You should have never come

Frank's POV

Everything starts out kinda innocent and harmless, I get on the bus and stand near the window so that I don’t stand near the entrance and get in the obese conductor’s way as he pushes between the no less obese passengers. I don’t even think about sitting down, because even though the bus is empty now, at the next stop a mob of ridiculously fat women will stuff themselves inside with the speed of a high schooler who’s about to get laid and occupy all the free seats, smudging my poor squashed remains against the worn-out plastic chair. And I wouldn’t even mind it all that much if they just sat down practically on my lap, no, that would be alright, if only they didn’t keep whining into my ear about how far away the bus stopped from their fat ass and how long they had to trot to catch it. I estimated that their “far away” is about three meters, no more. They are so sweaty and breathe so hard as if they just ran a marathon, I swear. Oh yeah, another thing about their fat asses. Some of them think they are stable enough to not sit down and somehow, they always end up standing next to me. EVERY GODDAMN TIME. And then, whenever the bus takes a rough turn, they immediately proceed to fall on me. I’ve long forgotten about personal space, if they started raping me right then I wouldn’t even flinch. It’s all the same, their rolls are all in my face anyways and I can even feel someone’s hand on my crotch. And god forbid something slips out of her pocket when she falls on you like that because then, she will slump onto you with all her weight, feeling the floor and not letting you get away. Just try to tell her to move or complain about your position- you’ll find out a lot of new things about yourself from her and the whole salon, because everybody suddenly feels obliged to defend her. Fucking feminists. I’d be the same amount of pissed if a dude fell on me and started grabbing me like they do, I swear.
But I wouldn’t whine like this if the only problem was fat women, right? Another thing that pisses me off so much I want to bang my head against the glass until I go deaf and blind are fucking moms. Here you are, peacefully standing near the window, minding your own business and shit, all the seats are occupied by those obese women described above. Suddenly, the doors part and… A mom with a baby carriage gets on, the size of which could only be compared to an SUV. And do you know what lies in that carriage? Yes, there is a tiny human booger, bundled up in a blanket, the size of which is nothing in proportion to its transportation. What the hell would you need a fucking transformer of a carriage for?! So now the mom, noticing a sweet place to park her child (which, unsurprisingly, is always next to you), pushes through the crowd to get to it and… pushes you out too, maybe even “complimenting” you on your appearance in the process if you are lucky. Moms hate tattoos, I swear. They don’t care whose child you are or how old you are, chances are they are gonna inform you that “oh dear boy, one day you’ll regret it.”. Hell, they have no rest, I swear. Anyways, coming back to you being pushed out of your spot, you are now near the entrance, the place you were dreading and so carefully trying to avoid. And now everybody who’s getting on or off brushes against you, presses their fat asses into you, elbow you, step on your shoes and all that crap. And you can’t even move, all you have left to do is wait… And after three, THREE FUCKING BUS STOPS, the mom finally gets off, organizing a marvelous performance in the process, demonstrating everybody how hard it is for her, poor fragile woman, to drag that fucking SUV out. People scold you for not helping, but you could not care less. And that’s not even the end of the tale yet. There is one more type of moms. The ones that put older children in carriages- children that are perfectly fucking capable of standing, walking and even TALKING without any help. Why the fuck is that creature sitting in a carriage? Only the caring loving mother knows, I swear. So they get on the bus, the mom parks the carriage, and for whatever fucking reason takes the child out and sets it on the ground. And it stands. It stands the whole time. Stands and walks. THE FUCK YOU NEED THE CARRIAGE FOR THEN?
So finally, you arrive at your bus stop, and it seems to you like all the pain is over- you are free! But no, there are three more fat-ass women waiting for the bus, each about two times wider than you, and they all press to the doors like zombies, trying to break into the bus and slaughter everyone inside. And then, the doors open… the three women, all at the same time and paying zero attention to you, fight to get inside first.
You jump out of that bus as if it’s burning, pushing away all grandmas, women and kids. And you just leave. You don’t give a shit what happens to them, you just run. Someone fell? Fuck them. Someone dropped their bags? Damn them, honestly.

