Chapter Text
"Are you dying?"
Frank knows the voice that echoes and bounces around his brain. Even when his mind is a foggy mess, he can recognize the slight vocal fry and its held back nature. Sadly, when his eyes do focus, it’s on the ugly yellow blob that he’s forced to wake up to every morning. It's the same clock he’s seen for months. It's a hideous smiling sun, and the light from his window makes it glow even brighter. Making the sloppily painted on pink cheeks more repulsive, and the message under it even more mocking.
It gets better everyday.
The longer he looks at the words, the more focused his vision gets, and he can see the three boys standing around his bed.
"He looks dead." Anthony blurts, and this time he’s able to match the voice from earlier with this one. It makes sense to him. When Anthony does choose to speak, he goes on long rants, so Frank supposes it’s just forever ingrained in his head.
Ray elbows him harshly, "Quit it. He might be able to hear you."
"This is why I said we should leave him alone." Gee says sternly, and even in Frank’s paralyzed state he wants to argue with him. Frank doesn't want them to leave, who knows what this medication is doing to him, who knows if his body can handle the sickness that he’s contracted. Maybe this time his body will finally give up, and he’ll just never get better. Anthony might be right. He’s dying, and it's all because his new nurse decided to leave his window open on a windy day. His immune system is just that weak, almost as much as he is.
"He looks... Out of it." Ray's calloused finger inches towards his face, and he wants to scream. His throat tightens like he should be screaming, but his vocal chords betray him. Nothing comes out.
"Don't." Gee grabs Ray’s hand, and for once Frank’s not annoyed with him. Of course this had to be at the moment where he couldn’t say shit. He can’t even tell Gee he appreciates it. "He's awake, he'll never forgive you."
"Fine." Ray takes his hand away only to add, "But we both know the touch helps him."
"Not like this." Gee's face grows clearer in his vision, and he can see the guy's usual concerned expression. Gee always looks bored or upset, there's no joy behind his dark eyes. Almost like he's constantly disappointed with the world, or bored by his mere existence. It’s so reserved, shy almost, which drives Frank up a wall.
Every time Frank looks at the other man he just wishes he could understand him. He’s unreachable, probably because he doesn’t like speaking to Frank , Frank assumes. It's like the thought is a clicking sound he just can't place every time Gee’s dark eyes go out of their way to look away from him. It's always there and there's nothing he can do about it. Gee just doesn’t like talking to him, and that’s that. And it definitely doesn’t bother Frank.
Frank tries to make noise to get their attention, but it comes out in a small gurgle instead. Wait, what if he ends up choking on his own spit, and that's why he’s dying? No, he shouldn't think that, because now that it’s a possibility he knows it won't leave his brain. He’s really gonna die, and it's gonna be because of that nurse.
That nurse could have been planning it too. Planning this because she knows he doesn't do enough. This is some weird revenge put in place by God. He knew this was coming, God was always telling him, Ms. Thurston is wrong, this was always going to happen. He’s going to die, or he’s losing his mind because nurses don’t make conscious plans to murder patients in their sleep. However, if she was really put in place by God.. What if he is losing his mind?
Frank knows it’s bad when his mind goes on religious tangents against his will.
"Let's go, we've already done enough damage by being here." Gee says coldly, before walking right out of the room. The others follow, and Frank continues trying to speak. It's useless, but he’s lucky he can even think functionally after taking the medication.
He should've never taken it, but when you're so sick you can't even think about anything else, you're willing to take anything. He can tell this is the same medication he took before he got here, when he was getting admitted, and what he continues to take randomly when the doctors seem to give up on him. He still has no idea why it gets stronger every time he takes it, or why it seems to make his memory all fuzzy.
Lexapro, from what he remembers, can cause diarrhea, nausea, lack of sexual drive, and drowsiness. Zoloft can cause nausea, shaking, lack of sexual drive, and agitation. Prozac can have similar outcomes, and the list goes on and on, which sucks since he can’t memorize it all. Ms. Thurston used to let him know what he was taking, and used to let him study the medicine books. It's not his fault he can’t find the answer he’s looking for in them. That none of them quell the worry stirring in his stomach.
