“Ouch,” I grimace as I clutch a scrunched up tissue and press it gently to my bleeding lip. It isn’t my fault that I’ve got a cut lip, I swear. As I do so, I glower at my reflection in the mirror. I have short, messy, jet black hair that is cut just above my jawline, and hazel orbs with irritatingly long eyelashes and a pixie nose. My skin is intensely pale – too pale some say – however, I like it that colour. I avoid getting tanned whenever my parents bribe me to go on holiday with them. I’m wearing skinny, black jeans, as usual, and a plain black top, too. You’d think, as I’m 18 years old, I wouldn’t be as inept. I fall over all the time. Once my lip stops bleeding, I flush the tissue down the toilet, and swing open my wooden bathroom door, which really needs another coating of paint, as the bright white is peeling off of it. I stop in the doorway, and for once, all I hear is my heavy breathing.

Silence.

Normally they’d try to at least make me open the door to them, but not this time. They seem to have left me alone, eventually. They run after me every night, in attempt to catch me one day and take me to… Him. I swallow hard at the thought of going to him. I don’t know why he wants me; I don’t know what I’ve done for someone to want to abduct me. I don’t understand. I’ve never seen HIM, though. I just know his name, and his muscular servants who try to track me down and shove me in their large, plain red van. The thing is, they’ve never caught me. Not yet, anyway. I tripped over this time, when I was running, which is why my lip is cut. Luckier than some other times, I guess. Sometimes I really do get injured. However, whenever I’m on the floor, bleeding or bruised, they seem to leave me.

“He wouldn’t want him in this condition. He wouldn’t be happy. He said, he wants him alive and well, alive and strong.”

That’s what they said. I heard them, in my emotional state, hurting from my wounds. They left me after that. He wants me alive and well, alive and strong. He wants to kidnap me, basically.

And if Frank Iero wants something, he will get something.

---

The bright violent morning light forces me to wake up from my slumber, as I open my eyes and take in my surroundings of my cave of a room. I turn around and hide my face in my pillow, not wanting to wake completely from my sleeping paradise just yet.
After fully awakening, I grind my hands into my eyes, my duvet draping over my shoulders. I could tell my hair is matted and sticking up at odd angles. One leg of my batman pyjama bottoms has ridden halfway up my knee. I travel downstairs and make myself a coffee, leaning against the counter. I create myself a coffee, and sip the piping-hot, mug of coffee, allowing the heavenly taste to evaporate on my tongue. I then drag my body back upstairs and chuck my duvet on my bed. I shower rapidly, and yank on some more, tight, black jeans and a random top. I return downstairs, and pull on a denim jacket, then head outside. I walk slowly to the pub.

“Could I have Asahi dry lager, please?” I ask, leaning against the counter and observing the ground.

“Bad day? I shouldn’t be the one to say but that drink is quite strong,” The bartender replies, however, his bony hands seem to grasp the bottle and pour it into a random glass he had found underneath his counter.

“Bad day? More like bad night. And plus, bad is an understatement,” I mutter, taking the glass immediately from him and knocking it back. The strong, sour tastes makes my eyes water slightly, and my delicate stomach seems to twist at the alcohol, however, I don’t care.

“Another,” I say, pushing the empty glass on the counter.

“Ya start early. It’s only midday,” The bartender comments.

“Do you think I’m here to have a chit-chat with a bartender when I know my own boundaries?” I snap, pissed off at his rude attitude. Normally the bartenders here would just give me what I want and stare quizzically, they never say anything. Apart from this one, of course.

“I apologise, sir. Just… Looking out for ya health that’s all…” The bartender whispers, and hands me the glass, but this time it’s full to the brim with the thick drink.

“I don’t need advice from you. I used to have a therapist which never helped,” I grit my teeth inside my mouth in memory, and gulp down the drink, unaware of the pair of eyes on me at the back.

“He should be easy to catch tonight if he keeps drinking,” One of the muscular men mutters underneath his breath to the other.

“Agreed. This should be an easy catch… But… What about sir?” The other queries. “Would he want him drunk?”