Obviously by the time I got off that hell’s transportation, I was a bit pissy. I really fucking wish I could get a car. I swear I’d be so much nicer if I had a car. I’d fucking take my hat off and bow every time a woman passed by, if only I had a car. Too bad I don’t have enough money to get a good one, and I’m not the type of guy to ride around in those handed down ugly trucks. Either go big or catch the bus, you know. Plus I needed to save some dough to afford the therapist, but apparently this guy is really good so it’s not going to waste.

I pull out a cigar and light it, cupping it with my hand from the wind. Yeah, I smoke. I smoke a lot, actually. Sometimes a pack a day. I know, it’s stupid, unhealthy, but it’s also none of your fucking business, y’know? The smoke coming from my tiny-ass cigar, in a middle of a huge industrial city, where the air literally smells like chemicals, isn’t gonna kill you. You still don’t like it? Well, excuse me then, let’s smell whatever this city smells like instead.
I will stop smoking one day though. I swear I will. I probably will.
I also drink. You know, drink alcohol. Unhealthy? Not sure. Binge drinking leads to stomach problems? Well, binge-eating aspirin won’t bring you any good either. It’s all about the amount, you know? Binging, that’s the key word. I don’t binge, I only have a bit of fun. And you know, some people actually need alcohol. I’m not talking about drunkies, I’m talking about boring people. Like there’s always at least one lame dude at any party, you know? Just give him a beer or some shit and you’ll instantly see how his mood improves. He becomes funner. More interesting and kind or some shit. I like seeing people drunk, they know the best jokes, I swear. They may be a bit rusty, but still good. It’s just important to watch the dude so that when alcohol hits him, there is no karaoke near by.
Alcohol should be legal, but karaoke- certainly not. Karaoke is like a haven for drunk people, they are pulled to it. All the bad things and anger, they come from karaoke. When you see a drunk dude heading towards a karaoke, stop him immediately. Make sure you insist, as if you are talking him out of driving drunk. Drunk people singing karaoke have ruined so many evenings it’s impossible to count. I’m not saying karaoke is generally bad- the mix of someone unable to sing and a karaoke is bad. Add alcohol to that and suddenly you get an urge to smash the performer’s head against the table.
It’s the same with smoking- smoking isn’t bad, but the asshole that blows smoke into your face is pretty horrible. He’d me an asshole without smoking, too, he’s just find another way to irritate the fuck out of someone.

I check the address. Yes, this is it. I briefly turn around, just to see my bus from before stop right across the road, splashing a puddle. I expect it to drive on, but its doors slide apart in an inviting manner. I could have gotten off here, I didn’t realize this was my stop. But on the other hand, I probably wouldn’t survive another 5 minutes in there.

There is a little sign on the wall next to the doorphone. No smoking.

I sigh, dropping my cigar and stepping on it. It instantly dies out on the wet asphalt. I stare at it for a second, observing as the head starts to smoke. Today is a sad kind of day. Not a good day to go to a therapist, but here I am. The sky is gray and the air is chilly, it feels like it’s gonna start raining again soon. I quickly find the therapist’s name on the doorphone and press the little button next to it. Short silence follows before some crumbling from the other end of the line reaches my ears.

“Hello?” a male voice speaks up.

“Andrew Fisher?”

“Yes,”

“It’s Frank Iero, I have an appointment today,”

“Oh yes. Third floor, the door on the right,” the voice instructs and the door clicks. As I push it open, I suddenly feel a strong urge to turn around and leave, forget about all this crap. I don’t have anything to do here, I swear. Anger isn’t something you come with to a therapist. Anger is a temporary state, it passes. Why did I ever think this was a good idea in the first place? He can’t do much except give me some tea and tell me that I’m going through some weird teen crisis.

I run up the stairs to the third floor and knock on the door anyways, still feeling kinda uneasy. A middle aged man, maybe about 40, opens the door. His stubble already has streaks of white in it and his hair, even though there’s still a lot of it, looks grayish. He has pleasant blue eyes and thick dark eyebrows, and just generally looks kind. His cheeks wrinkle a bit as he smiles at me.

“Frank,” he speaks, stepping away from the door. “Come in. Take your shoes off, please,”

“Thank you,” I say for whatever fucking reason. I do as told and follow him into a room. It’s nicely set up, I need to say- tall windows, dark floor, two gray couches with a small coffee table between them and a TV near the wall. There are several useless decorations like big, empty vases, shelves on the wall stocked up with books and home plants. This dude must be getting a plenty of dough for this, really.

