Something I Could Hold Onto
This is my reaction to your mistake.
All he wanted was to brush his teeth.
All he wanted to do was eliminated the taste of stale alcohol and nauseating bile from his tongue, and maybe that would help him forget.
Seconds after entering the hotel room, Frank found himself making a beeline for the porcelain toilet in the corner. He ducked to his knees, falling hard enough to bruise the fragile skin and delicate bones, only to clutch his stomach again in pain as he watched his stomach empty. Without intending to, he relapses back to that day four years ago and shudders.
It feels the exact same.
He stood slowly, and on shaky legs before leaning against the fake-wooden countertop. The green toothbrush say temptingly in the corner, promising the broken boy cleansing and comfort and relief.
Seconds later, he found himself with the same toothbrush tickling the back of his throat.
His hands ached with the tension coursing through them; tears pricked his lids as a result of the hard brushing. Frank spit into the spotless white sink, swearing under his breath as blood trickled into his mouth.
But the blood didn't taste half as bitter as he felt.
He rinsed his mouth again, wincing as the icy water met his split gums, before turning aggressively on his heel. Several heavy footsteps later, Frank came to the newly-made bed, collapsing on the scratchy duvet with a desperate sense of exhaustion. The clock beside him read 2:12 A.M., and the quiet ringing in his ears seemed to speak the same truth. He sighed, tossing his stiff legs over the side of the bed and burying his face in his hands.
Why does this always, always, always fucking happen?!
The thought circulated through his troubled mind for several minutes longer; hot, angry tears remained stagnant in his eyes. He contemplated his options: it was probable that Gerard would come looking for the boy soon enough, an event that Frank could not even being to consider handling. His only escape manifested itself in the '97 Honda parked sloppily on the curb, an idea that began to look more and more promising with each tick-tock of the analog clock.
And then it was clear. Frank was going back to Jersey that night, vacant apartment or not.
In a corrosive haze, the boy threw his belongings into the black duffel bag and zipped it shut, tossing it over his shoulder and borderline-jogging to the hotel lobby.
The clerk observed him with unimpressed eyes, shooting him glances that said "I've seen this before".
How could he have? he thought angrily. It's not everyday you meet a bastard like Gerard Way.
And with that same thought floating lazily through his head, almost like a venomous vapor, Frank piled into his small car. His body resisted the oncoming four-hour drive, yet psychologically he had to.
Silent sobs racked his aching body; the deafening quiet surrounding him made it too easy to think. His shaking fingers shot out to the radio dial, turning it so hard that it threatened to snap off.
After seconds of static and broken words, a clear voice finally shot through.
Not long ago,
I gave up hope,
But you came along.
You gave me something I could hold onto.
Woah, and I want you,
Oh! More than you could ever-
"Bullshit," he spat hatefully, switching the radio off once again.
All he wanted to do was eliminated the taste of stale alcohol and nauseating bile from his tongue, and maybe that would help him forget.
Seconds after entering the hotel room, Frank found himself making a beeline for the porcelain toilet in the corner. He ducked to his knees, falling hard enough to bruise the fragile skin and delicate bones, only to clutch his stomach again in pain as he watched his stomach empty. Without intending to, he relapses back to that day four years ago and shudders.
It feels the exact same.
He stood slowly, and on shaky legs before leaning against the fake-wooden countertop. The green toothbrush say temptingly in the corner, promising the broken boy cleansing and comfort and relief.
Seconds later, he found himself with the same toothbrush tickling the back of his throat.
His hands ached with the tension coursing through them; tears pricked his lids as a result of the hard brushing. Frank spit into the spotless white sink, swearing under his breath as blood trickled into his mouth.
But the blood didn't taste half as bitter as he felt.
He rinsed his mouth again, wincing as the icy water met his split gums, before turning aggressively on his heel. Several heavy footsteps later, Frank came to the newly-made bed, collapsing on the scratchy duvet with a desperate sense of exhaustion. The clock beside him read 2:12 A.M., and the quiet ringing in his ears seemed to speak the same truth. He sighed, tossing his stiff legs over the side of the bed and burying his face in his hands.
Why does this always, always, always fucking happen?!
The thought circulated through his troubled mind for several minutes longer; hot, angry tears remained stagnant in his eyes. He contemplated his options: it was probable that Gerard would come looking for the boy soon enough, an event that Frank could not even being to consider handling. His only escape manifested itself in the '97 Honda parked sloppily on the curb, an idea that began to look more and more promising with each tick-tock of the analog clock.
And then it was clear. Frank was going back to Jersey that night, vacant apartment or not.
In a corrosive haze, the boy threw his belongings into the black duffel bag and zipped it shut, tossing it over his shoulder and borderline-jogging to the hotel lobby.
The clerk observed him with unimpressed eyes, shooting him glances that said "I've seen this before".
How could he have? he thought angrily. It's not everyday you meet a bastard like Gerard Way.
And with that same thought floating lazily through his head, almost like a venomous vapor, Frank piled into his small car. His body resisted the oncoming four-hour drive, yet psychologically he had to.
Silent sobs racked his aching body; the deafening quiet surrounding him made it too easy to think. His shaking fingers shot out to the radio dial, turning it so hard that it threatened to snap off.
After seconds of static and broken words, a clear voice finally shot through.
Not long ago,
I gave up hope,
But you came along.
You gave me something I could hold onto.
Woah, and I want you,
Oh! More than you could ever-
"Bullshit," he spat hatefully, switching the radio off once again.
♠ ♠ ♠
The title is from "Act IV: You Don't Need A Witness" by The Sound of Animals Fighting.So, I updated two stories in one day :] -Applause-
But this chapter leaves a little to be desired. [Sorry.]
Please comment it, though? Because I love getting those, and a lot of people don't really bother >.<
So far this is 13,610 words. Maybe you could take a moment to drop me five?
I'd really appreciate it :D
Happy belated Fourth!
Hope yours was better than mine ;]