Would You Kill Me in My Sleep
[one-shot]
Fans never noticed because he always wore a hoodie.
It was ironic that he had to hide under layers of clothes now; in the beginning all that mattered was what he looked like. Sickly ironic.
The bandmates were only slightly suspicious - one of the few things Frank was proud of. He had lots of good excuses in his head. Lies were always waiting in the back of his throat; it had become a reflex to tell them every time the situation presented itself.
"Hey Frank, want some lunch?"
"I'm not hungry." The three most used of Frank's vocabulary, by far.
Obviously, it was Frank's biggest secret. He wasn't trying to make a fashion statement, trying to fit in; he knew that's what people would think if he told them. It wasn't like that, anymore. It became a mental disease, a part of him, a sadistic person inside of him that controlled what he thought, ate, said - everything he did. "It's Not a Fashion Statement, it's a Deathwish" was always Frank's favorite song title.
Deticated to a vicious circle he couldn't get himself out of. It was devouring everything else he ever lived for - his music, his friends, the fans - but he wasn't really trying to get himself out in the first place. He didn't want to get out because the voices in his head told him he was doing the right thing and they were proud of him when he did what they said. Brainwashed by something that didn't exist, by something even he knew wasn't real, but he followed it anyway. He was digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole and he wasn't going to stop; he didn't want to stop.
There was a certain corner of the mini-fridge that wasn't deticated to beer where he kept his 'safe food'. Mostly vegetables, fruit, sugar-free jell-o, green tea and sugar-free energy drinks, and of course his canned soup. If he ate anything else he'd have a panic attack and go into hysterics. Lock himself in the bathroom and beat himself up for being 'such a failure', 'such a fuck-up', "I don't deserve to live."
And he had a notebook that he kept under his bunk, for all the numbers. If the numbers stayed under 400 or so Frank seemed happy for the rest of the day. Confident even, almost. Maybe.
The more he lost, the more he wanted to loose. The deeper the hole was, the more unsatisfied he was. And the longer it lasted, the worse his habits became. Soon nothing was 'safe'. The yogurt was thrown out and the jell-o went with it - it tasted too close to something sugary and sweet. He got more drastic habits; he still drew black X's on the bathroom mirror with expo marker just like the ones he wore over his eyes on-stage. Now he was carving them in his arm, too. And his throat was always sore, but not just from the screaming on stage every night.
Sometimes he wanted out. He wanted the voices, that stupid person inside of him that wasn't him, to get the fuck out of his body and let him be normal. Screaming "goddammit" and pulling on his hair and crying never helped but he made it a ritual in hopes that it would. He couldn't hide from himself. He swore to himself that it wasn't himself that he had to hide from; something inside of himself that he probably couldn't find the off button for even if he was trying to find it.
He knew he wasn't normal. He knew normal people didn't enjoy that weak hungry feeling, seeing stars and almost fainting from lack of nutricion and energy. He wasn't stupid. He knew he was killing himself, pound by pound. He also knew he was doing nothing to stop it.
And nobody noticed. If they did, they didn't say anything. He always tried to deny it in his head but he wanted someone to notice. He was silently screaming behind his eyes for someone to "Help me." But at the same time, he didn't want anyone to know. Someone knowing would lead to recovery. Recovery would lead to weight gain.
He didn't get help for years.
***
"Hey Frank, I made waffles! Wake up!"
'Holy. Shit. There's somebody on top of me.' First thought of the day for Frank Iero.
"Gerard, personal space! I can't breathe!"
"I made waffles!"
"I'm not hungry."
'Who didn't see that coming,' Gerard thought.
Pout. "C'mon Frank, please? I made them for you, just try them?"
'Okay, what can I to do get out of this?' Frank started reminding himself the basic ideas he had memorized over the years. Could say 'okay' and hide bites in his napkin until it looked like he had eaten a decent amount. Could purge. He chose the latter - then he could make Gerard happy by eating the waffles and still not have that disguisting there's-calories-inside-me feeling.
