Fantastic Bastards in Monroeville (Frerard)

Two

I don’t think I got even three hours of sleep last night. It didn’t help much that the bed I slept in is as comfortable as a pile of bricks, or that I was constantly woken up to the sound of screams and cries from other patients. I swear, if I hear Brendon crying one more time while I’m trying to sleep...I’m gonna snap.
I also couldn’t sleep because my mind stayed on him...the boy with forest hazel eyes , beautifully pale skin, and long smooth black hair. I felt my heart sink when I learned it was him that was screaming and freaking out over whatever it was that was supposedly trying to kill him...but that's all in his head, of course. I wish I could’ve held him and told him that everything’s okay, that what he was seeing wasn’t real. But I can’t do that. I can’t speak, and he doesn’t know the difference between reality and fiction. I just really hope he’s okay…
“Wake up, Gerard. Breakfast will be here soon,” a male attendee came in with some crude device to check vitals. I sleepily opened up my eyes, rubbing them as I tried my damndest to not pass out, as much as I wish I could. This cockmunch isn’t gonna leave until I do what he says. “Let me take your vitals, sir,”
I held out my arm, letting the man take my blood pressure and oxygen percentage, as well as my temperature with the thermometer he placed under my tongue. After doing so, he prompted me to get dressed and out of my room, which I silently began to do when the man left. Before I could even think of getting dressed, I suddenly realized something--I have no clothes. My parents or brother didn’t pack anything for me, leaving me with this stupid white hospital gown to wear. Left with no other clothes to wear, I exited my room and walked down the hall to the dining room. I got in line to get my lunch tray. Today it’s (plastic) scrambled eggs, mystery meat sausage, and rubber pancakes with what may or may not really be butter and syrup. If we didn’t have attendees watching us, I most definitely wouldn’t have taken a tray. But I heard through the grapevine that if you refuse to take a tray, or if you don’t eat much at all, you’ll be under suspicion for anorexia, and therefore more likely to be tube-fed via Ensure through the nose. I know that won’t happen to me. I’ll only eat a little bit, but still enough to not have anyone think I’m fucking anorexic. Just not a lot. I know Lindsey wouldn’t be happy with me if I did eat a lot…
I sat down at a table alone, away from the many patients staring at me like a goldfish in a tank. I wonder where Frank is, though? I’d most definitely sit with him, if I knew where he is. But I don’t know if that’d be a good idea, though. I’m too much of an ugly motherfucker to sit with someone so beautiful, so breathtaking--
Wait a minute. Frank is here. He’s sitting with Ray, Brendon, and a few others. Damn it, how did I miss him? I know I can’t sit with Frank, though. Like I said before, I’m too fucking ugly to be with him. I know he’ll take one good look at me and cringe in disgust if I ever tried to go near him. Besides, I know in the back of my mind that a lot of patients here don’t like me, seeing the unpleasant looks on their faces when they see me; not that I really give a rat’s ass what strangers think of me, but when it comes to myself, that’s a whole different story. It really boggles my mind how someone like Lindsey ever wanted an ugly duckling like me in the first place...before she left me, that is.
Being the creeper I am, I took a closer look at Frankie. He looks...off, should I say? What I mean by that is he looks the same as he did yesterday--curled up in his seat, rocking back and forth as he spoke to the thin air. I can only wonder who he’s talking to. Obviously it isn’t someone that’s there, since Ray and Brendon are talking to each other, and no one else seems to be talking to Frank…
Oh no. He looked at me. Quick, Gerard! Look down!
I kept my head down, hoping that Frank didn’t notice. I could stare at him all day, but I think that unfortunately really makes me a creep. I just hope that Frank doesn’t see me that way, like how everyone else in this place is. That is the last thing I want Frank to think of me as. I don’t really believe I’m one of them, all fucking crazy and mentally ill. I don’t think I should even be here. It’s not like I’m mentally ill or anything. I should be dead. I should either be in a cemetery or in an urn.
