In My Mind Only

"You know what? The lights will just keep turning off, so let's head to bed. You're welcome to sleep in my room if you get too," he paused, probably looking for a word other than "scared."

"Well, if it gets too intense during the night, okay?" He said. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, because he was only trying to be considerate of me. He's really not a bad guy, but he's more like a kid than an adult. It made me wonder exactly what he was like when he was a teenager.

"I'll keep that in mind," I replied as he got up, and took his leave. I laid on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. I don't really know how long I was staring into space before Gerard came out again with some pillows and a thick blanket since it was pretty cold in the house now.

"I don't have a heater so I hope you'll be warm with this," he said. I reached for the blanket and at that time, I heard the sound of thunder again and pulled my hand back. I hate that I can't control this. If it even sounds like thunder I become a little kid again. I love my parents, but I also hate them for who they are. Maybe I love them because I'm obligated to seeing as I came from my shithead of a father and out of my insensitive asshole mother. I sighed and put my face in my hands. I felt the couch next to me dip, and then a hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, why don't you come sleep in my bed? I don't move in my sleep, so you don't have to worry about me being all up on you," he chuckled.

"No, no. I'll be fine. Thanks, so, um, goodnight," I said as I grabbed the blankets and curled up into them. I heard Gerard sigh and then receding footsteps. When I opened my eyes, the lights were off and it was pitch black.

I turned on my back again and stared into nothing. Gerard must've been pretty exhausted, because I could hear his soft snoring. I counted the second in between his snores and soon enough, I found myself drifting to sleep.


"We'll be back in a week, okay, sweetheart? I know it's a long time, but this deal is very important to mommy and daddy. We're doing this for you," I was suddenly looking up at my mother again. I looked down at my hands and they were little again. I remember this. This was when they left me a two weeks rather than the one they promised.

"Where are you two going?" I asked him. My mom lowered herself to her knees and smiled at me.

"This is in Russia. Would you like a souvenir?" She asked as she stroked my hair back. I shook my head at her. She sighed and raised herself back up again as my father came into our view. He was a hard man. Stubborn, full of himself, but also full of shit. And, yet, I still looked up to him because I thought he was the best man ever. That was then.

"You're the man of this house, okay?" He said. I nodded and watched as they walked away. No hugs, no kisses, they didn't even look back. I watched their car drive away until I couldn't even see the lights on the car anymore. I closed the door behind me and looked around. I went into the living room and jumped on the couch, I almost immediately scrunched up my face in pain and hopped off. I spent the next 30 minutes wandering through the entire house before finding myself in front of the front door again. I slid down until I was fully laying down and let myself cry for a few minutes at the realization I'd uncovered while wandering through the empty house.

I was alone.

Like my father said, I was the man of the house until they came back.

It was a few hours later that I made myself dinner, took a shower, and put myself to bed. It wasn't anything really new to me. I always ate alone, because my parents were still at work then. I would get ready for bed and tuck myself in, saying good night to the empty house, and falling asleep all before they got home.

I was on the verge of falling asleep when I heard the light patter of rain on our roof. I hadn't heard anything of rain when I was watching the news earlier so I was surprised, but thought nothing of it. It came down harder and harder within the next five minutes. My room flashed every minute or so with lighting until I heard it. The sound of thunder against my ears. I tried to sleep, but it became louder and louder until I felt the house shaking in tune with the thunder. I quickly sat up and crawled under my bed, crying and crying so loud that I couldn't hear the thunder anymore. It didn't matter to my 6 year old self. I could still feel it.

And there I was, with him right under the bed, covering his ears for him while trying to block the sound out myself. He was just a little boy, and he didn't need this, this fear, this reminder of what it meant for him. For me.

"Mommy!" He screamed and screamed. I tried to hold him, but I couldn't even mistake the want for mother as well. We screamed together for what must have been hours before his voice gave out and all his tears had run dry. The sun was already coming up by the time he closed his eyes and slept the day away until the sun went down and the rain started again. All I could do was watch helplessly as the life dimmed more and more until there was none left and his parents were home again.

They found me under the bed. I remember the look on their faces twist up. I knew what that meant. I hadn't taken a shower in two weeks. Because of the thunder, I stayed awake crying for my mother all night and slept during the day when it had stopped. I only ate when I woke up early that it was still light out.

"Frank, sweetie, what's wrong?" My mother asked.

"You lied." Was all I said. She didn't even look remotely guilty.

"I know mommy said a week, but we stopped at Paris for a week. Your father and I have been so stressed with work that we had to get away. You understand, right?" I turned my back on her that day. That sentence ran through my mind every time it stormed. As I got older, I thought about it more.

