His eyes, fighting his every attempt to focus on the scene he was in, drooped carelessly, wearily, over his blurred vision. Frank tried to slap himself awake, as he had done countless times before, but he found himself unable to gain control over either of his arms, not enough to do what he intended at any rate. The man’s hopes of slapping himself into consciousness were diminishing rapidly, but thankfully by that time his entire body was beginning to fall away from his fretful drowsiness.
As soon as Frank was able to blink his eyes, he did, as if he were to have done anything else. With every flutter of his lids came more tears that broke through the dry haze that had blanketed Frank’s obstinate eyes and brought further clarity to the dizzying scene set before him.

It seemed as though the track had skipped for as soon as the dank room came into focus and the relieving tears were blinked back, the small man was thrown into a world that he wanted no part of. Iero attempted to situate himself in an upright position, but it was somehow too painful to achieve, so he allowed his head to fall back to rest on the concrete floor as he further inspected what was truly a horrifying setting.

Instead of smooth concrete, as he had expected, Frank’s head found its way into what seemed to be a congealing pool of blood and other bodily fluids. In a jolt of shocked adrenaline, he found the strength to jump up to his feet and screech at the mass of dark crimson liquid. The strength was short-lived, however as the weak man found himself cascading downward, back to the unfamiliar fundament, for his mysteriously aching body caught up with itself.

Frank could not bring himself to stop staring at the puddle of condensing liquid that sat before him, assuming it was his own, since no other person had been in the spot he was in only moments before. It didn’t occur to him that he might have been injured at the time, though – the boy was too busy gawking in shock and awe at the floor that seemed to have his blood as its only color on its whole dull gray canvas.

After what seemed like hours, and a quick descant to the floor, Frank Iero arrived at the notion that his blood might not have been the only horrific sight worth seeing inside this dimly-lit room. Somehow he had ended up against the one of the space’s squalid four walls, giving him a perfect vantage point for all of the area’s possessions. Iero nearly felt his jaw unhinge much like a snake’s would if it were going in for the kill, the only difference being that the timid man felt more like the prey, cowering in fear of the unknown, as opposed to the predator, confidently smirking in the face of fear itself.
It was somewhere between the mallets and maces on the walls and the drain and blood on the floor that his memories came flooding back to him, coagulating into distinguishable terror, and concluding in one simple, yet impossible thought:Get. Out.

Frank figured that’s what always happened though; he would wake in a confused stupor with no memory of the previous nights’ trepidations, but as soon as he got a look around everything came back to him. It was as though his traumatized mind was protecting his subconscious from the atrocities of his waking hours, allowing the young male to be freed of his tortures if for only a few hours.

The thing that struck him odd about the situation was that the two people that had condemned Frank to this basement torture chamber typically took great pleasure in watching him wake up from a night full of nightmares and realize that one was no better than the other – whether waking or sleeping Frank was in hell. They especially enjoyed the times that the captive would break down and cry or beg for them to release him; all they really wanted was to hurt somebody, and that somebody just happened to be Frank.

Tonight (or today – Iero had no way of really knowing from this windowless basement area), however, the two men, who shall remain unnamed for the sake of his own, ever diminishing, sanity, did not get to watch him realize that his life wasn’t what it used to be, wasn’t what it should have been. The basement’s sole inhabitant had no need for an explanation – he was simply grateful that he had a break from their menacing countenances. The two were literally everywhere in Frank’s life; if his tormentors were not hurting him in all the ways they so liked to, they were in his dreams, and Frank was sure sure hallucinating about them wouldn’t be too far off, if it ever came down to that. They watched the boy like a cheap porn flick, but he supposed that’s really all he was to them, that and a malnourished punching bag.

A subtle draft, one that might go unnoticed by someone under any other circumstances, caressed Frank’s face with its warm, enticing touch. He had not felt fresh air in God knows how long; it wrapped its wispy fingers around his soft, pale face, to cup his jaw in its fleeting presence. Iero closed his tired eyes softly, relishing in the scarce opportunity, but the moment his ecstasy wore itself down, his head snapped to the direction from which the breeze came. A small pool of light, previously disregarded by Frank in his refurbished fear of his life, flooded into the basement from across the room. The door had been left open.

The door. Had. Been. Left. Open.