No, when he’s on this mystery medication there's not a single thought that goes through his brain. Everything feels colorless, and dull. When he’s sick it seems to make him paralyzed, and sadly he’s never not gonna be sick. No medication that he has been outright told he takes fits the symptoms he exhibits. Fuck, no wonder he doesn’t go to school anymore and lives in a hospital. He can’t even take medication right, he’s never gonna get better if his body always wants to destroy itself.
That's why he’s pissed off about that stupid window. He has a system, and everyone in this building knows that. Now some random nurse just had to come along and now he’s going to die. He’s never gonna get up, he’s never gonna be able to tell Ray and Anthony that he wishes they stayed to see his final moments, and he’s especially never gonna be able to get Gee to like him. It's all gone.
Now he can't tell whether the medication is paralyzing him or if it's the fear that runs so deep in his bones that they now feel like stone. Either way, he’s going to die.
-
Turns out death isn’t in the cards for Frank that day, but he still feels like it. That sickness controls him, making his stomach cramp, his nose run, and his blood run cold. Still, he forces himself out of bed even though his whole body protests. Each step feels like a stab, and every thought makes his head pound louder. He can't skip his morning routine today. Not only is he completely disgusting from drowning in his own pool of sweat, but he also needs to get to the bathroom before everyone else does. Sure, early mornings suck, but being stared at is worse to him.
So he walks quietly through the halls of his hospital. It’s not like any other hospital he’s been to, this one is made out of wood, and feels more like it was made to be a home. Not a hospital. Sometimes he feels like he’s actually an old man that just thinks he’s a teenager, and that maybe he was admitted here for amnesia or something. Which he might as well have considering the medication already makes his brain shut off. Frank slightly chuckles at the thought as he walks into the empty bathroom.
He walks past the urinals to where the showers are. Who says waking up at five in the morning everyday is overkill? The prize of getting the place all to himself is much better then any sleep he could ever get. On another positive note Frank ponders over as he turns on the shower is that he recently got his morning routine down to just two hours. The catch though is that things may be different now that he is weaker. Especially since he knows now that Ms. Thurston is wrong. God was always speaking to him.
Frank groans at the thought, because losing his faith all those years ago really meant nothing. As long as he questions it, it’ll always be there. That worry. It only reminds him that he has no control over his life. Maybe losing his faith was a mistake, because God is actually real. Frank pushes the fears aside.
He decides to focus on the scars that plagues his legs instead. There’s no sane explanation to why he has them, that’s a memory that’s somehow lost to time. They look unclean though, so it feels right for him to wash them everyday, putting his complete attention on them. If only they'd just disappear, scrubbing them never seems to work. If anything it just makes the unevenness of his skin look more prominent.
After his shower, which he had to pry himself out of to keep it from lasting too long, he starts off his morning routine like anyone else would. He brushes his teeth until it feels right. No one has to set a timer for brushing their teeth, they just do it until it feels like an invisible mark has been checked off for the day. Frank’s the exact same way, because he’s a normal human being. Today the check mark doesn’t come until he tastes red. So what if his ends up later than others? It doesn’t make him crazy, it’s just inconvenient.
Frank spits out pink into the sink only to realize he was wrong, that mental step doesn’t feel complete yet. It feels wrong, and he doesn't wanna burn in hell or have his parents murdered because he did this step wrong. The pink stares back at him as he tries to shove it away. He knows he’s not supposed to give in, she told him it only gets worse if he gives in. Today’s different though, because he can still feel the grime on his teeth. The bacteria that lives in his mouth that only feels more prominent from the fever.
Frank remembers reading that there are about seven hundred species of microbes living in your mouth. That’s seven hundred other beings swimming around making his face home to many others. At that point he might as well not even be considered a single individual. It makes his tongue taste bad in his own mouth. Even with the toothpaste, his saliva seems too prominent in his mouth, and he can almost feel the drainage from his nose crawl down the back of his throat. Back into his mouth like some vicious cycle.
