Forget About The Dirty Looks.

Gerard's POV
Watching Frankie like this is unbearable.
He's kicking and screaming incomprehensible words at the nurses. They're holding him down, he's obviously panicking more because of it. I let out a cry, and I cover my mouth. His injuries, how is this going to effect them? What even caused him to be like this? Ah, I think it was mom mentioning Linda. It started around then, anyway. When he first went quiet, I could tell something bad was going to happen. He started to shake, he clenched his fists. Well, as much as the casts on them allowed him to. His breathing got faster. All little things, but they're what Frankie does when he over-thinks and has a panic attack. I've never seen it this bad, though. It makes him look even more vulnerable because he's in a hospital, covered in bruises, bandages and cuts. It's heart-breaking.
What did that man do to him? His mom died, so it must have been really, really bad. I can't even begin to imagine what he went through. He said he murdered his father, that must have fucked him up a little. Even if he hates the man, it's still his dad. That bastard deserved it, though. I need to speak to Frankie about a lot of things that have happened. I don't know anything about what happened to him, he doesn't know anything about what happened to me.
A doctors runs in, he looks new. When I see the needle he's carrying, I cringe and involuntarily step back. It's full of a clear liquid. Frankie's still struggling, the nurses are still trying to hold him down. The doctor mumbles something and one of them holds down his arm. The doctor pokes in the needle, pulls it out again, and less than a minute later, Frankie's stopped struggling and starts to drift off to sleep. I hope it's peaceful, with no nightmares.
I let out a sob that I didn't even realize was coming. Frankie flinches slightly, like he heard me. I run out of the room, not wanting to be in there after that. I glance back wildly a few times, almost crashing into an empty stretcher.The nurse gives me a dirty look, but as I run by, I flip her off. I hear a loud huff after I do. I stop at an elevator, pressing the button numerous times until the doors open. There's three men in suit in there. What are they even doing at a hospital? They belong in an office, not a hospital. I wipe my face and comb my hair through with my fingers. I can feel eyes on me, and I turn around and give them a dirty look. They all look away instantly, and I take a look at myself in the grubby mirror.
I look like a mess. My cheeks are red, probably from running all through the corridors. My hair is all over the place, and I notice for the first time that it's been cut. It's now back to the length it was when I met Frank. It needs a good wash, I don't think I've had a shower since before I was entered into hospital. My cheeks are streaked with black, from my eyeliner I put on this morning; I wanted to look nice for Frankie's birthday. At least there are no tear stains on my face, I've wiped them all off.
I stop looking at myself and look down instead. The music coming from the speakers the hospital have placed in here sounds like a cross between the tunes for 'All Things Bright And Beautiful', and 'Joy To The World'. It's really fucking annoying, why did Frank have to placed on floor seven? Still, we're on floor two now, so there's not much longer.
The elevator stops and one of the businessmen get out, shoving me out of the way. I mutter a curse at him under my breath so he doesn't hear. One of the others do apparently, and I hear a loud, obnoxious snort. I tilt my head slightly to look at him. He's still laughing slightly. I sigh and look down at the floor again.
The ground floor, finally. I all but run out of there, happy to get away from the shitty music and the awkward silences. I try to hide my hospital wristband while I jog out. Technically, I'm still on suicide watch. I'm also not allowed to leave unaccompanied, but what they don't know can't hurt them. I shove my hand in my pocket, and make sure to not make eye contact with anybody. I succeed in getting out without being caught, and I head home. I have a little bit of change, just enough to afford a ride on the bus. My house is at least a thirty minute walk, and it's fucking freezing. I wait at the bus stop, shaking from the cold slightly. The bus arrives and I bound up the steps throwing the driver my money before grabbing my ticket and sitting down.
I hate buses. I hate the people on them. I hate the material of the seats. I hate the drivers, they can't even manage to smile at you. I hate waiting for people to get on and pay. But, I hate the cold even more. Except, I probably would have preferred to walk home naked today. There's a mom and a kid on here. She looks about fifteen, nothing more than a child herself. The kid's about one, maybe two. I can't tell the ages of babies, they all look the same. Their faces are squished, their basically bald, and all they do is piss, shit and eat. I hate kids, and I never want children. Not even adopted ones.
This kid, though, is pretty cute. It would be even cuter if it shut the fuck up. It's cry is high pitched, whiny and all-round annoying. The mom has her earphones in, not bothering to comfort her child. She just sits with her cheek pressing up against the window, occasionally rocking the push-chair with her foot. I grit my teeth and sigh, leaning farther into my seat. I wish I had my earphones, but I'm not allowed them at the hospital, the doctors says that I could use them in a harmful way.
I have to stop myself from literally screaming in frustration, the crying is that bad. I look at them, trying to catch her attention. It doesn't work, she doesn't take her eyes off the road. The baby looks at me, and I smile at it. It doesn't stop crying, but it doesn't cry harder. I take this as a good sign and cover my face with my hands, playing peek-a-boo with it. Maybe I'm too scary, because it stares at me wide-eyed, and the crying stops altogether; then it starts back up again, twice as hard as before. I twist in my seat so I'm facing the seat in front of me again. I sigh and cross my arms against my chest. I start to drum my fingers on my bicep out of boredom.
