Among the Stars [Frerard]

Chapter 12: 'Tis The Season

TW: Very graphic description of cutting. 

It was coming up to christmas. A few days shy of the useless gifts and forced social interaction. Most people love christmas. Well- of course they would, you get presents and spend time with people that you may not see so often. However to someone like Frank, who didn't care for presents and definitely didn't have any family members that he would want to see again, it was just a reminder that it was getting closer and closer to the end of another dreary year. It meant he was running out of time. Every new year since he was 12 he had sat alone in his bedroom, staring out of his window looking out into the night sky. Reminding himself of the fact that he had lived another year, not survived, but been tortured with pointless existence. Every time the clock struck midnight a wave of depression would drown him. He would try to come up for air and catch just one more breath but it was impossible. And every single year the wave got higher, submerging him more than before. He didn't want to pass another year. He didn't want to fail again. 

He was sick and tired of going into a new 365 days that he did not want to live in. Many may call it a fresh start, but it wasn't anything but a reminder of his failure. Failure to end this life, failure to cease his heart and lungs and brain function. He wanted to show how he was on the inside. Dead.

And as the days grew ever closer to christmas and then eventually new years eve he found himself hopeless and wishing for a way out. 

He sighed and entered the school building. 'Just manage this one more day,' he thought to himself repeatedly. But maybe he didn't want to manage another day. He longed for his life to be over more than ever before. Maybe not managing wouldn't be so bad, if something pushed him over the edge, he could finally do what he wanted to do since that new years day when he was 12 years old. The night he realised that he didn't want to go into the next year. The first night he realised that he didn't want to go anymore. He visibly shuddered at the memory, but hoped no one noticed. They'd probably think he was going through withdrawals seeing as most people in this building are gossiping idiots. That would destroy his facade of being invisible to most. Although his anxiety told him that every person in the hallway was looking at him and judging him. He felt embarrassed about the way he was walking. He was going to flick his hair out of his face but realised it may make him look stupid so he tilted his head down and raised his hand -at a normal pace, keeping it as close to his body as possible so that he couldn't possibly stand out- to brush the hair gently away from his eyes. He self consciously tugged at his sleeves and readjusted the straps on his backpack incase it looked wonky or it was too far down or up. And oh god- he didn't want to live like this. He didn't want to be conscious of every little movement he made. He didn't want to have to worry so much about what everyone else would think, but he couldn't help it. 

As he walked down the hall he managed to half trip over someone else foot. They looked at him oddly and he tried to apologise. But of course no sound came out. He sped up his pace, headed for the most abandoned bathrooms in the school. Whilst walking he pinched the back of his neck with his hand, a habit he had gotten into doing whenever he embarrassed himself necessarily, oh isn't it great to have an anxiety disorder? 

When in the secluded bathrooms he checked no one else was in them and then still decided to go into one of the few stalls in the boys bathroom. Because -of course, his anxiety would make him hide to a maximum, as if the deserted area outside the stalls wasn't enough. However this was justified, not by him, but his anxiety. He wouldn't -or well,- his anxiety wouldn't want anyone to see him now, would it? When inside and checking it was locked, multiple times, he pulled out his phone and anxiously checked the time every couple of seconds. He couldn't be late to his lesson, everyone would stare at him. If he got to the class he had next and most people were already there he would immediately turn around and skip the whole lesson -and as a result probably the entire day, just incase a teacher asked him where he was first period. 

The thoughts hit him like a tidal wave and he slid down the locked door of the stall. Who would want to live like this? Frank thought his existence to be pure torture, why was he even born if he was going to be subjected to crippling mental disorder that he would do almost anything to get rid off. 

He pulled a small piece of metal out of his pocket. Smaller than the usual self destructive weapon. 'Pocket Destruction', he called it in his head. The words had ever been spoken but nevertheless resonated in his mind, so the name stuck. 

His fingers weren't shaking, he wasn't crying, he was completely calm or at least looked to be so on his exterior. He rolled back the sleeve of his hoodie and lifted the small heartless metal to his arm. He was aching to do it. His whole body was aching for the sensation and the crimson liquid running down his arm. He would probably regret doing it on his arm but in this moment, he couldn't give less of a shit. He needed this.

So he quickly touched the blade to his skin and slashed. Blood instantly started to pool in small droplets. He repeated the action on the same spot at least 10 more times. Pain shot through his body and it was a euphoric feeling. He knew it shouldn't be but clearly something was wrong with his brain, he already knew that. he needed it to be deep. He'd rather have one deep cut than an arm littered in several small cuts that would quickly scab over and heal. Barely even leaving a scar. No- this had to be permanent. Because of course his sick mind not only loved the pain and the blood but also the scars. The reminders of lone nights and overthinking. 

The crimson droplets had now turned into streams running down his arm and splattering onto the floor. He wiped the blood with his hand from the cut, he wanted to see how deep it was. When he did he saw yellow- the fat under a couple layers of skin. He saw it for a mer second before it got clouded over with blood again. He was semi-satisfied, although the deeper, the better it was for him. 

He took out a band aid he happened to have kept in his skinny jeans. It would barely suffice but it would have to do for now. Clearly the bleeding wouldn't stop for quite some time. Frank cleaned off the blood and applied a bit of pressure to the wound and put the pathetic band aid over it. He slipped 'Pocket Destruction' back into his pocket and rushed off to his first period. 

When walking through the door he lowered his head, he didn't want to be seen or noted as a human entity by anyone. He slid into his seat next to Gerard and relaxed slightly into his seat. His boyfriend hadn't spoken or acknowledged him. (Which may seem awfully contradictory, which it is, but that's him and his anxiety fighting for dominant thoughts.) So he looked at him questioningly. His eyes were fixed on something though and as Frank lowered his head to see what it was he noticed the sleeve of his black and white hoodie was now drenched in red. Gerard looked at him in utter disbelief and Frank could only find it in himself to panic. He wanted to run out of this class and cower away. But he didn't want any attention drawn to him. So he stayed put and waited for the interrogation that was soon to follow the awkward silence between the two.

A/N: Well shiiiit. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate on the 24th of December! I am officially the worst person though, I haven't gotten presents for anyone in my family let alone the friends that I don't even have. I'll probably stay up all night drawing a picture for each one of my close family members with my limited art skills. 

Vote and/or comment to let me know what you though of this chapter. :) This whole story is just getting more and more depressing ugh.