The sun was setting over New Jersey as Frank Iero left the downtown supermarket he had just visited to get cigarettes, and walked the few blocks towards the busy parking lot at the end of the street. He wore a black and red striped sweater with several black t shirts underneath to keep the cold out, as well as a pair a dark black skinny jeans and his old and beat up grey converse. His dark black hair was shorter at the sides, with a sloping fringe hanging over one of his hazel eyes. The majority of his tattoos were hidden by his sweater, even the tattoos that covered his hands; his sweater was pulled over his fingers, a habit born from anxiety and nerves. His favorite scorpion tattoo peeked out over his collar however, earning Frank some disapproving and disgruntled looks on the streets. Frank, however, was too preoccupied with the idea of his cigarettes to notice. He had run out earlier that day but feeling desperate for his nicotine fix, had left the house he shared with his mother, Linda, not long after he had finished his last cigarette, promising to pick up a pint of milk as well. Frank was grateful for the respite of leaving his home, if only for a few minutes. He liked to drive. It was relaxing to have time to himself which he spent singing along to the tapes wedged into his car stereo. He sang badly but as it was him alone in his car, only sometimes being joined by his small, chubby dog, Mama, or one of his friends, Ray or Bob, it didn’t particularly matter anyway. It was leaving the safe and comforting interior of his car to run whatever errand he had gone on, that Frank had a problem with.

Frank jiggled his car keys in his hand and thrust his wallet into his back pocket as he walked down the street, dodging to avoid the hurrying pedestrians littering the streets. Frank was enjoying the time spent out of his house and was in no rush to get back, knowing there was nothing but his mother’s worries and inference awaiting him. He eagerly ripped open the cheap packet of cigarettes and taking one out, he dug his lighter out of his pocket and watched as the flame ignited the small white stick. Sticking the cigarette into his mouth and the lighter back into his pocket, he inhaled deeply before exhaling the cigarette smoke. It had barely been an hour since his last fix but now, on the darkening New Jersey streets, Frank finally felt sated and satisfied. He walked past the pedestrians on the Jersey streets as quickly as his legs would carry him and cringed inwardly, uncomfortable at being around so many others. He hadn’t been away from his car for more than a few minutes, but he felt vulnerable, exposed. He wanted nothing more than to reach the safe sanctuary of his car. Apart from school, this was Frank's first venture out in days and he was desperate to get away from the prying eyes of the shoppers, sure he could feel their stares burning into his back, and flushing his skin. He hurried along, slowly leaving the throng of shoppers littering the streets as he waited for the familiar parking lot to come into view. Today, like every day, Frank was finding it hard to be around people. This made things like school a nightmare. He preferred his own company, meaning spending time around others barely entered his head, and it certainly wasn’t something he would consider enjoyable. He could barely stand being around his own mother for too long. Not because of her. In fact, in any other circumstance, Frank's father leaving them at an early age should have brought them closer together. Instead, as his depression deepened, Frank pushed his mother further and further away. Now whenever he was around her he felt vulnerable; all his faults on show. He couldn't remember the last time he had let her touch him, even for a second on his darkest nights, not even when his thoughts and urges were louder than ever.

Frank was now nearly at the entrance of the parking lot and he hurried the last meter or so as his car came into view, sighing with relief as he was met with a relatively empty stretch of concrete, the cars in the lot few and far in between. He was finally away from the people on the crowded evening streets and instantly it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. His anxiety was subsiding slightly, but this did not comfort him. Instead, it showed Frank how strong his anxiety was. The idea of it getting worse scared him. He wasn't so naive to believe his anxiety has hit its worst point. In Frank's experience, everything could always stand to get worse, and thoughts of how this would affect him and his life, often plagued him. Frank shook his head in an attempt to scatter his worries and let himself breathe in the cold evening air. As he walked to his car, he comforted himself with the fact that he was about to be safe inside again and most importantly, alone. The deep smell of petrol that surrounded the parking lot comforted Frank as he breathed it in, the familiar smell comforting him. He opened his car and slipped into the driving seat, laying his head against the leather headrest and staring up at the roof of his car. He opened his window and sighing with relief, took another drag of his cigarette, his hand grazing the side of his car.