So he continues, almost like how his heart continues to pound faster in his chest. When he spits out red and sweat drips down his face, that’s when he finally forces himself to stop. It doesn’t help his labored breathing, or the anxiety that crawls up his spine. If only Ms. Thurston didn’t take away his medical books, because he really wants to look at the Mouth Microbes page again. It makes his skin crawl that he doesn’t have the knowledge at his fingertips anymore.
His hands tighten around the toothbrush, and with it comes the waves of embarrassment and anger. This isn’t normal, normal people don’t have to fight with their own brain everyday. This might just be what insanity looks like. First you hurt yourself, then you hurt others. Frank snaps the toothbrush in his hands, before then taking in a slow deep breath.
The next step in his eight step morning routine is to wash his hands. He takes off his black finger-less gloves, and washes his hands with foam soap from a bottle. Frank doesn't use bars of soap. He can't understand how anybody uses a bar of soap. The germs that could collect on the surface even just from touching the air, is just so gross to him. If he’s gross he’ll get sick, and if he’s sick he’ll die and inevitably go to hell because God was trying to warn him this entire time.
He washes them until they feel clean, like any normal person, and luckily today he stops himself before they become cracked and bleeding. He can still taste iron from the first step, and he tries to ignore the worry bubbling in his stomach. It causes a sharp pain that makes him grip at his side. The stomach cramps always come after he gets pent up with anxiety, and sadly, he’s always anxious.
Next is checking his temperature. What if he ends up sick and has no other way of knowing? It’s a little high today, which is expected, but he still can't help feeling powerless at the sight. He knows it’s bad when he sees it higher than a ninety-eight. It just feels wrong, and makes him sweat more out of fear.
Like any rational human being, he usually checks his temperature about three to five times a day, just to make sure he was accurate the first time. What if it changed when he wasn’t looking? What if he has this weird birth defect where his temperature randomly changes, and doctors just haven’t picked up on it yet? What if a demon enters his body and it raises his temperature an insane amount but since he’s possessed it just feels normal to him?
The door opening brings Frank out of his spiral. The shower was good for nothing considering how he’s now drenched his sweat. He tries to keep his eyes down as other patients filter through. That must mean it’s eight in the morning, and he’s still not done with the step that takes him the most amount of time. Just fucking great.
He checks over his nails, which are always painted black. It’s comforting for him to see his nails stand out against his pale skin. It bothers him when his nails blend in with his skin. And no, they don’t make him look like a girl or make him gay , he just likes how they make him feel more in control of his appearance. Today the pinky is slightly chipped, and he knows he has to fix it even if he’ll be judged by the other guys walking in.
Taking out the nail polish remover, he takes off the nail polish on his pinky finger, and then he starts to reapply the polish. The nail looks darker than the rest of his nails though, and like always the commands just seem to get louder for him.
“Faggot.” He hears someone mumble behind him, but he just chooses to ignore it. It’s his fault he took so long to get through the other steps, he deserves the repercussions.
So Frank removes the polish from every single nail, further drying out his fingers. Others give him dirty looks in the mirror, but he can’t stop himself. His brain grows fuzzy from the smell, but he pushes through.
“I wonder if he sucks cock better than he does his nails.”
Frank’s hands start shaking, making it harder for him to concentrate. He knows it’s irrational, and that once he runs out of this bottle he won’t have anymore, but he can’t stop. He reapplies every nail, and his gaze leaves his nails to go to his reflection. However, the looks of the other inmates are too much for him so he looks back at his nails, trying to ignore them.
And he’s angry. Angry that he keeps giving in to every instruction his brain gives him. That it makes him its prisoner. That the jerks behind him can’t shut the fuck up for two seconds so he can just get his routine over with. There are quicker ways to get them to shut up.
Frank moves onto the next step on his list, mumbling quietly, "I'm Frank Iero." He’s not gonna lose who he is to some stupid mystery medication. This is the one thing he has control over, even if it does seem silly to talk out loud to himself. "It is August fourth, two-thousand and six. I'm sixteen years old, and I would've been a Junior in high school. I got here a month ago. My doctor is Mr. Way, my therapist is Ms. Thurston, and my nurse is Brandeberry. Before I came here, I was-"
“Hey schizo, why don’t you talk to your imaginary friends somewhere else?”