I stared down at my food that’s gradually getting cold. I haven’t touched anything. I know I said I was gonna eat a little bit, but...nothing here looks appealing at all. It looks like food that even a dog wouldn’t touch. The eggs look like anything but real eggs, the sausage is drowned in grease, and the pancakes look incredibly stale. I know I wouldn't feed myself this food, even if I was stuck on an island with nothing to eat. I think I’d puke if I even took one bite of this stuff. There’s no way in hell I’m eating any of this. Maybe lunch will be better, and I’ll eat a little bit there. Besides, I’ve skipped meals all the time. I’m used to starving. I know Lindsey would be happy for me if she saw that I’m still keeping up with depriving myself of food. Food’s the last thing I need when I’m such a fatass.
“You gonna eat or what?” a female attendee asked, walking up beside me. I didn’t do anything, not even shake my head. I think anyone at this point would take the hint that I’m not touching this stuff that’s so-called “food”. When she (thankfully) did take the hint, she pulled out a notebook and scribbled down some notes, most likely about my lack of intake. That’s okay, though. It’s just one time I’m not eating anything. I’ll definitely try to eat some lunch...but only a little bit. I can’t slip up for Lindsey.

_ _ _
After breakfast, group therapy started. It’s the same as yesterday; everyone in a circle, everyone either sitting in fold-out chairs or on one of the sofas, for whoever got there first. I was, unfortunately, not one of those people, but that’s only because I already hate group therapy. It’s nothing but a bunch of wackos going on about how they believe they’re being spied on by the government, or that they’re Napoleon, or some other shit like that. I know I’m still not gonna say anything. Not one word. However, the only person I look forward to hear from is Frank. I could listen to him rant and ramble about whatever and never get sick of listening to it. I don’t care if he’s sick. Maybe someone really does need to sit and listen deeply to him, and not just write him off as another basket case that needs to be drugged up with antipsychotics.
“Good morning, everyone!” Dr. Haycraft sang in a disgustingly overly-happy tone, taking a seat with her clipboard in her hand. Everyone (but me) said good morning back, sounding anything but excited, of course. It sounded like no one wants to be here at all, just like me. “Why don’t we all start off by going in around in a circle, doing the same old routine? Say your name, how you feel on a scale of one to ten, what your goal for today is, and why you’re here,” she turned to Ray, who sat right next to her. “Ray, why don’t you start us off?”
“Of course,” Ray nodded reluctantly, looking as sleep-deprived as everyone else, myself included. “My name’s Ray Toro. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say I’m a four. My goal for today is to get some more sleep, and--”
“Excuse me, Ray,” Dr. Haycraft interrupted, cutting Ray off. “Why only a four?”
“Well...it’s because I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Ray yawned. “I usually sleep like a baby with the Trazodone, but I guess it just didn’t work well this time. Someone kept screaming in the middle of the night--”
“Yeah, you know who to thank for that,” someone else cut Ray off. It was the blonde-haired guy that was playing cards with him yesterday; the guy who gave me a dirty look when he saw me. He turned to Frank, giving him that same disgusted look. “I could barely sleep because of you. Thanks a lot, Freaky Frank,”
“Bob, that’s not nice,” Dr. Haycraft chided, already sounding fed up with the direction this therapy session is going. “You should apologize to--”
“Fuck you, Bob!” Frank snarled, looking up from his feet he’d been staring throughout the whole session. “It’s not my fault that there were spiders under my bed! It’s not my fault that the spies sent them out to kill me! I could have died! Now they’re laying eggs in there, and I can’t go back in there!” he turned to Dr. Haycraft, losing his steam. “I want a new room, doc,”
“Now Frank,” Dr. Haycraft said, her voice firm. “we don't use that kind of language--”
”I don't care! Please, let me have a new room! I don’t care who it's with, just let me be out of the room with spiders! They'll kill me!”
“Ugh, Frank…,” Bob rolled his eyes. “For the millionth time, there's no spiders in your room!”
”Yes there is! I saw them! They--”
”Enough!” Dr. Haycraft yelled, silencing the conflict that had arose between Frank and Bob, as well as a few other patients that chimed in. She turned to Frank. “We’ll hook you up with a new room today. We'll look and see which ones are available,”
”Yay!” Frank exclaimed, throwing up his arms in victory. “You hear that, daddy? I’m getting a new room!”