I sit down on one of the couches and the man sits opposite me, folding his arms on his knees.

“Do you want some water?” he asks and I shake my head.

“No thank you, Mr-”

“Andrew. Just call me Andrew,” he interrupts me, smiling again. I nod, and my mouth kinda goes dry for real. I decide to just bear through it, and swallow my own spit. I’m not here to drink his water.

“So on the phone you told me that you’ve been suffering from some anger outbursts, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” i reply, starting to fumble with my thumbs.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells me, probably noticing my state. “We’re just gonna talk for a bit and then I’ll decide if you need any medication,” I nod in understanding, looking up at him. “You must be truthful with me for this to work,”

“Yeah,” I repeat.

“So, do you feel angry often?”

“Every day, I guess,”

“Are there any particular reasons you can find?”

I tell him that no, I am not sure at all. So then he starts asking me more specific questions.

“So you’re 19, right?”

“Yeah,”

“I can smell smoke on your breath. How many cigars a day do you smoke?”

I hesitate before telling him that I smoke about a pack a day. He nods, looking kinda shocked, before taking some notes in his tiny-ass notebook. What is there to write? What difference does my smoking make?

“Do you drink?”

“Sometimes,”

“How often is your “sometimes”?”

You see, I actually drink quite often. I usually don’t binge, but I sometimes can get really, really drunk, you know? Not often, but still. Once a month, twice a month, whatever, you know? Nothing bad.

“Uh, once a week. Just a beer with my friends,” I lie. For some reaosn, i don’t want to upset Andrew.

“Good. So do you live alone?”

“Yes, I moved out from my parents a year ago and didn’t feel like getting a roommate,”

I see him scribbling a little “introvert” in the corner of his notebook page. Now that’s absolute bullshit. Me not wanting to live with someone only means that I don’t want to be interrupted while fucking somebody, you know? You always get that when you have a roommate.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

I think for a second. You see, I’m not the one for long-term relationships. I’m more into those small meaningless hook-ups. You have sex every day for a week, and then just go your separate ways and forget anything ever happened. I don’t like being committed to anyone. You are always restricted from doing what you want to, you know? Can’t look that way, can’t look this way, can’t check that person out, can’t check this person out. You aren’t even allowed to get a blowjob from someone who’s not your partner when you’re in a relationship. I get bored quickly, you know? I get bored of sex with the same person. I always need something new to spice things up, a new kink here and there. I’m into choking people, the whole daddy kink s generally very appealing to me, you know, being dominant and stuff, but when I’m in a relationship, especially with a dude, they never want to be subs. They’ll allow you to top like twice, and then start asking for something new. If I have to commit, why can’t they? And now I sound like a stuck up selfish asshole, but I’m really not asking for that much.

And you know, the funny thing is, is while I’m kissing them for the first time, I’m really convinced that I do love them. I love them with all my heart for the first two days, I swear. Sometimes I’m convinced that I can marry them and have like 10 kids. It ends all too quickly though.

I just hate relationships.They are confusing and complicated. It’s too easy for me to see people through and learn everything about them in just a couple days. Everybody is boring.

You know who the best people are? Spontaneous. The ones that like to try on different characters. One day they are punk rockers, and the next day they are dressed in a pink mini skirt or drag. Those are the best people.

“No, not really,”

“Boyfriend?’ Andrew tries again and I shake my head.

“No,”

“When was the last time you were in a relationship?”

“I don’t know, I mean, I usually just pick people up at the bar and… Yeah,”

Andrew lets out a quiet “ah”, shutting me up, and writes something else in his notebook, this time tilting it so that I can’t see it.

After a whole hour of us talking, him asking me about my family and my past relationships and drug abuse, his verdict is “you are lonely”.

He even sets me a challenge. It’s to keep a relationship for at least three weeks in the summer without cheating or thinking any negative thoughts about my partner. He said maybe then my heart will wake up.

Notes

So i tried to make Frank's POV its own voice and character, different from the narrator or gerard, and I just really want to know if you guys liked it.