Frank turns to see the smug look on the other patient's face. His first instinct is to throw a punch, or even to tackle the guy. To hell with that fact that the guy’s twice his size, and that he’d easily be snapped in half if he ever tried anything. Instead he simply says, “Fuck off, I’m almost done in here.”
A scrawnier patient shoves his shoulder. His smile looks much wider, almost wild in nature. “What, so you can paint your nails?” The guy seems to beam with energy, switching from crouching and standing making it look like he’s jumping. “Do you wanna be a pretty princess, Iero?”
Now this is someone Frank could easily take down. If they did fight he imagines grabbing the guy's head and slamming it against the metal sink. He’d then pull it back slamming it into the mirror next, crushing the guy's skull against the glass, then slam him against the floor. He’d then curb stomp him until his own foot hurt. Willing to kill a man, Iero? You could snap his neck easily.
Frank shakes his head, because he knows he could never do it. He can’t imagine taking someone's life, well he can, he just doesn’t want to. Another thing that’s just out of his control. “No, I want you to get out of my face.” He then puts his morning supplies away, which is in a tote that he’s had for years.
“Really? I thought you loved men getting in your face.” The bigger guy says, shoving Frank's shoulder. The scrawny guys adds, “Fag.”
Frank just grabs his things and leaves the room. Shoulder checking the scrawny guy in the process. He knows they won’t do anything though, that’s not how this place operates. You can’t hurt somebody and get away with it. That’s why no one follows him to the hallway.
Which is good, because if they did he’d probably have his fist in a wall by now.
He keeps walking through the hallway though, his fists curled tightly from the anger swirling in his chest. That’s when the praying starts, and he’s now worried he won’t stop. It used to be that bad, he used to pray every single second of every day, even when others were trying to talk to him. If someone broke his prayer he'd have to restart or else something bad would happen.
That was when he was younger though, and when he was still attending church. Back then it was normalized for him to do that sort of thing. Now he sees it for what it is, and it’s gotten better. At least it was getting better. That stupid window. It only shows that he has no control over his life. He’s losing his mind, and it’s gonna get him killed.
-
"You're back!" Anthony pipes up as soon as Frank walks into the room. Slight vocal fry with a tinge of nerves. The familiarity of it calms Frank down a little.
Actually, the group of kids sitting on the floor in his room were the only people in this place that Frank cared about. He called them the greasers, because he has never seen them go to the showers before. It’s actually pretty gross.
Now, he doesn't know why the grease gets left in his room. Sure the place is underfunded, but you’d think they'd give him some privacy. The greasers are always hanging out in his room, even though there are other places for them to linger. They just choose his room for some reason. Frank will never admit it, but he actually really appreciates it.
"You took longer than you usually do, are you-"
Ray elbows him for the second time that day before shooting Frank a smile. His curly hair is short, and his glasses glint a little from the sunlight. "Wanna hear about the time I got plastered and almost fought a bear?" Now Ray has a voice Frank could spot out of millions of people. Deep voice with a slight nasally tone.
Frank wipes the snot from his nose, and clears his throat. "Kinda dying over here Ray, don’t think you'd like to get sick." What if they catch the sickness too, and that’s how he kills them? In the end he’ll be the one to murder them from how much he’s around them. No one’s safe around him.
"Yeah guys, maybe we should let him rest instead of invading his life." Gee shoots Ray a glare, and that bugs Frank. Obviously Gee just doesn’t wanna hang out with Frank, which makes him even more confused as to why Gee hangs out in his room so often. Fucking hypocrite.
Frank sits down in the circle of guys just to spite him, "Fuck it, I'm interested."
He notices how Bert curls and uncurls his legs, like he wants to say something, but can’t get it out.
"That’s the spirit! So my dad gave me five bucks and his ID to get him a pack of beer. Motherfucker couldn’t even pay rent, and already had to sell my Batman action figures. But I decided to choose a twelve pack over a wicked shiner. Which I now realize was stupid considering I would’ve looked fucking slammin’ with a black eye, and I wouldn’t have been kissing his ass.” The absurdity of it causes the group to laugh. “So I went to the gas station, and I swear it was a money laundering scheme. I was the only one who was ever in there!”