"Okay, okay. I'll eat your fucking waffles." Frank poked Gerard in the side and wiggled, whining, "Now get off of me!"
Gerard's face lit up and he bounced off Frank's bunk, dragging said band member into the kitchenette of the tour bus and grinning while Frank considered reminding the man that he was thirty. "See, I bought a waffle maker. It's fun." He said happily, beginning to explain how he found it in Wal-Mart. Frank giggled as he made a plate for himself and sat at the table where Gerard's plate already was, then stuffed a bite in his mouth, ignoring the death threats the voices in his head were screaming at him; he would please them later.
He finished quickly and automatically said, "I've gotta take a piss."
"No you don't."
'...What the fuck?' Frank thought. He knew he had to get this waffle out of his stomach before too many of the calories were absorbed. It took a second of staring at Gerard, but he finally asked, "What?"
"Frank... you need to stop doing that."
"Gerard, doing what?" Frank asked nervously, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and asking himself in his head if he really did see a tear in the corner of Gerard's left eye.
"You know what your doing, Frank... please stop."
Frank stared. This couldn't be happening. 'He doesn't know, he doesn't know, he can't know...'
"It's hurting me almost as much as it's hurting yourself."
And Frank gave the voices in his head the finger and he hoped Gerard couldn't see the tear in his eye too as he slowly sat back down and looked at his hands, at the fingernail polish that was chipped more than it should have been. He knew why, and Gerard knew why too.
"I can't watch you kill yourself anymore, Frank..."
Frank nodded and watched that tear hit the table. "I can't... I don't know how to do anything else." He murmured, almost too quiet to be heard.
"Can you just, try? Just," Sigh.
Frank tried to give him an answer, but he ended up simply mouthing "okay" because he didn't think he could talk anyway and Gerard didn't seem to notice.
"I'll, help you? We can get through this... together, okay? Because I care about you, and... you helped me through drugs, and I want to help you through this."
Frank nodded lightly with a nervous sigh and tried to repeat. "Okay." This time it actually came out. "Okay. I'll try."
Weak smiles, a hug. And Frank stayed sitting.
It was ironic that he had to hide under layers of clothes now; in the beginning all that mattered was what he looked like. Sickly ironic.
The bandmates were only slightly suspicious - one of the few things Frank was proud of. He had lots of good excuses in his head. Lies were always waiting in the back of his throat; it had become a reflex to tell them every time the situation presented itself.
"Hey Frank, want some lunch?"
"I'm not hungry." The three most used of Frank's vocabulary, by far.
Obviously, it was Frank's biggest secret. He wasn't trying to make a fashion statement, trying to fit in; he knew that's what people would think if he told them. It wasn't like that, anymore. It became a mental disease, a part of him, a sadistic person inside of him that controlled what he thought, ate, said - everything he did. "It's Not a Fashion Statement, it's a Deathwish" was always Frank's favorite song title.
Deticated to a vicious circle he couldn't get himself out of. It was devouring everything else he ever lived for - his music, his friends, the fans - but he wasn't really trying to get himself out in the first place. He didn't want to get out because the voices in his head told him he was doing the right thing and they were proud of him when he did what they said. Brainwashed by something that didn't exist, by something even he knew wasn't real, but he followed it anyway. He was digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole and he wasn't going to stop; he didn't want to stop.
There was a certain corner of the mini-fridge that wasn't deticated to beer where he kept his 'safe food'. Mostly vegetables, fruit, sugar-free jell-o, green tea and sugar-free energy drinks, and of course his canned soup. If he ate anything else he'd have a panic attack and go into hysterics. Lock himself in the bathroom and beat himself up for being 'such a failure', 'such a fuck-up', "I don't deserve to live."
And he had a notebook that he kept under his bunk, for all the numbers. If the numbers stayed under 400 or so Frank seemed happy for the rest of the day. Confident even, almost. Maybe.