“Oh, please,” Bob facepalmed.
Daddy? I guess Frank’s dad holds a special place in his heart. He must be a great guy if that’s so. Who is Frank’s dad, anyway? I can only wonder. Why would he talk to his dad in mid-air though? He was also rambling about him last as if he were right there, when Frank was freaking about the supposed spiders in his room. It just doesn’t make any sense...unless, he’s really not there, that is. Maybe Frank’s father is a part of his delusions and hallucinations. I can only hope that’s not the case, but unfortunately, it’s really starting to look like it is.

_ _ _
I ended up not eating any lunch, because it looked just as appealing as breakfast. It was so bad looking that I don’t even remember what it was; I think it was some kind of mystery meat on pasta and some mixed soggy vegetables. I also couldn’t eat because for the life of me, I don’t deserve it, even if the food is shit. I’m already too fat to eat anything at all. I don’t know how everyone says otherwise, that I’m nothing but skin and bone. I looked into the mirror of my bathroom, seeing nothing but fat and discontent. I cursed at the reflection of my mirror that laughed in my face--bright red hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin mocking me for my irresponsibility and ugliness. I know why Lindsey left me, and it’s simple--I was just too fucking fat and ugly for someone as beautiful as her; not that I really blame her for leaving me, though. No matter how much I fast, I’ll still be the same fat and ugly piece of shit that I am. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, being the pathetic human being I am.
“Gerard?” a voice called out from my room. I dried my eyes and turned around to find a male attendee at my door. “You got a phone call,”
I would ask who it is, but I can’t. I still can’t speak. I refuse to. I don’t think anyone would wanna hear my voice anyway. I hate it so much. I turned my head in a questioning manner, wondering who it could be.
“It’s your brother Mikey,” he said, making my insides tie itself in knots. Does he really have the audacity to call me, after all he’s done to me? He spared my fucking life, when I wanted none of that. “You wanna talk to him?”
There’s a part of me that does. I wanna ask him why he saved me. I wanna curse him out for doing so. I wanna scream at him for putting me in this shithole that is Monroeville Psychiatric Hospital. Why did he have the audacity to do all this for someone that just wanted to die? If I wasn’t mute, I’d ask him. How could I say no to talking to him, though? Maybe when I’m on the phone, I’ll change my mind about being mute. I’ll never know. I nodded my head to the attendee, following him to the two phone booths across from the nurse’s station, one of the booths taken by a sobbing Brendon. I picked up the phone as the attendee walked away, leaving me my brother on the other line.
“Hello?” Mikey said, his voice curious. “You there, Gerard?”
Hello, dearest younger brother. There’s a couple things I wanna ask, the first being why you saved me, the second being why you care about some worthless and pathetic fuck like me. Thanks to you, I’m stuck with a bunch of wackjobs in a place with overly-happy staff and shitty food. Fuck you.
“I know you’re there, Gerard. Come on, talk to me,” Mikey begged. “Please,”
I don’t know if I can, Mikey. I’ve been mute since that day I was so close to death...but you stopped that from happening. You think I’m gonna talk to you? You’re sorely mistaken.
“Please, Gerard. I really miss you, and so do mom and dad. We all wanna make sure you’re okay. Please, talk to me!”
I can’t, Michael. Not after what you’ve done to me. The one thing that meant the world to me is gone, and I’m left all alone and alive.
“You’re not gonna talk to me, are you?” Mikey sighed. “If you’re not gonna, fine. So be it. I just hope you’re okay. I hope you’re going to group therapy and eating. I hope you’re making friends. I hope you’re well, Gerard. I’ll call you again. I’ll keep calling til you talk. I’ll talk to you later, Gerard. Goodbye,”
I heard Mikey hang up, leaving me with an empty and ringing line. I hung up the phone, wishing I could get myself to talk to Mikey more. I’d tell him about the boy I met with eyes that welcomed me into his world. I’d tell him that I would indeed to talk to him, if my own mouth let me. I would tell him that he’s sick, and he needs a friend, as well as help. I would tell him that his name is Frank Iero. Speaking of Frank, I can only wonder where he’s at right now. What does he do in his spare time when we’re not in therapy? I normally don’t see him out in the day room with the others. I do, however, know what the others do. Ray and Bob normally play cards, Jimmy argues with the staff and teases other patients, and Brendon reads when he’s not crying his eyes out, which is very rare. Maybe I can find Frank and find out what he likes to do. I can’t associate myself with him, though. I know he wouldn't wanna be around a boring and mute fatass like me. He’s better than that. Before I could step out and find him, the same attendee came up behind me.