“Okay, now that’s bogus, even you know that.” Gee says, and the small smile on his face proves Frank’s theory that he’s trying so hard not to laugh. That was even more amusing to Frank than the story itself.
Frank grabs Ray's shoulder, shaking it harshly. “I believe you man. Small town, barely anyone there, it’s the perfect cover up! Now should we all go around and say the business we’d start up if we had to cover our own asses?”
“I think Gee would get cheezed off-” Anthony starts, only to earn a harsh elbow to the arm from Gee. Anthony rubs his arm. “Ow! I’m gonna bruised up if you two keep it up!”
Gee and Ray share an amused look that does not go unnoticed by Frank. It’s something that’s always been there. Sure he’s part of the group, but he has this nagging feeling that he’s not as involved as he wants to be. It’s even harder when Gee acts like he doesn’t want Frank there at all.
Gee lets out a sigh, his gaze dropping down to his sketchbook. “Kay curly, finish your story.”
Ray's face lights up as he continues. “Now, the clerk had become a good friend of mine by that point, even if he was a dealer, and I told him about the situation." The way Ray tells stories is extremely captivating, at least to Frank and seemingly the rest of the grease. He could be telling you about what he ate for breakfast and make it seem like some grand event. It isn’t even because he is loud, he just moves his arms around a lot and his voice is soothing enough to be captivating.
"So he made me a deal. Told me if I punch my dad in the face for him then he'll sneak me some snacks for the walk home. Real sweetheart. I told him to just give me the liquor instead, free of ID.”
Frank laughs which causes him to cough, his throat burns from the sensation, his chest aches from its repetition.
"I didn't walk home though, instead I went out to the poor excuse for woods that was near the gas station. Funny how they tore down most of the forest but couldn’t seem to fill up the houses. Anyway, I drank that whole bottle in one sitting, and was completely fucked up. Like, I think I have permanent brain damage from the experience."
The laughter ensues in the group circle.
"Anyway, that's when I saw it. This hairy motherfucker in the woods, and I freaked out. I slammed the bottle against a tree and walked over to it. The thing looked huge, and I swore it was a bear. I chased it for a while until it fucking spoke to me. Turns out it was just my neighbor Randy who was always certain he could tell the future. Real freaky-deaky guy. If you’re wondering, he did predict I’d end up here."
"He probably thought you were insane." Frank pushes out, clearing his throat again. It’s no secret he feels like shit, but for some reason no one else in this circle seems to have this issue. They are in a hospital, in hospital gowns, and yet Frank is the only one seemingly dying in there. Now, why they’re here has always been one of those topics Frank knows you just don’t bring up, but it’s not hard for Frank to wonder if they all have brain cancer, or some life threatening tumor.
"Insanity is a concept." Bert spoke, and it almost sounds like he's gonna say more. Major vocal fry, and way too confident in speech. Talk about someone who seems sick, dude can’t even finish his fucking sentences.
"That it is." Anthony smiles, and Frank can tell he’s only doing it to seem supportive. "You know there was this one time I-" As soon as he starts to ramble, Frank zones out. Unlike Ray who is a top tier storyteller, Anthony usually forgets what stories he already told the group, so it is likely one they’ve heard before. Frank knows about his family farm that was apparently haunted, and how his teachers would always have him stay after school to help around. It is always the same thing, and it always puts a weird taste in his mouth. Maybe he just doesn't know what a normal life is since he’s been moving around hospitals his whole adolescence.
Frank’s eyes drift over to the last kid in the circle, the one who bothers him to no end. From how the guy's always dressed in heavy black with a striped scarf instead of a hospital gown, to how he's always drawing rather than interacting with the group, to even how ominous his name is. Frank doesn't know Gee's full name. Actually, he doesn't know any of their full names. In his mind it only adds to his seclusion from the group.
They probably all know eachothers names and are just not telling him.
