Young and Doomed | Frerard

Chapter One

The good thing about this cast

Is I can still hold a knife

So, if you ever twist my arm again

I'll be sure to put up a fight

"funny you should ask" // the front bottoms

There were many things Frank Iero knew in life.

He knew he was a boy from New Jersey, with divorced parents and a good taste in music. He knew he was a disappointment, and he knew he was a burden. He knew that no amount of diagnoses would satisfy his parents, and that no matter where he went someone was always going to shove pills down his throat. Let's face it; inpatient care wasn't cheap, and Frank's insurance wasn't going to support him forever.

Of course Frank felt guilt towards these matters – the fact he was wasting away, both physically and mentally, despite what seemed like the entire world's will for him to change – but he shoved these thoughts away, into a deep corner of his mind. Frank avoided this corner as much as he could, and tried to stay focused only on things he knew.

Basic things, of course, such as the fact that no matter how hard this entire treatment program tried, they would not - could not - shove this chicken tender down his fucking throat.

"Oh, fuck this." Frank sighed, leaning back in his chair. In was a peculiar phrase, Frank realized to himself as he sat, that the 'fuck' wasn't aimed toward anything or anyone and was quite up in the air for interpretation by the listener. Frank decided the 'fuck' should go towards everyone and everything, as he was awfully ready to murder every last person in this room.

Without surprise from Frank, a voice chimed in. "Now, now," The table's TA began, and Frank pointedly looked in the other direction. He knew what she was going to say; he'd heard it more times than he could count. It didn't matter what came out of her mouth, it wasn't going to change his mind.

"I know your first meal here can be difficult," She rambled on, but Frank had tuned her out by now. "But we don't use words like that at the table. If you have emotions you need to express, you can solve them with your therapist."

Frank only rolled his eyes in response, earning a disapproving look. Another patient had put a hand under the table (an idiotic but strictly forbidden act), taking the TA's attention away from Frank and giving him the opportunity to flip her off behind her back.

Another patient giggled at his action, and the TA snapped back to glare at them both. "What's the joke?"

"This facility." Frank replied, and more laughter broke out around the table. Despite being in a different unit, Frank still ate his meals with the other patients in treatment for their eating disorders. This wasn't a particularly large group – maybe twice the size of his general intensive care unit.

This was the ninth facility Frank had been sent to (including hospitals and PHP), but none of them had worked, as obvious by his stay here. This would be his third inpatient, but the first time being put in a high-level unit. Normally, he'd be put in a lower security ward with the cancer patients or amputees, but this time his case had been deemed much more severe. He wasn't on 24/7 monetization or anything (you had to be suicidal or murderous for that shit), but was as close to it as hospitalization got.

Just be grateful you're not in psych, popped up in Frank's mind, and he sighed. He hadn't been put in psych (yet), but he would be surprised if he was sectioned there next.