Forget About The Dirty Looks.

Frank's POV
The silence presses down on me. The only noises made are the thump of the truck going over a rough bit of road, my mom's sniffles, and my pounding heart. We are in the back of a truck or van, we are gagged and tied up. We've been sat in the back for around four hours. My mom is curled up in a corner, long finished crying. Me, I'm still crying, but it's only the occasional tear.
My head hurts, and my eyes just can't adjust to the absolute pitch black that surrounds us. I don't know where we are, or where we're going. I know that I'm pretty beat up, and so is my mom.
After the phone call with Gerard, he started to lay into me. He slapped me a couple of times, kicked and punched me and slammed my head into the wall twice. My mom came in, that's the only reason he stopped. She screamed and tried to call for help. He stopped her to a swift punch to the stomach, and the proceeded to kick her and punch her. It was unbearable to watch, so I jumped onto his back, screaming. I think I managed to hit him and bite his ear. I might have bit some off, because I tasted blood.
I wonder how Gerard's doing. Why was he drunk, at the park? Have they found my letter to him yet? I hope so, if I don't make it out of this alive, I want him to know that I love him; that I want to marry him. God, I love him with all my heart. With every inch of me. I don't even care if he doesn't love me back, I just want him to know that I love him. I hope he doesn't fall back into his old habits, I think I'd die a little inside if he did..

The truck smells. It smells musty, and like something has died. I've not really paid any attention to the truck or the smell, but now I've noticed it, I can't stop noticing it. It's making me feel sick, and if the old rag that's tied round my mouth isn't helping. I start to gag and retch. Nothing comes up, thankfully, and I put my t-shirt up over my mouth, with some difficulty. My shirt smells like Gerard. I miss him already, and I want to hug him and kiss him to death. I release a sob, but it gets muffled by the gag. I feel an immeasurable amount of despair and dread just crush me.
I may never get to see Gerard again. I might not be able to even touch him. I might not be able to smell his lemon scented shampoo again, run my hand through his hair. The thought is just to much to bear; I crumple down into myself, and my shoulders heave with the sobs that are wracking my body. I scream into the rag, angry and upset. I struggle against my restraints, the only thing that happens is rope burn on my wrists. Hot tears stream down my face, making it wet and hotter than it already is. My mom is looking at me, bewildered. I hear her muffled attempts of protest against my sudden rough movements. I should feel pain, but I don't, I just keep wriggling and rubbing my hands against the rope, and I feel a liquid trickle down my palm. Great, I've made myself bleed...
I scream again, frustrated and sick of being pushed around; of being beat up. My head finds itself thudding against the metal of the van's side. My head pounds harder than before, but I keep doing it. I'm not sure why, but it feels like I'm floating outside of my body, telling myself what to do. I don't feel the pain, the thumping of the headache is soothing. I try to shout coherent words, but they come out as muffled, broken shrieks. My vision swims, and for once I welcome the darkness that comes, hoping that I'm dead before my dad can get to me.

Unfortunately, I'm not dead. I wake up and I can definitely feel the pain. My head pounds, my wrists burn and all the other injuries I've been given or have accumulated myself throb and burn. I can't see properly, the amount of pain I'm in is making my head swim and vision go hazy. I pass in and out of consciousness, oblivious to everything and everyone around me. I don't care about my mom, about Gerard, about my dad. All I care about is making the pain stop. I try to work out how to make myself pass out again, and decide to whack my head on the side again. It doesn't work the first time, the second time, or the fifth time. On the sixth try, though, I manage to. I fade to black, happy for the first time in hours.