Finally, the streets look familiar. I'm near my street, near my house. I literally can't wait to get home, I haven't been inside it for nearly two weeks. My mom brings my stuff to the hospital, and for now I'm living there. I tap the button that lets the driver know that I want to get off. He stops it around five minutes later, only a few houses away from mine. Before I get off, I walk up to the girl with the baby. I tap her shoulder, causing her to jump and snap out of her daze. She takes one earphone out, and I hear dance music blare out of the speaker. Up close, I can see what make-up she's wearing. She is literally orange. Her mascara is spread more around her eyes than on her eyelashes. Her hair is stringy, and in need of a good wash. And, by the looks of it, a some blonde dye, her roots are terrible.
"You might want to see to your child. It's crying is doing everybody's head in, I'm afraid. Pay some attention to it, maybe." She stares at me, chewing loudly on some gum. She rolls her eyes and looks down, not bothering to comfort the baby.
"Yeah, whatever, psycho. Go back to the fuck-up ward where you belong, maybe?" She mocks me, staring at the hospital band around my wrist. I flush an ugly red color and swallow hard.
"Fuck off. What are you, fifteen? And you have a baby? Don't judge me, princess. You aren't the epitome of perfect, are you?" I stare down at her, eyebrows raised. She huffs and rolls her eyes at me. I flip her off and walk off, hopefully full of attitude. I get the key I grabbed from my mom yesterday, already planning on how I would make my great escape. I unlock the door and step into he warmth. I look around and smile to myself. Man, it feels good to be home.
I can feel my art supplies and CD's calling to me; beckoning me to use them. I skip, rather camply, to my bedroom. The last time I was in here, I tried to erase my existence from the Earth. Unluckily, mom found me, unconscious, lying in my own puke. She called the ambulance immediately, they got here around five minutes later. I was carted off to hospital, almost dead. If they were two minutes later, my brain would have shut down completely, at the very least leaving me brain-dead.
I shake the thoughts from my head, now knowing why I was told to stay in the hospital, where they could watch out for me. I am still suicidal, those kind of thoughts don't just switch off when everything's 'fine' again. I wish they did, though. It obviously wasn't my brightest idea to decide to come here, on my own, but my mom told me that all of the pills and the alcohol are locked up, and only she has the key. I look around at my room. It's exactly the same from how I left it; messy, dirty, but I can't be bothered to clean it.
I put on a Green Day CD, wanting some pretty happy music. I then get myself settled at my desk, and I start to think about what to draw. My first thought goes to drawing of Frankie. Messed up drawings of him, though, like where he's getting... abused and stuff. I need to let out my emotion about it all, and this is the only way I feel able to at the minute. My first drawing takes around thirty minutes, it's only a rough sketch really. It may only be rough, but you can clearly depict the scene. A boy, Frank, is getting lashed with a belt. A leather belt. His torso is covered in scars, he's bleeding in places too. His face it twisted in to a horrible expression of pain, and there are tears falling from his eyes. The drawing is incredibly dark, and not just in the toning and shading. It disturbs me a little, so I scrunch it up and throw it away. I immediately get started on another, and, when it's done I put it to one side, not looking at it, and start another one. Soon, I've done five, slightly rough, drawings of a boy being tortured in each one. The boy looks like Frankie, but it's not exact. I didn't want it to be exact, not like the first one. The most detail was on that one, and I felt disgusted with it. All of the facial expressions are roughly the same, filled with pure pain. You never see the person administering the punishments, but everything up to his neck is visible.
I don't want anybody to see the drawings, especially Frankie, so I lock them in my bottom drawer and I put the key in my pillowcase. I look at the time on my phone. Three hours have passed since I got here, it's now four o'clock. I haven't eaten anything today and I only ate half of the food the hospital served me for dinner yesterday. I'm starving, my stomach keeps rumbling. The felling is almost alien to me, I haven't been properly hungry in a while. I lost a lot of weight while Frank was... away, but the hospital put me on a food-drip while I was in the coma, so I'm back to what I weighed almost.
I wander upstairs and search the cupboards for something to eat. I find nothing in any of the cupboards that I consider edible. Mikey and mom have completely different taste palettes to me, and the cupboard that usually contains the food I eat, is almost bare. Not really in the mood for tomato soup, I look instead in the fridge. I find some Nutella. Why the hell is it in the fridge?
Jesus... It's rock hard, and when I put the spoon in to get some out, the spoon bends a little. It actually bends the metal spoon.
Shaking my head, chuckling, I put it in the microwave for fifteen seconds. When I take it out, it's a lot softer. Too soft. It's like melted chocolate now, and I stuggle to actually spread it on my bread. I manage to get it all over the plate, my hands, my t-shirt. I wash my hands, then I eat my weird sandwich.
I'm washing my plate, trying to erase any evidence that I was here when I'm not supposed to be, when I hear the door slam closed and my mom call my name. Loudly and angrily.

Notes