The more he lost, the more he wanted to loose. The deeper the hole was, the more unsatisfied he was. And the longer it lasted, the worse his habits became. Soon nothing was 'safe'. The yogurt was thrown out and the jell-o went with it - it tasted too close to something sugary and sweet. He got more drastic habits; he still drew black X's on the bathroom mirror with expo marker just like the ones he wore over his eyes on-stage. Now he was carving them in his arm, too. And his throat was always sore, but not just from the screaming on stage every night.
Sometimes he wanted out. He wanted the voices, that stupid person inside of him that wasn't him, to get the fuck out of his body and let him be normal. Screaming "goddammit" and pulling on his hair and crying never helped but he made it a ritual in hopes that it would. He couldn't hide from himself. He swore to himself that it wasn't himself that he had to hide from; something inside of himself that he probably couldn't find the off button for even if he was trying to find it.
He knew he wasn't normal. He knew normal people didn't enjoy that weak hungry feeling, seeing stars and almost fainting from lack of nutricion and energy. He wasn't stupid. He knew he was killing himself, pound by pound. He also knew he was doing nothing to stop it.
And nobody noticed. If they did, they didn't say anything. He always tried to deny it in his head but he wanted someone to notice. He was silently screaming behind his eyes for someone to "Help me." But at the same time, he didn't want anyone to know. Someone knowing would lead to recovery. Recovery would lead to weight gain.
He didn't get help for years.
***
"Hey Frank, I made waffles! Wake up!"
'Holy. Shit. There's somebody on top of me.' First thought of the day for Frank Iero.
"Gerard, personal space! I can't breathe!"
"I made waffles!"
"I'm not hungry."
'Who didn't see that coming,' Gerard thought.
Pout. "C'mon Frank, please? I made them for you, just try them?"
'Okay, what can I to do get out of this?' Frank started reminding himself the basic ideas he had memorized over the years. Could say 'okay' and hide bites in his napkin until it looked like he had eaten a decent amount. Could purge. He chose the latter - then he could make Gerard happy by eating the waffles and still not have that disguisting there's-calories-inside-me feeling.
"Okay, okay. I'll eat your fucking waffles." Frank poked Gerard in the side and wiggled, whining, "Now get off of me!"
Gerard's face lit up and he bounced off Frank's bunk, dragging said band member into the kitchenette of the tour bus and grinning while Frank considered reminding the man that he was thirty. "See, I bought a waffle maker. It's fun." He said happily, beginning to explain how he found it in Wal-Mart. Frank giggled as he made a plate for himself and sat at the table where Gerard's plate already was, then stuffed a bite in his mouth, ignoring the death threats the voices in his head were screaming at him; he would please them later.
He finished quickly and automatically said, "I've gotta take a piss."
"No you don't."
'...What the fuck?' Frank thought. He knew he had to get this waffle out of his stomach before too many of the calories were absorbed. It took a second of staring at Gerard, but he finally asked, "What?"
"Frank... you need to stop doing that."
"Gerard, doing what?" Frank asked nervously, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and asking himself in his head if he really did see a tear in the corner of Gerard's left eye.
"You know what your doing, Frank... please stop."
Frank stared. This couldn't be happening. 'He doesn't know, he doesn't know, he can't know...'
"It's hurting me almost as much as it's hurting yourself."
And Frank gave the voices in his head the finger and he hoped Gerard couldn't see the tear in his eye too as he slowly sat back down and looked at his hands, at the fingernail polish that was chipped more than it should have been. He knew why, and Gerard knew why too.
"I can't watch you kill yourself anymore, Frank..."
Frank nodded and watched that tear hit the table. "I can't... I don't know how to do anything else." He murmured, almost too quiet to be heard.
"Can you just, try? Just," Sigh.
Frank tried to give him an answer, but he ended up simply mouthing "okay" because he didn't think he could talk anyway and Gerard didn't seem to notice.
"I'll, help you? We can get through this... together, okay? Because I care about you, and... you helped me through drugs, and I want to help you through this."
Frank nodded lightly with a nervous sigh and tried to repeat. "Okay." This time it actually came out. "Okay. I'll try."
Weak smiles, a hug. And Frank stayed sitting.