Gee is the worst offender though, and even worse, he won't tell Frank whether he’s just shy, or if he actually hates him. It bothers Frank, and he asks over and over and over again, but he doesn't let up. He says Frank should already know the answer, and it makes Frank wanna hate him, but he doesn't.
Gee's too interesting for Frank to completely write off. His voice is an interesting high pitched one that sounds so controlled. It takes Frank’s attention the few times he actually does decide to speak. His skin is strikingly pale, his hair a greasy dark mess that always ends up in his face, almost like he’s trying to hide behind it. It’s a shame, because he doesn’t have that bad of a face.
Frank can also tell it’s dyed black from how his roots are just slightly lighter than the rest of it. It’s almost like he can tell Gee was a smoker from the fact that he always chews on his bottom lip when he’s focused. Or the fact that he’ll sometimes bring his fingers to his mouth only for nothing to be there.
Every other kid in the grease will ramble your ear off like it might be their last, but Gee isn't like that. He keeps to himself, and sometimes Frank wishes he talked more. Sometimes he wishes he could get to know Gee better, that the guy wasn’t such a mystery. Hell sometimes Frank wishes he didn’t care so fucking much about getting to know this one guy. Is it really a crime though to obsess over wanting to be friends with somebody?
Frank’s eyes drop down to his hands, because it’s more weird staring at the guy then pondering what he’s really like. So his fingers start to fidget, trying to remember the chords he used to play before he got trapped there. It’s something he sometimes does unconsciously, and it only reminds him that whatever future he could’ve had is gone.
That’s when a new nagging feeling comes into play.
As Frank stares down at his skeleton gloves, he's painfully aware of the fact that his nails are fully painted with no imperfections, however it doesn't feel right . They don’t look right, he doesn't feel in control of what they look like. It’s like they’re separate from him, like his hands aren’t his. He hates it, and he worries that everyone else can see right through him. See that he's having these issues. That the littlest things put him on edge.
Frank tugs on Ray's sleeve, and he shoots Frank a slightly confused look. The shorter man shows him his hands. "Do my hands look alright?"
"Yeah dude, they look fine." He shoots Frank a confused smile, but they still don't feel right.
"Are you sure?" He doesn't wanna seem desperate for the answer, but it's really hard for him not to be. His answer doesn’t get rid of the nagging feeling like it should.
Ray looks uncomfortable, and Frank sees his gaze drift over the man behind him. Frank snaps. "Don't fucking look at Gee, look at me! Do they look nice or not?"
He looks like he's about to speak when Gee says, "Don't."
Frank turns to face him, anger swirling in his stomach. "Get a life asshole. I just wanna know.”
"Frank stop, you already know his answer."
Suddenly Frank doesn't care whether or not Gee likes him. He always does this, and it makes his blood boil every time. "Just tell me! You always keep everything from me, and it's not fair.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Whatever, you're just a fucking dick!"
"I’m right though." Gee replies calmly. "Also, keep your voice down."
"Do you hate me?" As soon as Frank blurts it out he knows it's a bad question. Because he knows he’ll never get the answer he wants.
"No." Gee says plainly, and Frank wants to break something.
"Are you sure?" Because he knows that's the only answer Gee will give him, and it still doesn't feel right! Why can’t he just fucking feel things like any sane human being?
Gee’s gaze drops down to his sketchbook, dark strands of hair falling in place to further hide him, and Frank knows that's all he’s getting out of him. Now he’ll just have to stare as his eyes lined with his dark lashes graze over his work. Sometimes he wishes Gee would stare at him instead.
Frank's gaze drops down to his hands again. He can't stand himself sometimes. The pit of knots in his stomach haven’t gone away even with what was said. His thoughts are just as loud, and no action he takes seems to make them disappear. It just gets worse.
Frank then feels a sharp pain in his stomach, and he takes in a sharp breath. The same thought from earlier runs through his head. He’s gonna die. Sometimes he doesn’t know whether he’s actually afraid of death or if he’s just afraid of leaving things undone. Of dying without knowing anything about himself or his life. It’s all still blank.
That’s it, he doesn’t wanna die without knowing.