NIGHTMARES

“What the fuck?! No!” Gerard snaps, ripping the wet pillow from Frank's hands and forcing his weeping friend to look at him, “I'd never help you kill yourself, Frankie, why the fuck would you even ask me that?”
“Forget it, just fucking f-forget all of this cos you don't understand!” Frank cries, pressing his clenched fists over his dripping eyes as his voice stutters and shakes, “I knew you w-wouldn't get it!” Roughly wiping his wet cheeks with his sleeve, he leans across the bed and shoves his hand down a crack between the mattress and the wall, withdrawing a moist, dusty fistful of loose pills he's obviously been storing up for weeks.
“Hey, woah, stop it!” Gerard gasps, his stomach twisting with panic, “Don't be stupid, Frankie, don't hurt yourself! That nurse is coming back in like three minutes and even if you did swallow all those pills she wouldn't let you die. And neither would I.”
Frank sniffles and wipes his nose on his shirt, staring at the pills in his palm. “I don't care,” he whispers quietly, and he sounds so drained of hope, so empty and exhausted and finished with life that Gerard knows he means it. “Well, then I'll tell on you,” the singer says desperately, “I'll tell the nurses everything and they'll put you on suicide watch and then you'll never get another chance.”
Shaking his head in despair, Frank groans miserably and another few tears trickle from his tired eyes. “Come on man, you don't have to do this,” Gerard pleads, cautiously placing his hand over Frank's and covering the pills with his fingers, “I wanna help you deal with the shit in your head but you have to stay alive for me to do that! I'll do whatever I can to help you. We can help each other, right? I'm not doing too good either... with anything. I know I'm in trouble. We were both in that basement, Frankie. You're not alone in this, okay?”
Frank nods tensely and exhales a damp quivering breath, his small cold hand trembling under Gerard's. “I'm just so tired,” he whispers hoarsely, another tear staining his cheek, “I'm so fucking tired.”
“I know,” Gerard murmurs, carefully scraping the pills out of his friend's hand and pulling him into a warm close hug, “But it's gonna be okay.”
Like a frightened child, Frank buries his wet face in Gerard's coat and starts sobbing so hard he's almost shaking and the singer rubs his friend's back and holds him tight until he calms down.

A few minutes later the old nurse pokes her head around the door and Gerard shoves the pills into his jeans pocket before she can spot them. “Are you boys alright in here?”
“W-We're fine,” Frank sniffles, jerking out of Gerard's embrace and self-consciously wiping his eyes, “Go away.”
The nurse frowns. “Visiting hours are over,” she adds firmly, stepping into the room, “I'm sorry but your friend will have to come back another day.”
“That's alright,” Gerard sighs, getting to his feet and avoiding Frank's gaze as the young guitarist stares frantically at him, obviously not wanting him to go, “I'll be back soon Frankie, I promise, and maybe I'll bring Mikey with me huh? I mean, if you wanna see him that is. He misses you.”
Frank nods haltingly and looks at the floor, hunching his shoulders and curling his tattooed fingers around the cuffs of his sleeves, dragging them down over his hands, “Sure, whatever.”
“I will be back,” Gerard says again, trying to sound more sure of himself, “I promise.”

***
After Gerard leaves, escorted by Nurse Williams, Frank closes the door behind them and lets out a trembling tense breath. Sliding down the smooth wooden door to the floorboards, he sits there hugging his knees for a while and gnawing on his ragged fingernails, trying to slow his racing heartbeat and blink away the stupid tears in his sandy eyes. Gerard took his pills away. Now what the fuck is he supposed to do?

Leaning his weary head against the door, he listens to the constant buzz of footsteps and voices and distant screaming that is the clinic and shivers weakly. The New Jersey sky is gray and bleak outside and it's too fucking cold in here. Struggling to his feet, he walks slowly over to the window that the nurse opened and slams it shut whispering “Bitch” under his breath. The small effort of moving makes him light-headed and he sits down heavily on the bed, the mattress barely moving under his pitiful weight. Maybe he should eat something. It's been at least a couple of days since food passed his lips.

