Forget About The Dirty Looks.

Gerard's POV
I knew he was going to do something stupid. I knew it. I didn't think it would be this bad, though. When he left, it took about ten minutes for to to get my head round what had just happened. The another ten to get a nurse to let me go down there. I cried to her, I begged her. I had to bribe her, in the end. If she had just let me go, I could have stopped him. But no, I can't even manage to stop somebody that I love from swallowing pills. This is my fault, anyway. If I hadn't have pushed him, he never would have broke up with me. This wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't have walked into him lying there, with a smile on his face, barely breathing, almost dead. I wouldn't be going through these emotions that I can only describe as grief and heartbreak.
He's dead. Frank's dead.
They're trying to resuscitate him, but it's going badly. Even though there's three doors and walls blocking us from being together, I can still hear muffled sounds from his room. They had to bring in the defibrillator in there, it's an emergency. I can hear the heart rate monitor's flat-line sound. That loud, continuous beep. It hasn't changed once in the past five minutes.
He had a cardiac arrest about two minutes after I found him. I thought that he was just asleep, that I was wrong about everything. But, if he was just sleeping, I would have woke him up banging on the door. He's a light sleeper normally. I knew something was really wrong when I knocked and I didn't even hear a peep come from his room. I tried opening it, but there was a chair there. He'd planned it all out. He came and saw me, for a final goodbye, I suppose, and then he swallowed the lot of the pills. Somebody told me there was at least twenty pills in there, and the recommended dose was two to three.
My heart dropped at those words, and any hope I had went flying out of the window. At that point, I was crying so hard I couldn't breathe or think straight. I just sat down in the waiting room getting funny looks from the choked noises I was making. I sounded like somebody was choking me. I'm still crying but my eyes are so sore I'm trying to stop. I don't think I can stop, though.
I hear a different noise. The continuous beep is broken up. There is beeping. Faint, weak beating, but it's still there. He's alive. Frankie is alive, he's not dead.
I jump up from my chair and rush over to the door. I know I won't be able to see anything, but I can't help myself. My chest is literally aching with the need to see him. My tears are still running, but now there are happy tears as well as sad ones.
The door starts to open and I jump back. An unfamiliar doctor walks out and I run up to him, stopping so close that if I inched my face a tiny bit closer, we'd touch noses. He jumps at my closeness, wincing and then stepping back. He looks at me expectantly, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes?" He pushes his glasses further up his nose.
"Frank? How is he?" At the mention of his name, his face turns sour.
"He's alive, but barely. He's been nothing but problems since he came, just like the weird boy on floor seven.." His voice is bitter. He's talking about me, isn't he?
"Oh, the one that.. over-dosed? He was in a coma?" He nods at me, scowling. He didn't pick up my indignant tone.
"Yes, that's the one! Nothing but trouble, the pair of them!" Wow, this doctor obviously didn't get chosen for his position due to his dazzling people skills.
"I happen to know them both personally, and I don't like how you're speaking about them." He can hear the anger clearly this time.
"Why would you want to know them? I bet you cause drama and trouble as well!" I huff at him, my cheeks flaring up.
"I am the boy who came in over-dosed on drugs. Frank's my boy... Frank's my friend. Stop talking about us like that otherwise I'll make a formal complaint!" That shut him up. He nods at me, his speech quelled.
"Now, how's Frank. And, I want a proper answer." I stare at him expectantly. My worries have come back now, they had disappeared while I talked to the doctor. He sighs and looks down at the clipboard in his hands. He read his notes through for a second, making me impatient. I sigh, loudly, making sure he hears me.
"Mr Iero's in a fragile condition. He had to be resuscitated the other day, as well. He'll need to be put in the IC unit," He looks through his notes again. "The excessive drug use, the morphine and the pills, have also caused one of his kidneys to start failing. His liver has extensive damage to it, too." He looks at me, furrowing his eyebrows. "You over-dosed, too, didn't you? Did you encourage this or anything. Kids these days and their trends, you never know what's actually a real condition..." He trails off, looking over his fucking notes again. How dare he accuse me of encouraging this! Bastard... "It says on his file that he's had a history with mental disorders, too. Depression, anxiety. He even showed signs of bipolar at a young age. He'll need to be treated and tested for them, as well. Obviously he has deep rooted problems to attempt suicide.." He seems to have finished, so I start asking questions.
