Life is but a Dream for the Dead

Frank lay staring at the mattress pressed in to the diamond shaped metal above him, steadily breathing in and out. The air around him was filled with noise, but it was quiet in Frank’s cell. Just the noise of him breathing in and out. 21 year old Frank Iero was serving life time in prison.
He was a quiet, shy intelligent guy who stayed out of the way of the other inmates and didn’t cause any problems for any of the guards. He had no cellmate and preferred it that way. Any time spent alone in his cell meant he didn’t have to be around the other inmates. Including Callum.
He was Callum’s bitch and had been from day one. He’d been here for two years now and within his first day at Auburn Correctional Facility, he had been beaten senseless and claimed as Callum’s bitch.
It could be worse for Frank though. He could be someone else’s bitch who treated him even worse than Callum did. Callum never whored him out to anyone when he wanted his coke or his weed and Frank’s supply of cigarettes never ran out. Sure, Callum did quite often leave him pretty fucked up, bleeding and bruised and puking his guts up, but it could be worse.
It could always be worse.
Frank liked it better in prison than he had on the streets. He had run away from home when he was fifteen and had been on the streets since he was nineteen. Frank left home because...well, he just kind of [i]did[/i]. He was a stupid kid with big dreams and a head filled with hope, desperate to get away from his arguing parents and the dick heads at school who enjoyed making his life hell.
Frank was talented, alright? Everyone had told him so and Frank believed them. He was no use at anything else, but when it came to music, he was something special. He’d had this idea in his head since he was eleven years old of running away to New York and becoming famous. He was going to make his talent in to a living, become a musician, write and play songs and become something other than that kid who had no friends and was as straight as a unicorn spewing up rainbows and flowers.
So when it all got to him, when Frank couldn’t stand to hear anymore arguments or put up with another black eye, he packed up his shit and left. He went in the middle of the night, back pack and guitar slung over his small, thin body and a note left on his bed for his parents to find in the morning.
He had around $250 dollars that he’d been saving up. He didn’t waste his money though.
He walked to New York, out of Jersey until he found himself underneath the bright lights and thick, greasy atmosphere of the city. He knew he had nowhere to go so he slept the first night in his sleeping bag underneath a tree in a park. He was pleased to find he hadn’t been stabbed or robbed or whatever in the middle of the night when he woke up. He spent the first day of his new life wandering the streets in search of any posters or signs advertising absolutely [i]anything[/i] to do with music. He found a few music shops with band posters saying they needed a guitarist but Frank wasn’t too sure about it.
He went back to the same tree that night, contemplating whether or not to go home. His cell phone was clogged up with missed calls and texts from his family and friends but he ignored them.
When he woke again, Frank was hungry and freezing and felt like shit. He went and bought the cheapest sandwich he could and didn’t allow himself to eat for the rest of the day. He knew he’d have to get used to the hunger. He tried busking but it didn’t work. He earned barely anything, his heart sinking every time people walked past without even looking at him.
He managed to scrape by for a month on busking and eating the occasional bowl of soup at a homeless shelter, but he knew he was going to have to do something. He couldn’t carry on doing this.
After Frank had been on the streets for nearly two months, he sold his guitar and got a nice amount of cash for it. The same night he went out on the streets and blew a random guy for fifteen bucks.
That was the beginning of Frank’s life as a prostitute. He had no other way of making money and he was desperate. Desperate enough that he was willing to get down his knees and have his mouth fucked or jerk off some sweaty, old dude in a dark alley.
Frank had been doing it for about five months or so when he realised he was going to have to start having sex with his clients if he truly wanted to keep himself alive. Some nights Frank could make enough to last him a few days and some nights he made nothing at all. So Frank started getting fucked up the ass by strangers for money, sometimes in the back of a car, sometimes up against the harsh, cold brick walls of clubs and bars, other times in dingy, crappy little motel rooms or even sometimes in a client’s house.
