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Chapter Four – Healing the Hurt


Frank’s POV




“Better?”

My soft voice breaks through the dreamy, almost content look on his scarred face and he gives a slight nod, a nod that I don’t quite believe. He could be in absolute agony and this adorable kid wouldn’t tell me through fear of upsetting me; just another factor to add to my unbelievably sincere fury at fate for letting this happen to someone like him.

The stress of the situation is making me desperate for a cigarette, but I know that I must refrain; if not because I’m trying to quit, then because I don’t want Mikey inhaling my second hand fumes. Besides, he might not like people smoking around him and I don’t want to leave him on his own; not when his wells of vision scream his uneasiness that can only increase by being abandoned in a strange place in his current state. So I shall ignore the craving. Mikey Way is way more important than any bad habit. Especially when he is blatantly in need of my help, even if he’s too helpless to realise it just yet.

I can’t help but feel like some sort of overprotective mother; I’ve got him tucked up in my bed and in my old Batman pyjamas that hang off of his frail body, making him look even more childlike, even more innocent, even more weak, even less deserving. Pyjamas that hide the evil bruises that stain his body like some sort of deadly rash. I’ve managed to clean him to the best of my ability but I wish I could do more. I may have been able to get the blood off of him with my gentle damp cloth dabs, but the wounds are still there. Not just the physical wounds, either; but the mental and emotional ones, the ones that won’t just heal over the course of a few days. He may be naturally shy and quiet, that I am willing to believe, but I can still see the raging storm of panic, the crashing waves of fear and the whirlpools of inner-destruction haunting his broken eyes that could have only been caused by the brutality of the beast that picked him as their unfortunate prey. I may have given him some painkillers and he may not be crying in pain like he was earlier, but I can still see every definition of the word plastered to his bruised face. A face that I long to make happy.

He lets out a heaving cough that crackles with exhaustion and I quickly hold out the bucket that I have bought in for him should this happen. Which it regretfully is. But it shouldn’t be, not to him; he’s just a kid.

He leans over the bucket, my arm resting around his shoulders like a warm scarf protecting it’s wearer from the harshness of a violent blizzard, and my hand caresses his arm like I imagine his mother would; even if he is a runaway, mom’s always make everything better. He lifts his head from the bucket as though it is as heavy as his heart and I glance briefly into it. It’s not as much as last time, but it still makes me wonder whether I should get him to a hospital. If he throws up his precious life-liquid again, then I will. I put the bucket on the floor and perch on the bed next to him, my arm still wrapped around him in a shielding manner as though it can protect him from everything that my soul tells me I have to protect him from.

He pleasantly surprises me by finding the courage to rest his head on my shoulder. Or maybe it isn’t a case of him doing it through trust and a simple want to be close to someone trustworthy, but rather due to the fact that he doesn’t have the meagre strength left in him to hold his head up. Either way I don’t mind, as long as it helps him, that’s all that matters right now.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask quietly, the question making it obvious that I don’t mind if he does; that if he wants me to preform that one little task I really won’t get mad at him like he seems to fear I will.

“Plea-ease.” I reach to the bedside table for the glass of soothingly cool water and go to place it in his gauze-covered palms until I realise that they’re shaking in residue fear. A sight that makes me want to hug him tightly into me until he feels safe again, until he feels like there is at least one other nice person, a nice person that actually gives a damn about him, in this cruelly terrible world. Instead I take the glass to his mangled lips and hold it whilst he meekly sips at the water as though he half expects it to suddenly turn to poison in his mouth. When he’s finished I place the, now empty, glass back from whence it came. “Th-thanks-s.”

His voice sounds so genuinely grateful that it brings a tear to my eye, not the first tear to be conjured by this remarkably sweet and helpless, hurt boy. Has it really been so long since someone has shown him kindness that he feels the need to act like such a simple act is some sort of great gift to him? Perhaps, to him, it is. Perhaps the idea that someone likes him enough to help him, be his friend even, is like a gift to him; but it shouldn’t be. It should be something that he expects, takes for granted even, not something so bizarre that he doesn’t want to let himself believe it.

Fuck. Poor kid. I want to show him that it isn’t like that; that anyone who he calls a friend should be the grateful one, not the other way around. And I do feel grateful that I have met him, someone kind and in need of the friendship I want to give. But I wish we hadn’t met like this. I would rather be alone, sulking with Misfit, than see this kid hurt like he is now. I would sell my worthless, black little soul to prevent his blood from spilling; I would serve my heart to the Devil if I thought it would dry up every last tear in his eyes. Eyes that are like bowlfuls of melted chocolate; sweet, perfect and impossible to hate.

“Don’t worry about it, Mikey. I want to help you.”

My benevolent statement of truth infests the atmosphere of the room and I swear that I can feel him try to shift closer to my warm words, though the tiny cynical part of me tells me that it’s my longing to gain his trust playing tricks on my mind. Just to be on the safe side, I pull him closer to me so that he knows I’m happy for him to find comfort and reassurance in my welcoming body heat. Sure enough we’re practically in a supportive side-ways hug style thing; his face hidden in my soft chest as though by filling his eyes with the black of my top they won’t be able to see any more bad things. How I wish that were true. It’s not like the friendly, trusting hug that I want it to be; it’s more like a necessity, like he has to hide himself in me or else something unspeakable will happen to him. Not that I would let it.