Stressed at work? She gave birth to me. I was a part of her and my joke of a father, so why wasn't I their stress reliever? I did everything they told me to without hesitation. I didn't talk unless spoken to, I didn't bring what little friends I had over to the house because I knew they were tired, I did my own things like washed my own clothes, washed the dishes they'd left behind and cleaned the house even though they had a fucking maid! I never asked for anything they gave me, but I was grateful. I just wished for them to be home more, but all they did was try to buy my love.

"Frank, don't be like this," she said. I looked over my shoulder at her and she gasped at the look in my eyes.

"You're such a selfish, ungrateful little bastard, aren't you?" She scolded me. I crawled out from under my bed without sparing her a single glance and washed up. That was the day I stopped looking at her.

I walked in on her talking on the phone, talking to her own mother a month later. About me.

"I don't know what to do with him anymore, mom. He's just too young to understand exactly how hard it is to be an adult." I snapped and walked into the room, slamming the door closed behind me. She jolted up in surprise and turned around.

"Too young to understand? Shouldn't that mean that I'm too young to stay alone in this huge house for two weeks? Too young for my parents to lie to me about how long they'll be gone? Obviously not."

That was the day I stopped loving her.

Yes, she gave birth to me, but what was the point if she was married to her job more than she was my mother.

That night, I locked my door and even barricaded it before screaming and screaming into my pillow. Ignoring the bangs and threats coming from my father through the door.
Even if they're home, I'm alone. Being with them is more lonely than being physically alone. I sat next to my younger self on the bed and watched as his eyes filled with rage. I'd wished I could go back, because everyone does, but I can't, because we all realize that at some point. No matter what kind of fucked up shit happens to us, we can't go back and change it. We can't unmeet the people who hurt us. We can't stop our parents from conceiving us and prevent us from being born. We can't deny the fact that all of this is supposed to happen.

*************You can skip this scene, if it'll hurt you*******************

My young self looks at me and I know what he's about to do next. I cringe at what I could do to myself at 7 years old. He reaches into the drawer by our bed and pulls out a razor blade we'd kept there for two weeks, just waiting.

I look away as he puts it to his thigh and drags it along. Five times, he does this. I remember the feeling. Like my pain was exiting the wounds like my blood was.
This nightmare. I've been having every time there's a thunderstorm and, by now, I knew how to handle it. But something about seeing myself harming myself, still makes me cringe. I suppose it's understandable because even when I still did it, I always looked away, because even though it made me feel better, I felt ashamed.

I was the person people least expected to do this. I was the kid everyone thought had it all. I hate cliches like that. It's people judging without knowing me and going through what I went through. I felt a little selfish every time I did it, because kids had it worse than I did and here I
was... acting like it was so horrible.

**********************You're good :3******************

"Frank, what are those marks right there?" Mother asked me. I made the mistake of leaving my door open when I was only in my underwear. I hadn't talked to her in months, but it didn't really matter because she was at work most of the time. She came back when I was asleep and was already gone by the time I woke up. I hated it. I wanted her to see how much she hurt by leaving me like she did followed by calling me those things she did. I could finally do it now.

I walked over to the door and slowly closed it in her face. She couldn't pretend to care now and get away with it. I locked it and then laughed at the symbolism of doing so. By closing the door, I let her see how it felt to be hurt by someone who was one of their own. By locking it, I locked her out of my heart. She'd never get in and hurt me again.

I was definitely on my own this time, but that was okay, because I was already to begin with. This only made it official. I stopped hurting myself that day and settled on sharpening my pencil very sharp and slowly pushing the point into my skin. It hurt enough to take the pain away from my chest, but left no permanent marks and was gone by the end of the day. I spent most of my day in my room, silent, in a big house while my parents were out. Occasionally, one of them would get home early and I would see my father with someone who wasn't my mother or my mother with someone who wasn't with my father. I never said a word and instead watched them betraying each other and feeling slightly better that it wasn't just me who was betrayed. I guess the only difference was that I knew and they didn't.

They were dirty and tainted. I didn't speak to them for years until I started high school and my mother started trying again.

"I hate you," she said. Wait. I don't remember her saying that.

"I really fucking hate you." When did she say this.

"I hate you, too, mother." When did I say this?

"I really fucking hate you, too, mother." Stop it. You know you don't mean that.

I was shaken awake.

"Frankie? Wake up. What's wrong?" I looked up to Gerard and then looked around me. I was at the foot of his bed at the foot of his bed. All of his blankets were tossed on the floor and he was in front of me on his knees. He touched my face and wiped off what I suppose were tears.

"What did I do?" I asked him.

"You showed me the truth," he said.

Notes

I'm proud of myself with how long this chapter was :D I start college Monday and I don't have Internet at my apartment, so I wonder when I'll be able to update again ;-; I hope this chapter helps people understand what Frank feels and thinks like.
Anyways, enjoy! Feedback would be sexy :3

-OAIF <3