Eat My Heart Out

I get out of bed at 3am. I know the place is guarded 24/7, but at night, there are more dark corners to hide in when you sneak about.

I leave my bed messy and touched. I leave my door open. I leave my room.

The nurse's station where the night guard is at is just around the corner to my left, so I go in the other direction. The complementary slippers are great at making no sound at all as I sneak down the gray corridors. I never understood why hospitals, and apparently treatment centers, have white walls. They get easily dirty and a thing such as blood is easily visible on white. I once heard or read that doctors wear green because the blood is less visible on green surfaces, so why not paint all the walls green?

Or at least just give them some color. Some patterns. Some decoration. Something.

I'm usually great at creating artwork in the dark, but right now, I've got other things on my mind.

I go around the corner and continue down the dark hall. I didn't even think of sneaking a peek around the corner before continuing, I just went. Does that mean I'm not meaning this enough?

I find his room.

Frank Anthony Iero

They put names on the doors, probably to help themselves remember the names. The first step to making someone feel wanted and cared for is my knowing their name without having to look at a chart or a piece of paper.

I open the door.

I've planned this whole thing out in my head before I even left the room. At first, I thought of knocking on the door, just out of pure courtesy, but then I figured that I might be too loud.

Gently and quietly, I open the door, take one step inside and close the door the same way as I opened it.

I thought of whispering his name as I approached him, but if he woke up and saw a dark shadow in his room, he might scream and call the guard.

I walk over to him, not bothering silencing my steps too much, since I know he's a heavy sleeper. Or, at least he was when we were home.

I get a rush of home sickness again – a deep, burning sensation from my stomach to my heart – before I push the thought away and stand beside his bed, looking down at him.

He looks so tiny. The sheet that's over him looks thick compared to his skinny frame. Even his head, his face, looks minuscule compared to the pillow it's on.

I reach out and touch his hair.

It's so thin and dry. Like hay.

“Frank,” I whisper. The silence doesn't seem broken, only interrupted.

I slide my fingers down his cheekbone, ghosting over his ear. He frowns and jerks his head the tiniest bit before settling down again.

I interrupt again.

“Frankie.”

I planned on not calling him that, but it just slips out. I've been too used to saying it, using it, that I can't stop now.

I rest a finger on his dry lips as I lean in close, a finger crossing my own lips.

He wakes.

He opens his eyes, closes them once and then opens them wide. I whisper a 'shh' and leans in a little closer to make sure he sees that it's just me. Just me.

He frowns.

“I need to tell you something.”

He suddenly sits up, pushing my finger away in the rush and forcing me backwards. I straighten up and take a step back, feeling my stomach drop as I suddenly feel rejected.

“About what?” he asks in a normal tone voice. My first instinct is to shush him, but the simple sound of his voice makes me freeze. At first, I'm relieved that he wants to talk to me. Then, I realize how long it's been since I heard it last, and my knees go a little weak as my stomach does a somersault. But then, lastly, I feel the tears press against the back of my eyes.

It's so weak. It's so rough. It barely sounds like him.

I pull myself together and push the tears away, swallow down the lump in my throat and rub my sweaty hands against my pajama pants. I look down for a second or two, racking my brain to remember my plan. When I've found it in my mess of a brain, I look up into his eyes and lose it again.

He looks down – away from my eyes.

I swallow hard, trying not to take the rejection too close and just carry on with my plan.

“Mom called today,” I whisper.

He looks up at my hands and my thighs, but that's as far as his eyes will go.

“She said she's gonna sue your dad.”

He looks away from my hands briefly, blinks and then returns to just staring at my hands. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my hands. I want to move them, but I feel like I can't – like they've been caught my his eyes and become immobile. A kind of performance anxiety.

“He send you here without their consent.”

“I let him send me here,” he whispers.

Again, the tears and the lump try to fight their way out of my body, but I push them back.

“But he didn't have the right.”

He looks away from my hands, back down at his own. I can suddenly move my hands, but I only move a few fingers. I don't know where I'd move them, so why bother?

“He should have called my parents. He should have send you home if he couldn't handle it.”

“I don't have a home.”

I freeze.

What?

“What?”

He looks up at the wall by the end of his bed.

He doesn't answer. I can tell he's not going to either. The way he seems to be shutting me out and only staring at one, specific point on the wall is a clear sign that he doesn't wanna tell me what he's talking about. I know him too well.

“What are you talking about. Of course you have a home,” I whisper desperately.

He keeps staring.

“You called it home. It still is.”

It's getting harder to push away the tears. They're starting to get evident in my voice.

“They all love you there. They want you to come home and be safe and okay.”

He suddenly looks over at my hands, which makes me freeze but at the same time calm down, because I know he's gonna talk now. I'm gonna hear his fragile, little voice, but I'm gonna hear him.

A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek, but it goes unnoticed to everyone else in the world. No one sees my tear. Only I feel it.

“Let's go home,” I say out loud, not caring if a guard hears us or if Frank hears the sadness in my voice that's currently breaking my heart.

Let's go home. Let's go home and be how we used to be. Let's go back and find a random, lazy Saturday and lie in our bed, cuddled up, all day. I wanna go home.

“I can't go home.”

Another tear escapes easily.

“Yes you can! How can you say that? They love you!”

I'm being loud. I'm almost yelling, but I can't help it. I feel like I have to in order to convince him that he deserves everything he gets and so much more – that he deserves a home.

He suddenly looks up at me. His eyes are so gorgeous.

“But I left them!” he yells back. I must've yelled too.

“Because you father made you! They know tha-”

“I left because I had to!” he yells, interrupting my attempt to convince him.

“You never had to leave!”

“Yes! I did!”

“Why?”

The door opens, letting in light.

“Because of you!”

The light hits me in the back, casting a shadow over Frank, just as his words hit me in the heart.

“Hey!” I dark, male voice calls and on the wall I can see his shadow raise a arm and point.
“You! Get back to your own room, right now!”

I stand still.

“Now! I don't want any complaints or excuses! Go!”

I turn around and walk.

“You'll hear from the head nurse tomorrow morning. She'll make sure to punish you for breaking curfew.”

I walk out the room and down the hall.

“And I don't wanna hear a peep out of you! Got that?”

I don't answer. I don't know who he asked. All I know is that I did it again.

I did it a third time.

I hurt him.