He raised his prices too and it seemed to help. Frank had gotten used to being constantly hungry, tired and desperate. He managed to get a little bit recognised, met other prostitutes and soon enough he had a pimp and regular clients.
He dappled in and out of drugs but didn’t bother with them as much as the other hookers that lived in Danny’s house with him. Danny was alright. He didn’t have many rules and made sure you didn’t get landed with some freak who would end up trying to strangle you to death after he’d fucked you.
Danny didn’t care if you didn’t come back, as long as you checked in with him within two or three days so he knew you weren’t a dead body lying in a dumpster. Over the years Frank spent in New York, he acquired tattoos and became the slightest bit taller and lost even more weight. His eyes were hard and his face was thin and unhealthy, unlike the old Frank who used to have the glimmer of hope and passion behind his wide, frightened eyes.
Frank grew up. He wasn’t scared of anything anymore. He had no dreams, no hope, no passion.
Love was for children and did not exist. You were nothing in this world, nothing at all and nobody would miss you when you died. Frank realised that and realised he couldn’t do anything other than simply accept it because after all; what could he do about it? Frank was out on the job that night as usual, sat in a different bar this time, sipping some sort of blue cocktail and scanning the room. He felt a hand brush against his elbow and he turned to see a man standing beside him.
He was tall and was dressed in black. His olive skin looked creamy and perfect under the dim lights and he was broad shouldered and looked strong. His face was attractive, perfectly shaped features and bright piercing blue eyes and a head of thick, tousled brown hair.
Frank smiled.
“Hey,” the guy grinned back. “You need another drink?”
Frank glanced down at his nearly empty glass and smiled again. “I’d love another drink.”
The guy ordered two of the same drink and then faced Frank again. “I’m Ethan.” “Frank,” he replied smoothly, genuinely finding himself attracted to the stranger. “You here alone tonight Ethan?”
Ethan’s eyes glimmered and his lips twitched up in to a smirk. “Yeah. Came out looking for a little bit
of...fun.” The drinks arrived and Ethan slid the drink along the bar to Frank. Frank wrapped his hand around the glass and Ethan’s hand, winking at him as he took the drink from him.
They drank together, flirting and laughing with each other until they’d finished their drinks.
“Come home with me,” Ethan whispered eagerly to Frank.
Frank smiled and nodded, sliding off of the bar stool and following Ethan out of the club. Ethan only lived two minutes away so they walked back, Frank slipping his hand in to the back pocket of
Ethan’s jeans and pressing small, lingering kisses to his neck and cheek. When they reached Ethan’s apartment, Ethan pulled Frank inside and pushed him up against the door, slamming their lips together. Frank kissed back, for once enjoying his ‘job’ and got really in to the kiss, their tongues sliding against each other and hands roaming everywhere. Ethan pulled back, breathlessly and stared at Frank. “You’re...you’re a hooker, aren’t you?”
Frank bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
Ethan swallowed. “I don’t care. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
"I’ll make it worth your while baby,” Frank breathed in his ear. “Trust me.”
Ethan groaned and pulled Frank in for another kiss and began working on Frank’s pants. The two of the stumbled to the bedroom, items of clothing being left along the way. They were both nearly naked by the time they fell back on to the bed, Ethan clambering on top of Frank hastily. Frank could feel how hard he was as he rutted against Frank’s thigh and Frank’s own dick was pretty hard too.
Ethan reached over Frank to the drawer in the bedside table and Frank though he was getting condoms and lube. What Frank didn’t expect however, was the cold, sharp sting of a blade pressing against his throat.
Ethan had pinned him down and holding a knife against his neck, his eyes wide with excitement and insanity.
“You’re fucking disgusting, you know that?” he snarled at Frank. “Scum like you doesn’t deserve to live.”
“No! Please, fuck, don’t do this!” Frank pleaded from beneath, worming around to try and break free.