And so his mind repeated:

get out.

Get out!

Get. Out.

All that stood between Frank and his freedom was a few concrete stairs and an unfamiliar house. It wouldn’t be too hard. It couldn’t be too hard, right?

Trying to move was a different story. It was always the same thing, the same sequence, Frank thought - first the memories would come back and then the pain would settle in, dull yet aching and always, always there. There were the numerous bruises that peppered the boy’s small frame elegantly and the sores and lacerations that the two men would inflict on him at random times for random reasons and the few broken bones, ribs to be exact, that his torturers deemed as a bonus, and then there was the soreness. There was soreness all around the poor man’s hips and midsection: from where they would poke and prod Frank to where they would tug at his most secret parts to where they make themselves a part of him, a part that didn’t belong, like a bad mold, or a puzzle piece forced in by some kid that didn’t understand the concept that every piece had only one place, one match. It was always the same excruciating routine.

But the door had never been open before. So for as many days that he had woken up and wanted to die, for as many times as the two monsters said they would enjoy his suicide, Frank had hope. Because the door had never been open before.

The tattooed man wasn’t sure if the world outside had changed since he had been taken from it weeks – or months? – ago, but he certainly had. Iero doubted that freedom would make him feel alright, more hopeful about his life and future, and he certainly knew that getting out of there wouldn’t just magically make everything disappear. No, those were the kinds of lies that people ruin their lives over, he thought; Frank wasn’t that gullible, he just had a sliver of hope, and a sliver was all he needed. The door was open.

At that point, crawling across the bloodstained floor and wondering how he could possibly still be alive after all of that cumulative blood loss, Frank realized that his life really could end at any moment. He could make it out the front door of the house and keel over or be found by the same people he was running from. Iero could successfully escape and die on the street later on in the night. He didn’t really care, but he refused to die in that house, in that basement, in that jail cell. Frank Anthony Iero was going to breathe fresh, free air again, even if it was his last breath.
His twenty-year old body drug itself across the floor at a snail’s pace, unable to go much faster. His right arm repeatedly extended itself in front of his ragged body to pull it closer and closer to the ominous steps, its twin clasping the boy’s stomach as if to prevent it from tearing apart in the most bleak and painful manner a stomach could.

A few inches and what seemed near an eternity later, Frank’s right arm shot up to the second concrete step that led to the slightly elevated living area. He had no idea if he was going to have to conquer any steps aside from those wicked, blackened ones, and the weakest part of him didn’t even want to find out. The exhausted man rested on those steps, right arm closest to freedom and broken torso stretched across the first two steps while his head rested on the third and his legs bubbled with painful exertion on the lowest level of the house. Panting, the imprisoned man contemplated the validity of this endeavor; if he stayed in this prison, trapped in this life, he would surely lose the rest of his sanity if not his life prematurely, but if Frank left, if Frank ran, he would find freedom and perhaps reinstate a few shreds of a normal life – that or get caught escaping and be forced to continue his life as well as be undoubtedly treated exponentially worse.

Eventually, the injured man came to the conclusion that he was going to die either way – he honestly didn’t have much of a preference at this point – and Frank would have rather died free or fighting than lying helplessly on a concrete floor screaming his voice hoarse. He never wanted to die such a sad story, but he knew he was now condemned to it – it was his legacy; however, if the boy tried to escape, to win over the evils of this world, of this existence, then perhaps people – anyone who might attend such a sorry sucker’s funeral – would talk of him with respect, chattering about how he had the strength to fight back.

Frank had fought back all of his life – if someone so much as called him chicken, they would regret it, but of course not a soul would acknowledge his true blue fighting spirit as it cowered in the shadow of such a “tragedy” as this. They would look at nothing but his traumas, since it has been, and forever will be, such a depraved milestone in his chronology. Who would care if Frank did good in school or could play the guitar or could cook a mean casserole as long as he had been kidnapped and tortured, especially as extensively and as prolonged as I have been? No one. So Frank knew he had to fight; he had to break free, even if it was for a lowly second. It was the only way to save his reputation and his dignity.