"I know all of that. Will he be okay, though?" He nods, but he looks unsure. We've both ran out of things to say, so we just stand there awkwardly. My mind's racing. Kidney and liver damage? Kidney failure? He was so fragile anyway, I hate to think of how he'll look now. Isn't it your kidney's or liver that causes your skin to turn yellow when they're damaged? Shit...
"Can I see him?" My voice is small and weak, my true emotions seeping through. He shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, but you can't. He's just been dead for seven minutes, he's incredibly ill. So, no, you can't see him." There's no sympathy in his voice. I nod and turn away from him, going to sit back down. I suddenly feel exhausted. I want to go to sleep, but my mind is so busy, I don't think it'll let me.
I need a coffee. Or a cigarette. Or both, I don't care. I check my pockets to see if there's my pack of cigarettes in there. Yes, there is, thank God. I scan the room, but nobody's attention is on me. I quietly walk out, heading towards the elevator.
The ride down is quick and I'm outside, lightning a smoke before I know it. I inhale deep breaths and exhale, lighting a one cigarette after the other. I'm chain-smoking, but the nicotine in my system feels like a breath of fresh air. I didn't realize my hands were shaking until they weren't. The lack of motion felt weird.
I'm down to my last one from almost a full pack. I must have been out here for an hour, my hands are frozen. I realize that I don't think anybody's called my mom. She deserves to know, Frank's basically her adoptive child. I pull out my cell and ring her. She picks up after two rings and we have a brief conversation, me just giving her the most needed details and her saying that she'll be here in fifteen minutes, tops.
I decide to wait outside for her, smoking my last cigarette. She pulls up when I'm about half way through. When she catches me smoking, she gives me a disapproving look and takes it off me. I think she's going to stub it out, but she brings it to her lips and takes a long drag, surprising me. We stand outside, silently, while she finishes it. When we head in, my finger tips have started to turn blue. We still don't talk when we reach Frank's floor. The doors to his room are all open, and you can see all the way through. His bed is empty, stripped bare. Panic rises in my chest and I stop still, not breathing.
The same doctor I talked to walks past and I grab onto his arm. I'm shaking again.
"Where's Frank?" I sound desperate. My voice shakes, too. He pries my hands off him and he looks at me with rising concern. He looks scared.
"He... He got moved." He sounds scared as well.
"Where to?" I think my voice has risen three octaves in pitch. He holds up five fingers. Of course, he's now in intensive care. I nod at him and then run off. I grab my mom's wrist pulling her with me. I can't wait for the lift, so I start to run up the stairs. By the time we run down the two flights, I feel like collapsing. I knew there was a reason nobody chooses me to be on their team in gym class.
We burst through the doors, making everybody turn and stare at us. We have a stare off, but I give them all dirty looks and they look away. My mom walks up to the man on the front desk and speaks to him for a second. I can't hear what they say, I'm now recovering from my run on a chair. He shakes his head at her though, pointing to the chairs that I'm sat on. Her shoulders slump and she walks slowly to me.
"He's in surgery. Only just gone in, he won't be out for at least an hour." She sounds exhausted. I bet, with all that's going on, she's seriously stressed. I look at her, properly. She has new wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, presumably from all the frowning she's doing. Her eyes are dull and slightly glassy, a sign that she's really tired. Her hair has new grey hairs in, too. Suddenly, I feel sorry for her. She should have both of her sons at home right now, all happily living their lives, but instead she's constantly froing back and forth from the hospital and work. I can't even imagine what the hospital bill is.
Through all of my thinking, I forgot to answer her back. I wonder what the surgery is for...
"Did he tell you why he's in there?" She shakes her head.
"It's classified. I don't have any form of identification on me, and he can't give out a patients information to some stranger." Now I think about it, she didn't come out the car with anything, not even a coat.
"Where's all of your stuff?"
"I left it at work. I wanted to get here as soon as possible, so I left it." I nod and conversation ceases. I can feel my eyes start to get heavier. I lean my head on mom's shoulder and close them. I fall asleep almost instantly. I don't know how, though.
I get woken up with a rough shake on my shoulder and a scared voice shouting in my ear.
"Gerard! It's Frank!" My eyes snap open and I shoot up from my seat, staring blindly around me.
"What?" I sound half-asleep, like somebody does when they sleep talk.
