and she considered it perfectly normal to raid the cabinets for every ingredient imaginable so she could throw together a stew that no one would dare touch.

I miss those times, where she'd ask me what was going on in my life, and I'd almost get the courage to truly tell her, only to have the moment ruined by a clash coming from the kitchen, or the ringing of a phone.

I still tear up at the thought of her old home, and how it belongs to my father's sister, now. We don't have Christmas there anymore, and Thanksgiving is a disgrace in comparison to how it was held when she was still around. Every so often, I'll get a whiff of how the house used to smell. The strong stench of boiled potatoes and old perfume coated the planks on the very few walls the renovators hadn't replaced, and I'd find myself longing for those childhood moments again. It seems like I let them slip through my fingers; I was careless, and took advantage of my time with her. And now it's all too late, because she's six feet under and rotting, and I'm still on the surface wishing I could take her place.

My senses tingle and I start to burn from the outside in as the need to isolate myself grows strong. I rush up the steps and barricade myself behind the door, heavily breathing through the urge to cry, and sniffing like a drug addict to get rid of the tears and sobs that are threatening to escape.

My will to keep my emotions in-check is nearly too hard to grasp, and all I can do is fall on the bed and wrap myself up into a pathetic version of a hug. I lie down and wait for the aching to finish; for my thoughts to step in and take me away from the intensity my mother caused me to feel.

The eve of the funeral, I can still remember the feeling of her cold hand in mine. I was limp against her skin, which only caused her to tighten her grip more. Her mission that night was to grasp and trigger emotions from everyone. She played the field, talking to anyone on the verge of tears. All she had to do was make the situation a little more dramatic; a little more heartbreaking, and boom. She got those tears she feeds on to stay alive. Sadness is her fuel, and if it's not present then she will make sure it shows up before too long.

I relax after a while, trying to cheer myself up in any way. My thoughts finally settle on the fact that I still have a perfectly healthy grandma on the other side of the family. One who has the most amazing laugh, and has the grace and gentleness of a person you can't help but trust. I smile as I think about the way her eyes wrinkle at the corners; the contours in her face deepening with each passing year. I've still got her when things get rough, but the anger strikes yet again when I realize how short a time she has left. Mortality is a culprit, stealing the very energy away from its victims. I feel so helpless as I see the aftermath of elapsed time and observe aging at its finest. In one sense, it's all very beautiful, as it is a way of nature. But in another, I almost can't handle the concept of being here one minute and gone the next. Like a meaningless bug or a blade of grass that was unfortunate enough to be yanked out of the yard before its time.

I heave a great sigh and hoist my weight to the side as I support the majority of my body with my arms. The heal of my hand is open and holding my chin as my elbow cuts into the mattress in order to keep everything from toppling over.

I think to myself, why is it that I do my deepest thinking alone? It dawns on me that the lack of distraction is somewhat of an advantage, but after looking closely into it, I'd still like to think that an entirely different answer would be the case.

It's finally quiet as I hear the front door slam shut, signaling that Carol and her bundles of joy have left for their respective home. I smile to myself, wishing I could leave with just as much ease. I decide it would be in my best interest to take a small nap before I'm expected to get ready for church, so I do just that. Once again, the cloudy mass of open space draws me in and reminds me that life always seems to be better when my eyes are closed. Staying this way is just so effortless, and I find myself appealed with the idea that mankind is able to shut down and keep away from who they want using the power of mentality. If only it could be used as often as I'd like. Then I'd never have to face the pain and loss I've grown shamefully accustomed to. It's with these disgruntled thoughts that I jet into a sleep of comfort and a collection of meaningless dreams.

Time is fleeting. No one can hold you back as long as you eliminate the chance to let them try.
Remember to keep your mind's eye open and watch the dreams you're too afraid to have fly.

This is the phrase I wake up to and immediately write down. Life feels meaningful when inspiration strikes, and I'm left feeling happy with the idea that I'll have a song to write once church lets out.

Only if I manage to survive the evening, that is.
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