Looking gloomily at the untouched dinner plate of vegetables on his bed he rolls his eyes and grabs a stick of cold slimy broccoli, shoving it into his mouth and chewing slowly. It's pretty gross but he forces it down anyway, followed by another and another until he feels like maybe he won't pass out this evening and it's okay to stop for now.

For a couple more hours he hides away on his own, wishing he had a guitar to play with and trying to forget the sad look on Gerard's face and the tang of alcohol on his former bandmate's breath. So many people's lives have been ruined by this curse in his brain. Why can't anyone else see that he deserves to die here? Without him around, My Chemical Romance could get going again with a new guitarist and Gerard might be okay. Anything would be better than living this miserable life.

To keep himself awake, Frank plays a bit of Super Mario on his Gameboy but after an hour the dumb thing's batteries die and he's forced to leave his sanctuary and venture out into the clinic's rec-room to find an electric socket and recharge it. A sandy-haired male nurse in his late thirties is lounging behind the rec-room desk with his feet up, reading an old MAD magazine and half-watching the few patients who have ended up in this glorified living room tonight. Frank sits down in the most uncomfortable chair he can find and edgily watches his Gameboy charge, wishing it would hurry up and let him leave. Two of the ward's catatonic patients are sat in front of the TV like statues, motionless, silent and glazed-eyed in their chairs, and he tries not to look at them in case they can see him staring and get offended. A schizophrenic kid named Patrick or Peter or something is sprawled on a green beanbag in the corner scribbling stuff into a tattered notebook and whispering to himself. All of the other patients must be in bed or group therapy.

The cheap plastic clock on the wall is tick, tick, ticking towards Lights-Out Time and Frank's stomach tightens with anxiety at the thought of being shut alone in his room again all night with no drugs or distractions to block out whatever dreams may come. Fidgeting nervously, he clenches his hands and crosses and uncrosses his legs about a hundred times in five minutes, trying to concentrate on the Tom and Jerry cartoon playing on the TV but it's not enough to hold his attention. For a few seconds his tired eyes wander around the room and he happens to glance at the barred window above the kid on the beanbag's head. Lorna's carved-up face lurks in the dark-tinted glass staring back at him.

Clenching his teeth, Frank swallows a rush of rancid bile rising up his throat and jumps to his feet, dashing back to his room without the Gameboy and slamming the door behind him. Lorna's mournful ghost is waiting for him in the black night outside his bedroom window and he shuts the curtains on her before yanking the sheets off his bed and curling up beneath them on the hard floor, trembling all over. His face is wet with tears and cold sweat and he can't catch his breath. Cramming a handful of cotton quilt into his mouth, he bites down on it to keep from screaming so none of the nurses will come running, and groans and sobs silently into the damp fabric until his eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion and he can't force them open anymore. It's been three days since he last slept and he can't fight the crushing wave of weariness aching through every inch of his skin and bones. They don't even allow high-caffeine coffee in the clinic because it's too disruptive to patients' moods.

By the time the night nurse makes his rounds at 10pm to make sure everybody's lights are out, Frank is sinking body and soul into a sleep so deep he's barely breathing and he doesn't even stir when he's lifted up onto his bed and tucked in for the night. But this time there's no sign of Lorna or Anna behind his eyelids. Instead Gerard is there with him in the darkness, cuddling him tight and whispering soothing hopes and promises into his hair, and it feels so nice and comfy and very, very safe... So when Dream-Gerard suddenly screams and bursts into flames the terror and shock awakens Frank with his heart in his throat. His best friend is going to die burning in pain and there's nothing he can do to stop it!

Notes

((Hi readers, sorry again for the delay.
I have the worst writer's block in the world right now and it's killing me!
Seriously, if you have any tips on how to beat writer's block please share them.
And your comments mean the world to me so please let me know you're still out there
and I will try and read all of your stories too.
xo))