"Something's wrong.. We need to get down to where they do operations.." I feel a sharp tug on my arm and start running. My brain still isn't working properly, so I trip and stumble into people a few times. We run down the stairs, mom now gripping my arms like I'm a child. We need to get down to floor two. Three flights of stairs. Jesus Christ....
I make it down without dying and we then run down the corridor towards where there's a commotion happening. People are running out and into the room, still in the scrubs they have to wear when operating on somebody. One even has blood splattered up them; Frankie's blood. We search for a doctor or nurse that looks like they aren't doing anything. We find one, the same doctor from earlier. Mom talks to him this time, I tried but all that came out were panic-stricken splutters.
While they took, I find myself staring at the door that separates the people from the operating room. Every time it opens, I get glimpses of what's happening inside. This time, the nurse stands in the doorway for about a minute, shouting down the corridor. I can all that's happening in there. I can see the red line that says Frankie's heart has stopped. I can see the blood on the floor, on the surgeons, on the ceiling. I can see the defibrillator shock him and I can see Frank's body judder every time it does. This is the third time his heart has stopped in the last twenty four hours. There's over a ninety percent chance he won't make it.
The facts are there, and they terrify me. He has more of a chance of never waking up in there than him ever seeing the sunlight again. Did he feel like this when I was in a coma? I hope not, it's terrible.
I can sort of hear whats going on. I can hear the broken sentences pretty clearly. I can hear them, but none of them register apart from the one the doctor with the defibrillator says.
"I'll shock him one more time. If he doesn't respond, he's a lost cause..." I think my heart stops beating when they shock him.
Come on, Frank.
Nothing happens. He's dead. He got what he wanted. He got the death he thrust upon himself. I try to be angry at him, anger has always been an easier emotion for me to handle. I try, but I can't. My knees buckle, my body folds into itself. I don't cry, though. I just dry heave, practically choking. He's dead. My little Frankie, dead and bloody in that cold room.
He's gone.
Lifeless.
Dead.
He's fucking dead. He's dead.
I hear the sound of the defibrillator again. They said it was the last time, though. He's dead.
I look up in time to see Frank's body jump off the table, really high, and land back on it again.
It seems like the whole hospital ceases breathing. I stare, unblinking into the room. Why hasn't the door been shut yet? I don't want to see this...
We wait. And wait. One by one, the nurse and doctors in the room all sigh and give up, walking out. Soon, there's only two living people in the room. A doctor and a nurse. Then the doctor sighs and glances at his wrist. At his watch.
"Time of death, eight-twent-" The sound is faint. I can barely hear it. All I can really hear is the pounding in my ears. I can see it clearly. The red line. The one that never seemed to end, it's broken up. A heartbeat.
Another heartbeat, another; then another. A chest that slowly rises, struggling to take even the slightest breath. Another heartbeat. Another breath.
"He's... Alive?" Even the doctor sounds surprised. They both stare at him for a minute, then the nurse runs down the corridor, shouting for more surgeons. The door swings shut when she walks through it and the image of Frankie, lying on the table, blood dripping down his arm is taken away. Well, not completely. I can still see it when I blink, and instead of the pounding, I hear the incessant flat-line is in my ears, ringing in my head. I'm still on the floor, barely able to breathe. I slump down, my head hitting the floor.
I land in something wet, but I don't lift my head back up. I must lie there for thirty minutes, hearing the footsteps of numerous people running in and out of the operating theater. I think I even fall asleep, but I can't be sure.
Something soft comes to rest on my shoulders, pulling me up slightly. As I sit up, I see a red patch where my head was. It was blood. The smell is metallic and I start to feel sick. I was lying in Frankie's blood. Whatever that's in my stomach threatens to come up, making me jump up and run to the toilet. I bring up barely anything, it's mostly bile. I seem to not have any appetite, not any more. I crave drugs or alcohol harder than I have ever.
I dry heave for a while, probably fucking up my voice. When I finish, my stomach hurts, my head hurts. I decide that I hurt everywhere, but the physical ache is nothing compared to the mental and emotional ache.
I stand up, backing out from the cubicle and walk to the sink with shaky legs. The room is spinning. I grip the sinks, trying to hold myself up. I glance at the mirror, inhaling sharply when I see the spot of crimson covering half my face. I even have it on my t-shirt. It's congealed into my hair. My eyes are wild, feral almost. They search my face, the pupils blown out. I feel sick again, but I have nothing to bring up.