Though no one really has dignity left after they’ve been through what Frank was running from. It’s nearly impossible, unless, of course, he escapes. That was Iero’s mentality as he persuaded his right arm and his aching legs to propel his heavy flesh up and over the stairs. The man’s beaten face scrunched up into an extended wince as his muscles tried to force him closer to what he desperately needed. When Frank relaxed his expression, however, a normal suburban interior was reflected to his brain through his stinging hazel-green orbs.

It was reminiscent of any other stereotypical, American Dream-esque residency. It was eerie, considering what happened less than ten feet below the white suede couch and flat screen television. Frank laughed manically at the thought that these two men would eventually have to wash his blood out of their perfect carpet. The other thought that tripped through his head though was one of confusion, how could two cold-blooded sadists appear to be so normal on the outside? It seemed impossible, even with extraordinary effort, to effectively achieve such a large façade; these two people where living normal lives. They had television and electricity and air conditioning and couched and a kitchen and even a goddamn bowl of fruit and, like so many other humans, they had a vice, a very monstrous vice indeed.

How could one cover something so vile up? How could one even live a seemingly normal and fulfilled, public life yet keep possibly one of the most horrifying secrets completely under wraps?
Frank didn’t let himself linger too much on his confusion, blaming it on the rising number of sociopaths in this society. No, the fighting man couldn’t afford to waste too much time lying stationary on their light blue carpet, the two could be walking through an unseen front door at literally any moment in time; Frank had to move. He wasn’t sure if faster than a seventy year old man would be possible, but damn it all if he wasn’t going to try.

In hopes of increasing his mobility, Iero let his left hand leave his abdomen, risking it tearing to pieces and having his blood spill everywhere, and attempted to army crawl across the space to find an exit. The end result was the injured boy crawling like a toddler would to his favorite toy; it wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t fast, but it was going to get him there – it was a fight.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, Frank made his way through the interior with his head up in search of a way out of this dastardly place. Through greasy strands of black hair, he saw the pain of another step, and behind him he left its manifestation. The traumatized individual tried not to recall what his captors had last done to him in order to put him in a state of perpetual yet gradual blood loss, it wasn’t too hard since the boy had so many other things that his mind could focus on.
Peeking his head around the corner of an unfamiliar plaster wall, Frank finally found the hinged mass that he was yearning for. In a moment of pure and jubilant triumph the runner yelped effeminately, only to be momentarily paralyzed by the irrational fear that someone may have heard his cry of victory; no one was even home.

The mantel of Iero’s freedom was trademarked by a plain white, wooden door with a rhombus shaped window near the top, through which he could clearly tell that it was nighttime, although early or late had yet to be determined. He practically flung his weight ahead of itself in what must have looked like a fish flopping around on the deck of a boat, begging for the water. His slight frame landed a few feet nearer to the threshold with a sickening thud that agitated his broken ribs, which had been previously drowned out by his various other injuries, causing the broken boy to cry out in sharp anguish.

Finally, Frank’s head rested on his side less than an inch away from the last obstacle in his way of freedom, of strength beyond this legacy of hurt. It was in that moment, where he lifted his right arm tiredly and searched blindly for the brass doorknob that Frank knew he was going to survive. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Iero had that gut feeling – the one that people always tell you to pay attention to – that informed him of his imminent success. He knew that his two tormentors would not find him in the middle of his escape; they would lose him.

As the door opened outward and Frank took his first breath of free, fresh air, he realized something. As the young man crawled out unto the stone porch into the crisp fall night, literally clawing away from the damned house, he felt something. As Iero dragged his own body down the sidewalk until he couldn’t drag anymore, he knew something. As he stopped fighting and gave in to his pain and suffering and exhaustion and fright, he found something: the scariest part about leaving that basement to Frank wasn’t that the men might scour the city for him, but that he might scour it for them.

“Holy Fuck!”

Notes

TA DAAAAAAA.

I present to you a new frerard. Yes, it's rather long-winded, but bear with me, I'm just trying to make a living here. (Even though I don't get paid by the word or even at all).

ALSO the banner doesn't seem to have much to do with the story, but I felt it was still appropriate for a reason you'll find out later. (hint: they all seem to have solemn expressions on their faces)

This one has some darker themes, but I hope that you enjoy it. I am investing a TON of time in it, just to make it the best it can be. Updates will be no more than two weeks apart (I wouldn't trust me if I were you).

Peace, love and gay buttsex -

Bunny.