I wake up to being dragged across gravel. My wrists are being pulled by the rope, and on my still half-open wounds, it feels like hell. I groan out, unable to make any other noise, and hear a chuckle.
"You shouldn't have smashed your head up then, Frankie boy, or shredded your wrists. What a stupid thing to do... I might pull even harder, just to teach you a lesson.." And he does, he also walks in a zig-zag, making my arms jolt and the rope to rub. Tears spring up making my vision even more blurred. I try to concentrate on something else; anything else. My mind can't focus on anything apart from the God-damned pain.
Finally, he stops. He drops me, and I scramble to my feet. I look around and see that we're in the middle of nowhere. There are lots of trees, lots of grass, lots of chickens and a tiny little house. He grabs my arm and starts dragging me towards the house. My body groans in protest, and I find myself struggling to stop. He turns around and slaps me round the face, and then continues to drag me along. Still stunned by the slap, I follow him without complaint.
I get dragged through the doorway, and down a flight of stairs. He goes too fast, and I stumble and trip sometimes, earning me a slap or a glare. We reach what must be a basement. It looks nothing like Gerard's basement and it gives off a complete different atmosphere; Gerard's is homely and warm, this is cold and hostile.
He throws me onto the floor, and attaches a chain to my ankle. My mom is already down here, I think she's unconscious. I'm still gagged and my hands are tied, and it's getting past uncomfortable; it's been past uncomfortable before I started head-butting the wall of the van. My dad bends down, getting close to my face. He reaches his hand out, and I think he's going to slap me, and I flinch. He smirks, but reaches toward the rag, and unties it. He does the same for my hands, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I bring my hands out from behind my back and study them.
He was right, I really shouldn't have shredded my wrists. They are still bleeding, and when the cold, damp air hits them, they sting like a bitch. I flex slightly, and pain shoots through my arm. I just sit there, staring at my arms. I open and close my mouth, trying to get my jaw to work again. I want to say something, but I really don't want to get hit again. I clear my throat and try to formulate a sentence that isn't worth a punch.
"Uh.. Why? Why are you doing this, dad?" My voice is scratchy from not using it in hours, apart from screaming, and my throat feels raw. He chuckles, and shakes his head. He looks down at me smugly, almost like he's trying to gloat with his eyes.
"Don't call me dad. I never wanted to be your dad, I hate you. Call me... Sir," His smirk gets wider, and he looks up thoughtfully.
"I'm doing this, Frank, because I.... I can. I can do this, I want to, and so I will. You or your pathetic mom can't stop me... Neither can your precious little Gerard." I don't answer, consumed with thoughts of Gerard. His voice snaps me out of my daze.
"I always knew you were a faggot. From the second you were born, and then when you started spouting the shit about that little boy from school or whatever, that just confirmed it. I tried to.. change you, Frank. It's not natural, you know, you and your little faggot boyfriend aren't natural. Maybe after this you'll be normal. Maybe then I'll be able to love you..." By the end, he's practically talking to himself. He looks genuinely saddened, maybe it's because he doesn't love me? No, it's probably the fact that I'm gay. I don't answer, I don't even look at him as he talks. I look at my ripped jeans and dirty Converse. Getting dragged over gravel really ruins your clothes, doesn't it? I hear a sigh and heavy footsteps going toward the stairs and the door.
Finally, he's gone..
I look at my mom and then look to see if the chain would stretch over there. I start to crawl, trying not to move my wrists much. It manages to reach her, but when I look at her, I wish it didn't. Her face is swollen, both of her eyes blackened. Her lip is split in numerous places, and one of the cuts are still bleeding. One of her earrings have been ripped out, and her hair is matted with blood. There are bruises all over her face and neck, and where there are rips in her clothes, I can see bruises there, too. I didn't think he'd got her this bad. Tears well up in my eyes, and a few escape before I can stop them. I shake her slightly, willing the tears back. I've got to be strong; for her, for Gerard, Ray and Mikey. I shake her harder, but gently enough to not hurt her.
She groans, and opens her eyes. They are unfocused and glassy. They also roll back into her head, and I think she faints. I start to panic, and my hands shake. I mutter curses under my breath, my voice shaking even at the low, quiet pitch. My hands tremble over the top of her, and I lift her eyelid up. Dilated pupils are bad, aren't they? I try to remember the first aid course I took in fifth grade.
Her pupils aren't dilated, so I take it as a good sign. I guess I just have to sit patiently and wait. I sit back on my heels, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Five minutes later, she still hasn't woke up. A few more minutes, and I'll try to wake her up. She doesn't wake up, so I shake her again, gently.
She groans and shakes her head slightly.
"Mom? Are you okay? It's me, Frank." I whisper it so quietly that I'm not sure she hears me. She does hear me, and she groans in response. Her eyes are shut tight, but that's probably because of a headache.
"Yeah... I'm.. I'm okay, I think. How are you, Frankie? Are you okay?" I nod, forgetting about her eyes being shut. I clear my throat, my voice still not used to being used.
"Yeah, I'm okay. A little sore and scared..." My voice sounds child-like and vulnerable. My mom finally opens her eyes and even though they are still slightly glassy, they are filled with concern.
"You don't sound okay, Frank. Tell me the truth.." A strange, mangled noise leaves my throat, and tears leak from my eyes. I shake my head and open my mouth, but no noise comes out, other than the pathetic, little sobs. My mom sits up and opens her arms. I hug her, lightly, so I don't hurt her.
"We'll be okay, won't we, mom? I'll get to see Gerard again, won't I? I want to marry him, mom, I love him..." My voice is small, and the sobs break the questions into little bits. She sighs into my hair.
"I don't know, Frankie. I wish I could tell you it will be okay, but, I don't think it will, not this time. All we can do is hope... I love you, Frankie, no matter what happens, okay? Just remember that." Her voice shakes, and we sit together, crying, in a dark, damp, musty basement, tied to chains and bleeding.