I need the blood off. I need it to come off, right now. I grab a load of tissues, staggering around like I'm drunk when I get them. I wet them and put a load of soap on them. I scrub at my face, making it red raw. I continue to scrub when it's all off my face. I can still feel it on there. Frank's blood. I need it off.
I need it off my hair, my clothes. I can't fucking breathe. All I can taste is the blood, all I can smell is the blood. I claw at my hair, getting under my finger-nails and it stains my fingers. I run the tap, not bothering to check if it's the hot or cold. I duck my head under it, letting the blood run off my hair. It turns out to be the hot tap, but I welcome the pain. It's a nice break from the shit that's running through my head. I comb my fingers through the strands, feeling for any more blood. In my dark hair, I can't tell if it's all off. I need a shower. I need to burn this fucking shirt as well.
I run out of the bathroom and back into the corridor, ignoring the funny looks and calls from my mother. I run all the way back down the two flights of stairs. I sprint to my room, not feeling the effects of the exercise. I crash into my room, feeling blindly in my pockets for my lighter. I find it and rip off my shirt, shoving it into the bin. I light the lighter, watching it burn. I remember about the fire alarm in my moment of madness and open the windows that are no longer locked and move the burning bin towards it. I have to get the blood off. I have to.
I decide to leave the fire untended and try to turn on the shower. My hands feel like rubber, I can't switch it on. I make myself calm down. Ten deep breaths and I try again. I'm still shaking, but they don't feel like rubber so much anymore. I switch it on and like earlier, I don't bother to check the temperature. I strip off the remaining items of clothing and stumble in. It's red hot, like the water in the bathroom. It hurts, but I like it. The pain feels good.
I grab the shower gel that the hospital provide and start to scrub at my chest, where the blood had hit the t-shirt. I can still feel it on me, no amount of scrubbing will get it off. I scrub under my finger-nails, my face. I wash my hair three times. I eventually give up and sit under the water, crying, way after it turns cold. I think I start to imagine things. Like bloody water running into the drain. Like the actual water is blood, Frank's blood. I start to freak out even more, pushing myself into the corner of the shower, now sobbing and shouting. The shouts are borderline screams, but I don't think anybody can hear me over the running water.
The water stops. I stay in there, though. My limbs feel paralyzed. I think I'm shivering, but I could just be shaking still. The water dries, leaving red marks in it's place. Crimson marks. Blood.
Blood. There's blood everywhere. On Frankie, on the doctors, on me. I can't get it off. It won't come off! I try to turn on the shower again, but I end up slipping and landing in the fucking blood. I bang my head as well, but I can't feel the pain.
I crawl out, exhausted and grab a towel. I wrap it around myself, with difficulty, because I'm still lying on the floor. My crying has turned into tear-less heaves. Why did I react this way? I'm having a fucking breakdown or something... I need to sleep.
They give me two sleeping pills every night, but I usually flush them down the toilet, not wanting to sleep in case of nightmares. They put them on the desk by my bed, every night at eight. They should be there. It's way past eight.
I struggle to get up, my legs buckling a few times. I hobble to my bed and sit down on it. I grab the sweatpants of the end of my bed, where I put them this morning. I pull them on, discarding the towel onto the floor. I can still feel the blood.
The fire has long put itself out, but it's still smoking slightly. I grab the pills off the table and I start to vividly imagine I'm Frank. I line the pills up and dry swallow them. I lie down, facing the window. The moon is so big tonight. I stare at it, watching the smoke from the bin drift up and then disperse. I think I'm still shaking, but I'm gripping my pillow so hard, I can't tell.
It's times like this the complete and utter feeling of hopelessness washes over me, the suicidal thoughts creeping in. I usually keep myself busy enough that I don't have time to think. I draw, create stories in my head. I do anything to keep myself busy, I even organized the bathroom things last night. It takes a lot of willpower for me to flush the pills down the toilet, the thought that I could gather enough to over-dose on making me hesitate each night. I think of Frank and drop them in, flushing before I can fish them out, though.
They are starting to take effect now, I can feel my eyes get heavier. The moon seems to pulse, the smoke twisting into shapes. I want to get up and have a closer look, thinking sluggishly that it would make a good drawing, but I'm asleep before the thought can even form in my brain properly.

Notes

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I feel like shit, sorry if this chapter is weird. Hope you like it, though...
Thanks for reading xo