“Gerard, you have an appointment. Dr. Levin would like to see you,” he said. I furrowed my brow. I have a shrink now? Since when? No one ever told me about this appointment ahead of time. I don’t think I wanna see this doctor. What’s the point, anyway? He’s just gonna sit there asking me a bunch of questions I won’t answer, and dose me up with a plethora of happy and anti-crazy pills. I guess I have no choice. I gotta see this doctor, or else I’ll likely be thrown into a padded cell or some shit like that...or, more rationally, the nurses will just document that I refused the appointment, extending my stay in this godforsaken place, which is the last thing I want. I followed the attendee down the hall and to a room with Dr. Levin’s name on the door, and he opened it up for me. I reluctantly walked in, finding a tall man sitting at his desk, offering me a seat in front of it. I sat down, and the man adjusted his glasses as he flipped through some paperwork, all of it likely about me.
“Hello, Mr. Way,” Dr. Levin smiled, looking up at me from his papers. “How are you today?”
How am I? I feel like shit. I haven’t eaten anything in the longest time, and I just got off the phone with my brother that saved my life, all against my wishes. I also wanted to find Frank, but your stupid appointment with me stopped all that. Now you’re gonna sit here and waste my time, asking me questions and prescribing me with more Prozac and god knows what else.
“I wanna talk to you about your past with your self-harm and starvation. Can you explain to me why you do these things to yourself?” Dr. Levin asked, eyes on me. I kept my head down, daring to not look at his stupid eyes behind this stupid glasses. I’m not saying a word to this son of a bitch. He doesn’t need to know my business about me trying to get skinny. He also doesn’t need to know about me offering my blood to Lindsey. I did all that for her, not for your ass.
“Gerard, are you gonna say anything to me?” Dr. Levin furrowed his brow. “Do you wanna tell me anything? It’s known to me that you’ve been mute since your...incident, should I say? Do you wanna tell me anything about that?”
No. I’m not gonna say anything. I don’t need to go into detail about that if I don’t want to. You know what? I don’t care if me not talking to you extends my stay here. The last thing I wanna do is talk to a complete stranger about my past relationship with Lindsey and what I’ve done to myself for her. That’s none of your goddamn business.
“Gerard, there’s something I need to know...in fact, there’s a lot I’d like to clarify,” Dr. Levin said, ignoring my silence and uncooperative behavior. “Can you tell me more about Lindsey, this girl you’ve seen? Do you still see her?”
You know what? Fuck you and your appointment. I’m not saying a word about her. You don’t need to know anything about her, or anything about me. You can fill me up with pills if you want, but that’s not gonna get me to talk to you. You can take those pills and shove them up your ass, for all I care.
“Silent treatment, huh?” Dr. Levin shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head, rubbing his forehead as he scribbled down some notes. “Very well, so be it, Mr. Way. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning, after breakfast,”
Finally excused, I stood up from my seat and left without bothering to look back. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna see this guy. That all went much worse than I thought. Nobody needs to know about my personal business with Lindsey. She’s gone. I have lost her, and reminding me of her only adds fuel to the flame in my shattered heart. I stormed down the hallway and back to my room, collapsing on my bed as I felt my eyes water up. I am not gonna be seeing this man again, and that’s for sure. I looked down at my exposed arms that are covered to every inch with scars, the memories of her flooding back to me, from the time we first met, to the time we cut for each other, to the very end where she texted me those dreaded words. It’s occurred to me that I really, really miss her to death...and I’m far from over what she’s done to me, and talking to a psychiatrist is definitely not my way of getting over her.

Notes