“Call him, Jake,” The one answers. Jake nods, then flicks out his phone, dialling the number. After small talk and other speech, it is agreed. They will catch him when he’s drunk.

---

After scoffing down some junk food, I buy some albums from the music store before returning to the pub. Luckily, it isn’t the same bartender from last time. I can’t stand him. It’s one of my favourite bartenders. I chat to him for ages, whilst he serves me all the drinks I want for free. At the end of the night, I’m drunk. I’m weak, and I need something to back me up.

“C’mon let’s go get him, Travis,” Jake says. Travis nods and both of the muscular men approach me. “Hi, kid,”

“Not you agaaain. Give me a breaaaak!” My speech is slurred from drinking and I stumble backwards and out the swinging doors of the pub. They follow after me, as I attempt to run, however, I just couldn’t feel my legs.

“Things will be better if you come with us,” They say, I just shake my head, frantically. My figure is wobbly as I go to cross a road, not really witnessing the vehicle speeding before me. Everything seems to slow down. The road is clear one moment, and the next moment the car is there, in front of me, unable to halt. The driver slams on the brakes, and the bonnet hits me with a force that sends me on the ground.

“Sir will not be happy,” I hear one of the men’s deep, low voices say. My vision is too blurry, and I see the driver rush out.

“Somebody call an ambulance!” The driver yells, her voice shrill and high-pitched. “Hey, stay with me, please,”

“Don’t l-let t-them…” I point a finger at the two men still standing there, shocked at what has just happened. “G-Get me…” I breathe heavily, and then I black out.

---

When I wake up, I know what happened. I know it. I can just tell by the wrenching feeling in my stomach and the dull ache in my legs. I check my whole body to see if there are any injuries from the car accident, but there is none, thankfully. I stand up, a little shaky on my feet, and then begin to stride around.

I press down the hygienic corridors, the blinding shine from the hospital lights forcing me to narrow my eyes. I hurriedly shove open the lavatory door, a tangled mess is what I am. I plonk myself on the crystal white tiles, the coldness creeps upwards, through my black, ripped jeans, through the thin, Misfits top, to my chalk white, pale skin. I shiver, and rub my arms in attempt to tame the goosebumps that are rising on them. I feel pricks in my eyes, and that is when I know what’s going to happen next. My vision blurs, and all I can see is water, water from my tears. The tears well up in my eyes then spill down my cheeks. I’m fed up. I’m fed up of how I drink alcohol in attempt of getting rid of the pain. I’m fed up of how fragile I am. I’m fed up of THEM, the people who hunt me down every night, trying to get me to go with them, to go to HIM. He wants me to go to him. Why would I want to go to HIM? I hate running from them. I hate being treated like I’m just a pile of dirt on the ground. But, most of all, I hate HIM.

Frank Iero.

It’s HIM who I hate most.

I’m discharged from the hospital once I’m conscious. I pick my way down the streets, wiping my nose with the back of my hands and sniffing loudly. I hate crying, even if I do it all the time. That’s when my whole body freezes. I see them, and I feel like I can just collapse. I want to curl up and die.

“Leave me alone!” I yell. “I fucking hate you! I’m fucking fed up of running! I have family here, I have people here – I’m don’t want to fucking go with you! Where you are, there is just a selfish, little asshole! I hate HIM. I hate Frank Iero. Wow, what’s going to happen now that I’ve said that?! Go on then! Take me!”

“You will regret those words,” The dark, tall, serpent like one says. “And to you, his name is not… That. You will never call him that from now on,”

My hands are wrapped behind my back, and I struggle to break free, however, in the end I just give up as I’m seated in the back of their van. All I can do is cry. Cry. And scream. And make as much noise as I can in hope they’d let me go. How could I tell my brother, Mikey, this? How could I tell my mother this? How could I tell my father this? By the looks of things, I’m not going to be able to tell anyone anything.

Notes

hi im back with /another/ frerard fic for all you guys . this one is gunna be less emotional than my other one .

oh and it's obviously another frank!top . . . . frank tops ok im sorry . byeE