Amnesia

In the days that were to follow, I would get more relative attention than The Beatles did in their hayday. Everyone that I ran into - in school, on the street, in the store - they all wanted to know what had happened to Frank and why I had run out to him, and why I had been crying and why I carried him off the field and why Bob was pulling his pants down when it happened, but more than all of that, every single person that knew Frank Iero wanted to know where he was now and when he was coming back.

That was a hard question for me to answer; Frank had not yet been released from the hospital - the doctors wanted to run tests and make sure he was stable and would be able to re-assimilate himself back into society and a well-functioning member - but further than that, I had no idea when he would be coming back, or where he was going to be staying. After I took Bob home last Friday, he apparently called Frank's parents - his own aunt and uncle - and they told Bob to "deal with him".

Bob Bryar is an eighteen-year-old man. He barely supports himself as it is. The sandy-haired boy is in the beginning stages of becoming financially and socially competent and independent from his fucked up cop father and his absent-minded mother. How is he supposed to be able to take care of Frank? Which brings me back to my conundrum - how was I supposed to answer the collectively burning question of "where in the world is Frank Iero?" Of course the lack of a proper response forced me to revert back to the only way of dealing with people I was good at - telling everyone to "fuck off" and "mind your own business". It seemed to work out pretty well.

I had already promised my best friend that I would help him in any way I could with Frank, because Bob and I would do anything for each other - that's just how it worked, but I hadn't heard anything from him yet. I'm sure he was still trying to figure everything out himself.

And after all that shit, I was still left to deal with myself. Granted it was only the Wednesday following Frank's injury, but four days was still quite a long period for reflections and self-assessments. I hadn't really spoken to Mikey, because how was I supposed to say anything to him? He was already so used to me just being an asshole that he would more than likely have no goddamn clue on how to react to my situation. I just had to face it: my life was taking on a huge overhaul, and I had no choice but to roll with the punches. Mikey forced me to go to school like any good kid-brother would do to his severely pensive and depressed older sibling, and it almost felt like nothing had even changed.

Despite my display of concern for their pack-leader last Friday, Frank's goons treated me worse on Monday and Tuesday than ever before, attributing my concern for the small-framed teenager to my sexual orientation - of fucking course. Monday brought about a black eye and two cracked ribs, and that was followed on Tuesday by a split lip, a second black eye and the word "fag" inscribed on my forehead with a deep black sharpie. No good deed goes unpunished I suppose.

Bob wasn't around to back me up either - he had officially un-enrolled from Bellville High School and started taking online classes in preparation for his new, hopefully temporary care-taking life.

And through all of that, I ended up sitting in the nurse's office at 9:30 AM on Wednesday morning, waiting for her to confirm what I could plainly see for myself. The torture never let up. At promptly 8:51, the end of first hour English, three football players drug me into the men's bathroom and gave me yet another beating. The hearty nurse in pale green scrubs was poking and prodding me with her stumpy fingers asking me to tell her where exactly I was feeling the pain. The only problem was that there was pain everywhere; my entire body felt like a creaking wooden board that was about to give out the next time a person stepped on me. I was bruised in all the right places, so they weren't visible while I was clothed. Who said football players were stupid? They had enough malicious brains to figure out not to hurt me anywhere that people would ask questions about, save the blackened eye that I had received on Monday. Which only raised an eyebrow to my parents. They knew that sharpie could be washed off with the right amount of soap. And best of all, they knew - by some miracle, they were smart enough - that I would rather take the beatings in silence than be forced to endure the humiliation of telling my parents that their oldest child was the subject to malevolent bullies. The only person I would tell was the nurse, because she was supposed to take care of that sort of thing.

"Gerard, I really need to tell Mr. Higgins. This is the third day in a row and what's the count now? The hundredth time total? Some sort of action needs to be taken. You know it as well as I do." The green scrubs taunted me as the pulled over her olive toned flesh, looking as though they were as uncomfortable as I was to be in her presence.

"I don't really think anything is necessary, Mrs. Troy," I replied as apathetically as possible. Truth be told, I really didn't care if they were to beat me relentlessly until I died. I really didn't care if anyone knew that I was taking so many hits day after day, and I certainly didn't give a shit if no one cared about me. All I cared about was getting the okay to go back to class so that I could try not to fail my last year of high school.

"What are you so afraid of?" What a fucking question. I wanted to tell her how many times I had asked myself that exact same question the past few days, but of course I didn't, because she would still want an answer. In fact, she would be more expectant of one since I had been thinking about it, and I didn't have a goddamn conclusion for either of us.

"There's a difference between fear and acceptance, and one between acceptance and apathy. Me? I don't really care what these guys do to me, I have accepted the fact that they won't get punished until they murder me, and trust me when I say that I'm not afraid of them, or that it would only get worse or that more people would hate me if I tattled like a middle-school girl. I'm not afraid of anything, Mrs. Troy, I just know that it won't do any good, so I have no desire to come forward about it. May I go back to class now, or is the diagnosis too grim?"

"Do what you wish, Mr. Way, but the next time you are in my office for something other than a migraine or an upset stomach, Mr. Higgins will be contacted." She said, setting her lips in a thin line. It reminded me of Frank

And so I hobbled to my second hour with a yellow paper pass, and sat down gingerly in my plastic desk. I took my notebook out of my tattered messenger bag and pretended to pay attention to the math lecture. There was nothing else that I could realistically do aside from that. The rest of the day ambles along at an excruciating pace, literally and metaphorically. It wasn't until that 3:00 bell toll that I felt any sense of release.

I walked slowly across the tiled floor until I reached my monotonous locker. I twisted my combination into the circular, black lock and heard the click before I lifted up on the latch and pulled the metal door open with my shaky hand. Throwing my bag into gracelessly into its depths, I closed the door loudly and turned on my heel, ready to find my kid brother and take him home.

"Hey, G," Mikey called from a distance as I rounded one of the many corners that diced the school into uneven portions. "I'm gonna go hang out with some friends, I'll catch a ride later!" And with not so much as I nod, I willed myself to turn back the way I had come from and head for the nearest exit. In an attempt to avoid any potential harassment I quickened my pace to almost a jogging speed. I wasn't sure if it would do any good at first, but when my two pale hands felt the cold metal bar of the side door, I let out a sigh that smelled of relief. I couldn't help but to feel at least slightly happy that I wouldn't have to deal with anyone else aside from myself for the rest of the day. Or so I thought.

Just as I began the short trek home, cigarette in my mouth, my phone shouted at me. I picked it up without even looking to see who was bothering me, because I had a feeling I knew who it was.

"Hello?" I question.

"Bro, Imma need your help tonight." A familiarly gruff voice commanded.

"When and where, Bobert?" It's not like I had any other plans.

"Well, preferably now, and at my place."

"Rodger Doger, be there in ten." I hung up the phone and changed my course. This was going to be fairly interesting.

Notes

I can't believe I fell off the bandwagon for nearly a year. Welp, I never said I was dependable. Nonetheless, I'm back, and worse than ever.

Anyway, the story goes that I stopped writing for SOOOO long. and just now started back up. and I was wondering if anyone even came to this site anymore, so I went on here and I saw some really nice comments and a bunch of views and rating and subscribers and I teared up because, well because I did. Thank you all.

Love it or leave it. I love you all.

xoBunny