I'm Sorrier Than You Can Know
Three
Upon arriving at his house, Frankie stood at the front gate, staring at the huge white structure and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to go back; nothing awaited him there, nothing but painful memories and abuse from his father. But where else would Frankie go?
Battling with the voice inside him telling him to run, Frankie began to walk up the driveway.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Out.” Frankie didn’t look at his father as he walked up the stairs. He saw the broken lock on his door, and passed it by, what he really cared about was what awaited him. His father always found a particularly painful way to punish him.
Frankie hung his head. The painting he had spent the last month bringing to life was ripped to shreds on the floor; his father had shredded the canvas and upturned the table bearing expensive paints and painting supplies. The past few days had been hell for Frankie, and now that he was in the seclusion of his now trashed bedroom, he felt he could cry again. An hour later, his eyes were red and puffy, and his bed soaked.
A little orange tube labelled ‘Prozac’ sat invitingly on the nightstand. Frankie took four pills, wondering, can you overdose on chill pills? The feeling he got from the pills was not happiness, but it fought his yearning for death. But Frankie knew that when he came down, he would feel worse.
Not a sound came from Frankie’s room that night. The following morning was a bright, sunny one, and the air was pleasantly warm. Brendan knocked on the door around midday, with grim composure.
“He’s in his room. Probably crying over some boy.” Brendan tried not to send a greasy look in the direction of Frankie’s homophobic father.
“Frankie, it’s Bren. Can I come in? Are you awake?” There was no response to Brendan’s tiny knocks on the bedroom door.
“Okay, I know you’re upset, but please don’t be such a princess. I’m coming in, Frankie,”
“OH MY GOD!”
“Oh my god, Frankie, stop bleeding…please be ok, for fuck’s sake, please be ok, I’m so sorry…” The paramedics pushed Frankie’s stretcher into the back of the ambulance, with a bright, white bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist. Brendan found himself crying, as he watched his ex-boyfriend be driven away to hospital.
Most people have paced around a hospital waiting room at least once in their life. As Brendan did so, so many thoughts and emotions were gripping him, he couldn’t possibly express them. Worried tears soaked his face, and the sound his feet made as they squeaked on the shiny white linoleum echoed around the daunting corridor.
“So,” Frankie’s father finally spoke up, from the plastic chair in which he was sitting, “how long have you been sodomizing my son?”
“Excuse me?” Brendan spoke calmly, turning to look at the revolting man with eyebrows-raised disdain.
“You heard me. How long have you been working at Frankie, turning him down the path of sin?”
Brendan opened his mouth to spit back abuse, but he was cut short by a nurse who was approaching them, holding a clipboard.
“Are you related to Frank Sullivan?”
“I’m his father, and this is his brother,”
Brendan shot him a filthy look, and turned to the nurse.
“Will he be ok?”
“Yes, but his mental condition is not well. He tried to commit suicide, and it is strongly suggested that you admit him to a psychological ward,”
Frankie’s father scoffed at her words, “Don’t worry he’s just attention-seeking. First he reckons he’s gay, now this bullshi-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BASTARD!” Brendan grabbed Frankie’s father by the front of his shirt, and shoved him up against the white wall of the hospital waiting room.
“Don’t touch me, fag!” he struggled against the grip on his throat, and sent Brendan flying across the floor. Bren was strong, but a fifteen year-old boy was no match for a tall, fat man like Frankie’s dad.
“Stop it, please; I don’t want to ask you to leave!” The nurse cried over the shouts that were now bouncing off the shiny whine walls. Brendan picked himself up and gave Frankie’s father another look of bitter disdain before turning back to the nurse.
“I’m really sorry,” Bren panted, “but this motherfucker deserves a beating. Can I see Frankie?”
“Sure. Right this way. Um…let’s wait for him to calm down before he sees the patient,” The nurse gave Frankie’s panting father a disapproving look and led Brendan down the corridor.
Battling with the voice inside him telling him to run, Frankie began to walk up the driveway.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Out.” Frankie didn’t look at his father as he walked up the stairs. He saw the broken lock on his door, and passed it by, what he really cared about was what awaited him. His father always found a particularly painful way to punish him.
Frankie hung his head. The painting he had spent the last month bringing to life was ripped to shreds on the floor; his father had shredded the canvas and upturned the table bearing expensive paints and painting supplies. The past few days had been hell for Frankie, and now that he was in the seclusion of his now trashed bedroom, he felt he could cry again. An hour later, his eyes were red and puffy, and his bed soaked.
A little orange tube labelled ‘Prozac’ sat invitingly on the nightstand. Frankie took four pills, wondering, can you overdose on chill pills? The feeling he got from the pills was not happiness, but it fought his yearning for death. But Frankie knew that when he came down, he would feel worse.
Not a sound came from Frankie’s room that night. The following morning was a bright, sunny one, and the air was pleasantly warm. Brendan knocked on the door around midday, with grim composure.
“He’s in his room. Probably crying over some boy.” Brendan tried not to send a greasy look in the direction of Frankie’s homophobic father.
“Frankie, it’s Bren. Can I come in? Are you awake?” There was no response to Brendan’s tiny knocks on the bedroom door.
“Okay, I know you’re upset, but please don’t be such a princess. I’m coming in, Frankie,”
“OH MY GOD!”
“Oh my god, Frankie, stop bleeding…please be ok, for fuck’s sake, please be ok, I’m so sorry…” The paramedics pushed Frankie’s stretcher into the back of the ambulance, with a bright, white bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist. Brendan found himself crying, as he watched his ex-boyfriend be driven away to hospital.
Most people have paced around a hospital waiting room at least once in their life. As Brendan did so, so many thoughts and emotions were gripping him, he couldn’t possibly express them. Worried tears soaked his face, and the sound his feet made as they squeaked on the shiny white linoleum echoed around the daunting corridor.
“So,” Frankie’s father finally spoke up, from the plastic chair in which he was sitting, “how long have you been sodomizing my son?”
“Excuse me?” Brendan spoke calmly, turning to look at the revolting man with eyebrows-raised disdain.
“You heard me. How long have you been working at Frankie, turning him down the path of sin?”
Brendan opened his mouth to spit back abuse, but he was cut short by a nurse who was approaching them, holding a clipboard.
“Are you related to Frank Sullivan?”
“I’m his father, and this is his brother,”
Brendan shot him a filthy look, and turned to the nurse.
“Will he be ok?”
“Yes, but his mental condition is not well. He tried to commit suicide, and it is strongly suggested that you admit him to a psychological ward,”
Frankie’s father scoffed at her words, “Don’t worry he’s just attention-seeking. First he reckons he’s gay, now this bullshi-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BASTARD!” Brendan grabbed Frankie’s father by the front of his shirt, and shoved him up against the white wall of the hospital waiting room.
“Don’t touch me, fag!” he struggled against the grip on his throat, and sent Brendan flying across the floor. Bren was strong, but a fifteen year-old boy was no match for a tall, fat man like Frankie’s dad.
“Stop it, please; I don’t want to ask you to leave!” The nurse cried over the shouts that were now bouncing off the shiny whine walls. Brendan picked himself up and gave Frankie’s father another look of bitter disdain before turning back to the nurse.
“I’m really sorry,” Bren panted, “but this motherfucker deserves a beating. Can I see Frankie?”
“Sure. Right this way. Um…let’s wait for him to calm down before he sees the patient,” The nurse gave Frankie’s panting father a disapproving look and led Brendan down the corridor.