After several minutes of sitting in the peaceful silence with his eyes shut, taking occasional drags from his cigarette, Frank opened his heavy eyes with effort. Realising he had neither the energy nor the concentration to drive home, he knew he should text his mom to let her know he’d be out longer than expected. He’d assumed this would just be a quick trip to the store to pick up some cigarettes and then he’d drive home, finally, but more than likely failing to attempt some school work, whilst smoking and finally falling into bed at around 2AM. Later, if it was gonna be one of those nights. Now Frank was sure it was gonna be one of those nights. As he sat in his car, fingers still clutching a smoking cigarette, the idea of driving home, keeping his eyes on the road whilst he sang along to old CDs, eating dinner, petting Mama, speaking to his mom, school work, even sleeping, all seemed like too much effort, a waste of too much energy that he didn't have. In the end, whatever he did that night would achieve nothing anything. No matter what he did that night, the sun would still rise the next morning and Frank would be forced to go through the motions get again; trapped in a constant nightmare. A nightmare without respite, or end. As he contemplated this, all Frank’s energy seemed to drain away and he was filled with darker sadness that hadn’t been there before. Frank knew at this point in the day and the large drop in his mood, he’d rather curl up in a ball and sleep in his car, finally making his way home the next day, to hole up in bed for another few days before he felt better enough to trudge to school and waste another day there; simply going through he motions, just like he did at home. However Frank knew he had put his mother through too much worry over the years to justify another night spent away from home, for no other reason than his sadness and depression, and the ache of knowing that even when he got home, he wouldn't feel better; maybe never would. Frank had learnt that long ago when he had looked at his mother's sunken, tired eyes, knowing it was all because of him.

Without realising it, Frank closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, his body grateful for the escape it so desperately needed. In his pocket, his phone beeped and rang, his anxious mother at home and waiting, biting her nails and pacing the worn kitchen floor.

Frank opened his own eyes an hour or so later. The parking lot had emptied considerably and the sky had noticeably darkened. The temperature had also dropped and Frank noticed this straight away; the window of his car still open, his arm still dangling out, although he had dropped his cigarette in his sleep. As he began to wake up, Frank's bleary eyes came into focus, and he looked around him, shifting uncomfortably as he realised he had fallen asleep in his car. Immediately Frank's eyes fixed on what was straight in front of him: the hard brick wall of the parking lot. For months Frank had been parking his car in this parking lot and for months he had been fantasizing what it'd be like to crash, not so accidentally, into the brick wall. Would he die or just be hurt? Maybe it depended on the speed he drove his beat up old car. Either way, it was the best option he had. There were no pills in his house that he could take, no rafter he could hang himself off, no particularly high building in his town he could throw himself off, and no way to obtain a gun, at least not with his mother's permission. No, this hard brick wall, or one like it, seemed like the only option Frank was aware of. Because of this, Frank found himself thinking about the wall whether he was happy or depressingly low. In the middle of the night, when his head got too loud for him to handle, he found himself subconsciously driving out to the parking lot, knowing the sight of the wall and the thought of how easily he could end it comforting him and quieting the voices in his head just a little. Frank knew this behaviour wasn't healthy; he knew if his mother found out, she'd be horrified. However, he also knew thinking about ending it all was one of the only things that got him through the day. This was his escape plan and it comforted him to know if things reached a point where life was unbearable and he felt there was no going back, he had options. When things got too hard to handle, he would visualize himself driving into the wall, his hands off the brakes. He imagined the bonnet smashing into the wall, scratching up the paintwork he had once spent so long fixing. He imagined his body jolting, his bones breaking, his neck snapping. The more vividly Frank imagined his death, the worse he knew he was getting. He also knew he couldn't stop it. He also didn't want to. Still exhausted and his body begging for him to return to sleep, Frank closed his eyes once again, grimacing at his own twisted thoughts, a familiar churning in his stomach. He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping in silence for, but when he eventually jolted awake hours later it was even darker, even colder and the parking lot had emptied completely, aside from Frank's car. Sighing with exhaustion, Frank turned the ignition on and the car rumbled to life. He looked at the car radio clock which told him it was past nine, four hours after he had first left the house. Frank yanked his seat belt on and put the car in drive, rolling out of the parking lot and into the night. He drove through the empty street, the sounds of Black Flag escaping through his open window as he chewed his nails, knowing Linda would have been anxiously awaiting his return ever since he left hours before.

He had forgotten the milk.

---

As soon as Frank pulled into the driveway, the front door was yanked open and his mother ran outside into their front garden, Mama running at her heels, her stubby legs struggling to keep up but wanting to reach Frank as quickly as possible. "Frank!", Linda cried, "Where were you? What took you so long?" Frank turned off the ignition and slid out of the car, slamming the door shut before beginning his explanations. "You know I was getting cigarettes, mom, remember?" He closed his eyes for a second and rubbed a hand over his face, too tired to face the oncoming argument. "I know, Frank. But you left the house hours ago. I trusted you to go out on your own but I didn’t expect you to disappear for hours on end," she shouted. She wasn’t angry, Frank knew that. Just worried. Frank could hardly blame her. Linda already had enough to cope with, being a single mother who worked a demanding job as a nurse at the local hospital. She didn’t need a son like Frank; a chain smoking, tattoo clad seventeen year old who did badly in school and barely left his room, preferring to hole himself up there for days at a time without eating, without sleeping or talking.