Ethan just laughed. Frank surged up beneath him with every ounce of strength he had, surprising
Ethan and throwing him off. Frank scrambled off the bed and made a run for it, but Ethan grabbed his arm and hauled him back. Frank screamed when the knife glided against his stomach, slicing deeply in to the inked skin there. He swung his other arms back and Ethan raised his hand to blindly stab at Frank and landed a good, solid blow right on Ethan face, palm thrusting up and breaking Ethan’s nose. The blood splattered everywhere and Ethan stumbled, unable to see through all the blood and pain of Frank’s punch. He grappled against Frank, the two of them falling to the floor, limbs flailing everywhere. Ethan let out an agonised screech of pain and went still. Frank rolled him off of him, covered in blood and breathing rapidly.
He looked down at Ethan to see the knife protruding out of his chest, sank in deep, right up to the hilt. Blood was spurting and flowing the wound like a fountain and Frank watched the life drain from Ethan’s eyes.
Frank felt something tear past his lips, unsure of whether it was a scream or a sob. He got up, pulled on his clothes and fled the apartment. His heart was racing and his felt like he was going to throw up. But he didn’t stop. He kept running, not noticing the blood pumping from the wound in his stomach, not noticing the people that had come to their doors to see what all the screaming was about and certainly not noticing the old lady who was shakily holding the phone to her ear as she spoke to the police.
When Frank burst through the door of Danny’s house, he found Danny sat with his arm hooked round a naked girl, joint hanging from his lips and other people sat around with him, snorting lines of coke off of naked girls and smoking and drinking.
Danny’s head snapped up when he saw Frank stood there, dripping with blood and looking like he was about to faint. He got up, grabbed Frank by the wrist and pulled him in to the kitchen.

“You’re bleeding,” Danny hissed, throwing a tea towel to Frank who caught it and pressed it against his stomach. “What the fuck happened?” Frank sobbed, shaking his head. “I killed him, o-or he stabbed himself, I don’t fucking kn-now.”
“You did [i]what[/i]?!”
Frank gulped in some air trying to calm himself. “This guy, he picked me up and we went back to his place and he was about to fuck me when he pulls out this knife and nearly slits my throat. I managed to get away but he grabbed me and-and...God, I don’t [i]know[/i], but he’s dead!”
Danny went pale. “Fuck. [i]Fuck[/i] Frank. Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t know,” Frank sobbed.
“That’s not fucking good enough!” Danny hissed, grabbing Frank by the shoulders and shaking him. “What if someone saw you huh? What if they saw you run out of there and called the police?!”
Suddenly, there was a heavy knock at the door and a voice shouted through the door. “Police!”
Danny whipped round and bolted from the kitchen and the next few moments were filled with shouts and screams and the sound of the door being knocked down.
The police found Frank passed out from blood loss on the kitchen floor a few minutes later. They called the paramedics and when they arrived, they sorted Frank out and loaded him on to the back of an ambulance.
Frank woke up in a hospital bed, feeling completely fucked and horrified. One hand was chained to the railings of the bed with a handcuff and there was a police man stood with his back to Frank outside of his room, guarding him.
The next few days passed in a blur. Frank healed, got sent to court, was found guilty and the next thing he knew, he was getting beaten up by a total stranger in prison. He didn’t fight back, just let the guy beat him to a pulp and then fuck him up the ass against a wall, just like the good old times.
Frank lay in his empty cell that night, trying to muffle his sobs and block out the images of Ethan, Ethan and his seductive smile and the blood.
Frank couldn’t get rid of those thoughts. He was head was constantly plagued with them, like right now, as he continued to aimlessly stare up at the mattress of the empty bunk above him.
“Iero!”
There was a sharp rap of knuckles against the glass in the door and the door swung open, one of the guards stood there, looking in at him.
“You got a new cell mate,” the guard announced. “He’ll be here tonight. His name’s Gerard Way.”
With that, the cell door slammed shut and Frank sighed heavily. Great. Now he had to share his cell with some bastard who was probably going to make his life even more hellish. Fucking [i]great[/i].

Notes