I slowly move so that I’m lying down on top of the covers that I have cocooned Mikey in, the feeble boy still stuck to me like a koala clinging to it’s defensive mother and stroke his hair, trying to soothe him off into the blessed respite of sleep; wincing in disgust (with the world, not him) every time my hand runs over a bump or cut. We lay like that for a while, both of us as close to being relaxed as we can be because he knows that he’s safe now and I know that he feels at least a little bit better.

But then I feel a horrible acid burning through my top. He’s crying again. This crying isn’t like it was earlier; it’s silent. And that makes it worse. It’s like he doesn’t think the cause of his tears is worthy of my time and I can tell that the cause isn’t physical pain; something’s preying on his traumatised mind like a cat playing with a mouse, a game that both parties know will only have one outcome, the dragged out death of the defenceless mouse.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I whisper into his feathery hair, concern dripping from my words like sickly-sweet honey.

“No-nothi-thing-ing.”

“Bullshit.” Don’t swear at him, you fucktard! He’s a terrified kid; you don’t swear at those, especially when they’re so scared of angering you. He tries to shuffle away from me in fear so, in a moment of unquestionable good intentions; I pull him closer to me. Only succeeding in making him yelp a high note of fear that skewers my mind. Well done, Frankie! The kid has just been attacked and narrowly escaped rape, what will make him feel better? Some creepy stranger holding him in an iron death grip whilst in said stranger’s bed? I think fucking not.

I have to salvage what little trust and faith in my good nature that he may have left; I can’t let him go back to how he was mentally a few hours ago. I refuse to let him go back to that.

“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down, Mikey. I don’t want to hurt you; I want to help you.” I feel his breathing regulate a little and him relax back into my arms, apparently not having the energy to doubt me, but not quite to the point where his head is cushioned with my chest. It’s an improvement, but the tears are still flooding his worn out face. I’m not letting this drop until I’ve sorted it; I’ve fixed him as good as I can on the outside, now I just have to lick the claw marks that life has left on his mind. “Please tell me what’s wrong, Mikey.”

He sniffles morosely and allows his face to flop gracefully back onto my chest; just above my heart. It’s kind of like he’s listening for my heartbeat, searching for reassurance that he can say what he needs to in order to heal.

“I want-ant m-my mo-om.” It’s not the hysterical cry that it sounds to be to my soul, but an almost soundless whisper void of all hope but so full of a wistful love that my heart twists in pain, like Fate’s fist is squeezing all happiness from it.

I’d assumed he was a runaway like the idiot I am and now he’s crying for his mom. If only I’d asked in the first place, he could be with her right now; he could be with someone better at taking his tears away from his soulful, yet somehow hauntingly hollow, eyes. But then he wouldn’t be with me.

“If you give me your home number I can call your parents.” He shakes his head. “It’s really isn’t a problem. I can call them if-“

“They-ey’re… d-dea-ead-d.” With his stuttered, destroyed words that make him grimace in torment and misery, I clutch him even tighter. “I-I live wi-th my-y big-ig brother-er.”

Immediately guilt and envy flare up in me. Guilt because this kid’s brother must be going out of his mind with worry when he’s been safe with me. Envy because I want to be the one to help Mikey, to do all of the things his big brother gets the privilege of doing; hugging him, protecting him, wiping away his tears, making him smile.

“He must be worried sick.” I carelessly think out loud, earning me a shriek of such pure distress from Mikey that I would be willing to do anything to take it back. “What’s up?” The devastated look in his fractured eyes tells me all that I need to know. “Did you run away from home?”

I can see him visibly flinch at my wording, like my question sent an electric shock through him.

“I-I don-on’t know, Fran-nk.” I raise my eyebrows in confusion, my face beseeching him to continue. “We-e… we h-had a-a fi-fight-t and-d…”

“You wanted to teach him a lesson, huh?” I fill in for him when his ashamed voice trails off into the oblivion of guilty memories and the pained silence tells that I’m right. I can’t help but wonder what the fuck his big brother did or said to make Mikey, shy and quiet and scared and innocent Mikey Way, rebel in such a drastic way. Well, whatever it is, I hate him for it. Nobody hurts my friends. Wait. No, that’s not fair. I’ve never even met his big brother and besides, who’s to say that they weren’t just being two brothers at loggerheads? Mikey’s controverted whimpers tell me that it wasn’t just a brotherly fray; it’s hit him way too hard for that. He appears to be the sensitive sort, but also someone so full of anxiety that I find it hard to believe he’d do something like that for no reason. “Want me to phone him for you?” I get no reply other than the sound of his laboured breathing. “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about the fight by now, he’ll just be glad to know you’re alright.” But you’re not. Not really. “And besides, I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson by now.” A lesson that the wounds will burn into his mind. A lesson that he’ll never forget. A lesson that, if he knows what he has, will make him treasure Mikey like the poor kid deserves to be treasured. “Mikes?” The nickname roles off of my tongue and I decide that I like it.

When he doesn’t reply, I look down to see that his eyes are no longer open to the bitterness of reality. He looks content. Content, but not happy. He needs his brother. If our short conversation that mainly consisted of my comforting voice and his sorrowful sobs has taught me anything about him, it’s that he needs his brother.

A brother that had better be sorry. Or else I’ll soon make him be.






A/N: Thanks for reading! Again, sorry if it’s crap. No headache to blame this time; just a smashed up and splinted right hand as a result of an “extreme air guitar accident”, as my doctor put it. Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope that you liked it and please review! :)