The times Frank did leave the house, he would go to parties with his only friends, Ray and Bob. The boys had been friends since middle school, and had witnessed everything; Frank's father leaving the family home, Frank's sadness and bitterness turning into a deep depression, and the scattered attempts on his life. The boys had been there for Frank through it all, yet as Frank continued to get worse, and became more and more reluctant to communicate, they drifted apart from Frank slowly, resigning themselves to the fact that no matter how hard they tried, Frank would never truly confide in them. Instead, they found comfort in one another. However despite Frank's unwillingness to communicate, Ray and Bob knew the problems Frank faced and understood his moods a little more than his mom ever could.

They’d bring him to parties purely for the free alcohol. Frank would be dragged out by the two, apprehensive at the thought at being around so many teenagers but would quickly relax with the aid of the alcohol; soon getting drunk and passing out on the floor. Later in the night, Bob and Ray would argue with one other as they found Frank slumped on a couch; Ray saying these parties were dangerous for Frankie’s health, both mentally and physically and Bob arguing that without these parties Frank would become a social hermit, left to rot in his room and refusing to see anyone or do anything. However, often, as they dragged the drunken, giggling Frank into whoever's car they had drove there, and lay him in his bed in a heap, they knew that Frank was only willing to go out if he could drink to excess; if he could try to forget his depression with vodka or whiskey. By bringing Frank to these parties, they were basically handing him an opportunity to hurt himself on a silver platter. It had to stop.

"Were you out with Ray or Bob?" Linda asked her son. She knew it was unlikely, however. She hadn’t seen either of them in weeks. The last time they had brought Frank out to a party and slept over. Linda had walked into Frank’s room in the early hours of the morning and found the three curled up together on Frank’s floor, asleep, tears drying on Frank’s face, back from a drunken night of drinking, smoking and drugs. That had been weeks ago. She couldn't help but wonder what had happened. But really, she was pretty sure she knew. They had probably gotten tired of Frank's eagerness to self destruct. The same had happened to her long ago.

"No mom. I wasn’t out with them," sighed Frank with regret, wishing he had been. "They haven’t invited me out with them in weeks. I've only seen them at school, in class and at lunch," Frank continued. He didn't mention the fact that he rarely lasted a whole school day to get to lunch and even if he did, he often sat in his car listening to music, purposely avoiding the few friends he had left. The thought of a cafeteria filled with people he hated looking at him and watching him while he attempted to shove half an apple down his throat, made him sick.

"Frank? Are you listening to me?" Linda continued, her voice breaking through his reverie. "I asked you where you were if you weren’t with Ray or Bob. You can’t have just have been getting cigarettes. It doesn’t take that long." She gripped his hand, a pleading look in her eyes. "Frankie, please. Just tell me where you were. Where did you go? What have you been doing. I'm worried about you!" Frank fought back the urge to scream. He knew this would happen. Nowadays, he couldn't do anything, or go anywhere, without his mom worrying, her had filled with thoughts of her depressed and unstable son acting on the dark thoughts she knew plagued him. "Mom," Frank sighed, "I swear, I was just getting cigarettes, okay. I just lost track of time I guess. I fell asleep. I don’t know...Just stop, please." He was too exhausted to talk, and couldn't give his mother the honest discussion and heart to heart he knew his mother deserved. Instead, he snatched his hand out of his mother’s, the guilt gnawing a hole inside of him. He was a horrible son, causing his mother to worry like this.

Knowing she wasn’t going to get anywhere tonight, Linda sighed. "Fine Frank just..Just get the milk you bought out of the car okay? Then come inside and I’ll make you something to eat...You’re getting too skinny, Frankie." Frank cringed inside, hating his mother's eyes on his body. Instead he nodded and tried to smile, the action feeling foreign and plastic on his lips, feeling guilty at worrying his mother. He just wanted to get inside and go to bed, to escape. Maybe then he'd finally get to relax.

Frank turned towards his car and opened the door to the passenger side, ready to grab the milk and go inside. Quickly he realised it wasn’t there. "For fuck sake," he muttered, slamming the car door shut in frustration. He couldn't even run a simple errand for his mom. He'd screwed up yet again. Before Linda could stop him, Frank was in his car again, backing out of the drive and speeding off down the road, leaving his mother speechless. Mama whined at her side, having never even gotten her ears scratched by Frank before he disappeared.

Later Frank arrived at home for the second time that night and pushed the carton of milk into his mother’s hands. He sloped off to his bedroom and locked the door; not wanting her to see he had been crying. Frank stripped himself of all of his clothes except his pair of boxers and crawled into bed. He hunched into the fetal position, pulling the duvet over his body. He shivered, and glancing around his room, noticed he had left his window open. However, Frank was too exhausted to even consider closing it, the thought of emerging from his warm nest of blankets too much to bare. Instead he stayed where he was and closed his eyes, letting tears seep out of his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. As he pushed his fingernails into the skin of his forearms so harshly it was sure to leave a mark, his mother was leaning against the other side of the door with tears seeping out of her own eyes, Mama at her feet and butting her head into her mistress' side.

"Thanks for the milk Frank."

Notes

New story!