We sit for what seems like hours, silently comforting each other. She strokes my hair, I cling onto her t-shirt. We hear the lock click and both flinch, holding onto each other tighter. His heavy, slow footsteps descend the stairs. I whimper and bury my face into mom's side.
"Oh, isn't this cute? Frank, get the hell up and stop being a pussy. Bitch, shut the hell up and go back to sleep or something." All I do in response is clutch harder at her shirt. A rough hand grabs the back of my shirts and hoists me up. The hand drops me and I stumble slightly before regaining my balance.
"Leave him alone, Frank! He's only a kid, please..." Mom starts to stand up, but stops, wincing in pain. She collapses back down with a heavy sigh.
"That's it, bitch, sit back down before I make you. Frank's nearly eighteen, he needs to be taught some lessons. C'mon, Frankie, it'll be loads of fun, you'll see.." I hear mom whimper, but she can't do anything to stop him. I stare at the floor, trying to keep calm.
"I said come on.. Get moving, Frank. We've got things to do, you know!" His voice starts deadly calm, and it sounds near my ear. I flinch at the closeness and the harshness as he progresses through the sentence. He roughly grabs my collar, making me jolt forwards. My legs walk, out of instinct, and my body follows. We walk up the stairs, me getting a kick or punch to the stomach or legs if I don't walk fast enough.
We reach the hallway and I look around, taking in my surroundings. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls, and where it has the wall is a muddy brown color. There are no carpets, and the floor has stains all over it, and parts of the floorboards are missing. The windows are blacked out, letting in no light. The only light is a dim light-bulb, hanging above our heads that flickers on and off. Overall, the place looks like a shit-hole.
I walk, my head hanging low and follow him. We reach a startlingly white door, it's probably the cleanest thing in this place. I see my dad smirk, a horrible, evil smirk that makes my blood run cold. I have seen him pull some pretty evil faces, but this is the worst. This is the kind of face a lioness would pull before biting out your jugular, the type of face Jack the Ripper probably pulled when he gutted his victims.
This looks promises pain, and a lot of it. It promises no mercy; it promises a painful slow death.
My breath hitches as soon as I look at it, and then picks up in speed, going twice as fast as it was before. My heart is in my throat; it's pounding in my ears.
"This room is what I like to call 'The Suffering Room" I made it especially for you and your mom, isn't that nice?" I can't speak. My mouth is dry and there is a lump in my throat.
I'm not going to make it out of this alive, I know I'm not.

Notes

Sorry if it's shit. I've got a lot on my mind, I've been thinking too much. I tried to write one yesterday, but it came out too dark, and I was pretty shocked by what I wrote. The next chapter is when things really start to kick off and get messy.
I hope you enjoy it, sorry if it's short or whatever..xo