FicWad

A/N: So I guess I’m continuing! Someone left me a review about the whole first person writing thing, but I couldn’t reply for some reason; thanks for the review and advice though! Today was kind of a hard day for me in school, and so this may be dark... I really don’t know. Enjoy it anyways.
XoxoxoDetonaterGirlxoxoxO

Ray- the boy from the bathroom- is holding me up with a strong arm. I feel so worthless. Why can’t I stand up for myself? Everyone else manages to get through their day without attracting all this negative attention. I’m the only one who ends up on the way to hospital only two classes into the day, and with a stranger too. I don’t want his pity, but the saddest part of this is I need it. Or else I would still be lying in the pool of blood in the hall a little way back.


It was hard. Passing the blood. Despite being covered in it almost daily, I still can’t stand the sight of it. Or the metallic taste. A taste I know too well.


I’m suddenly angry at myself. Why can’t I do anything right? Why!? WHY AM I SUCH A FUCK UP!? Is it because my father- no! Stop! Why am I using that bastard as an excuse? There is no excuse; I’m just a fucking weak person. I need to stand up for myself, geez, it isn’t that hard! Even the fucking nerdiest kids, with their shirts tucked into their pants, don’t end up carted away to be fixed by a stranger in a white coat. And some day I reckon the stranger in the white coat won’t be a fucking doctor, he’ll be a psychiatrist.


We’re passing my locker, but I want Pansy.


“Ray? Can I get something from my locker?” I say, hating how weak I sound.


“Yeah dude, sure.” He says.


I enter the combination and open the locker, grabbing Pansy and trying to lift her case over my shoulders, but Ray grabs the case and slings it over his broad back easily.


“So you play guitar? Me too.” He says. I ignore this.


“It’s a great way to escape when you need to.”


I ignore this too. What the fuck would he know about escaping?


“Come on. Taxi’s waiting.” He says, ignoring my dark look. I can do things. I don’t care about the pain, I’m Frank fucking Iero; I learned not to care at the age of ten.



We reach the front doors and the steps. I see he’s right; the taxi is waiting. I climb into the back slowly. I feel like a fucking geriatric. Ray climbs in the other side and mumbles the address to the driver, who obligingly drives away. I look out the window, feeling shamed now.

Why? Why me...?



//



“Name?” the friendly nurse in A&E asks. I sigh. This is all too familiar.


“Frank Iero.”


“Date of birth?”


“October 31st, 1981.” I say. A Halloween baby. Well, my life has been a bit of a horror story. Not many fourteen year olds can say they have more bruises than they have thoughts. I can. And that is a lot.


“Parent or guardians number?” She asks. I can feel panic rise in my throat.


“Uh” I rattle off my mother’s number, hating myself as I do so. She doesn’t need the stress! Ray is sitting out in the waiting room. He’s not family, and he’s not allowed in.


I don’t know why he’s waiting.


He should go back to school. School. The place where I get mown down because of my weakness, unnoticed by the teachers or others unless it’s to hurt me. No, I decide. Ray shouldn’t go back to school. Where he will surely say something to someone, who will promise ‘I won’t tell a living soul’, instead telling another soulless gossip seeker. Ah, the never ending gossip press. Within a day everyone will know Frank Iero, midget punk kid with the absentee father, is in the hospital crying his fucking eyes out over a couple of scratches. What a loser Frank is.


I catch myself. How easy it is to slip into the eyes of an observer.




When my mother finally arrives, she is flustered like I imagined.


“Where’s my Frankie? Frank?!” She calls, halting when she sees my burst lip, cut forehead and now my two big black eyes. Thank god I wear foundation occasionally.


“Baby, what happened? Who did this?” She gasps, horrified. I rack my brains for an excuse.


“No one. I fell down the stairs on my way to my class. My hair was in my face and I was carrying books.” I say, hoping my excuse sounds believable. I can see her eyes narrowing in disbelief, but she doesn’t ask any more. I don’t elaborate.


No one deserves to hear the horrors that I face. No one.


//



I’m sitting across the back seats of our battered banger Ford Fiesta. Pansy shares the seat with me, despite my mother insisting I put her in the boot of the car. I had said she would get banged about and put out of tune. My mother gave in. She’s going to let me do what I like for the next few days, I can tell.


Ray had left the hospital a short while after my mother arrived, but not without putting his number on my phone and taking mine first. I never realized there were people who would want the number of a midget on their phone. He probably just wants it to text abuse at me and give to the rest of the haters.


When we arrive home my mom tells me I don’t have to go to school for a few days if I don’t want to.


“I’m going.” Is my reply. If I don’t Josh will have won. Anyways, I kind of feel guilty for leaving Gerard on his own on his first day. I know what it’s like to be alone.
In my room I strip, put on a clean pair of boxers, this pair black and red check, and some pyjama pants. My ribs are bound tightly. It hurt too much to to take off my tee shirt so I don’t put a pyjama top on.


I look at my reflection in my cracked, dirt-flecked mirror. I can remember the quickly-disguised horror in the medical staff’s eyes, the pain and guilt in my mothers, as they ran their eyes over the scars, cuts, bruises in colours varying from a deep plumy purple to an obnoxious loud yellow that marred my ivory, creamy skin, making it red and raised and angry looking. I see them in my mind, running judging eyes over my arms, my legs, my torso, my face, quickly coming to conclusions. I know what the conclusions are. Self-harmer. Punk kid. No control. Weak. Loser. A target. Someone to hurt and maim.


Suddenly I get another wave of red hot anger, and I grab my amp, and without thinking I raise it over my head, the pain radiating through my chest fuelling the anger more, and throw it at the mirror with a yell. The result is the mirror exploding. Parts of it are literally just dust and powder floating through the air, like dust mites float in a beam of sunlight on a sunny day. Except it’s been a long time since I last experienced a sunny day.
If you look in the mirror and don’t like what you see you can find out first-hand what it’s like to be me. Now it’s gone, and I still hate myself. I really do. I turn and walk to my window ledge. I open it as best as I can with my weak arms and heave myself outside, so my feet are dangling over the edge. You see, when I broke my foot I wasn’t trying to sneak out or anything like that.



I was trying to kill myself. And I even failed at that. How pathetic am I? Ignoring my mother’s fingers scrabbling at my locked door and her frantic cries of “Frank, please, open the door! What was the noise!?” I climb back in the window and under my duvet and curl into a ball as sobs wrack my body. I feel so alone. I need to escape, but how?




A/N: So it kinda turned a little depressing.... and if all goes according to what I have planned, it will stay like that for a few more chapters possibly... I don’t know. I guess I’m more twisted than I thought >:D I might try writing from Ray or Gerard’s P.O.V... I really dunno right now xD