Status: One shot. This is it.
Hanging On by a Thread
Hanging On by a Thread
Beep
Beep
Beep
Beep
Beep
That single steady rhythm is the only reassurance that he's still here.
That single monotone sequence of sound is the only reason that I still know he's alive.
And the only hope that I can cling to that he'll come back home.
Broken.
Shattered.
Fragile.
Crumpled.
As though with its own mind, my hand reaches out to stroke stray hairs from his face.
His beautiful face.
Once porcelain skin is now almost entirely masked in either bruises, gouges, stitches, swelling, or dried blood.
A once- empty canvas is now battered and torn and dirtied.
And he's still beautiful.
The hack-job on his face did absolutely nothing to decrease the unearthly beauty that he always can attain.
He still looks beautiful and alive even in his unconscious state.
Or maybe I just love him too much.
And I really want him to come home.
But he will come home.
He's the strongest person I know.
I'm sure he'll wake up.
I know he will.
Maybe I am just clinging desperately to any little thread of hope that I have left, but I need him. I need him so badly.
He can't leave me now.
Tenderly, my fingers stroke his face.
I couldn't bear never seeing this face again.
I carefully wrap his cold, pale hands in my own.
Trying to warm him up.
Trying to wake him up.
But in vain.
It's funny how much faith we can put into such small, insignificant things.
When all other hope has been torn away, we find ourselves dangling over the mouth of the gaping chasm of despair- gripping to the tiny strands of whatever hope remains.
In the end, those minuscule strands are all that remains.
All that keeps us from breaking.
There's an almost inaudible knock on the hospital door before Mikey's head peeks through.
"Gerard, it's time to go."
Our eyes meet, and I see the same sadness in my eyes reflected in his own.
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek and nod before turning back to my lover.
My lover fast asleep, cold, and pale and crumpled in the hospital bed.
Beep
Beep
Beep
Savouring my final glimpse of him before I leave my place of vigil for the night, I lean in slowly and place a gentle kiss on his bruised forehead.
"Goodnight Frankie," I whisper into his skin.
I'm not awaiting a reply, so when I get one, it takes a few seconds to understand it.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
And that is when my final fragile strand of hope breaks in two, and I fall down into the bottomless pit I hung so precariously over for this long.
Beep
Beep
Beep
Beep
That single steady rhythm is the only reassurance that he's still here.
That single monotone sequence of sound is the only reason that I still know he's alive.
And the only hope that I can cling to that he'll come back home.
Broken.
Shattered.
Fragile.
Crumpled.
As though with its own mind, my hand reaches out to stroke stray hairs from his face.
His beautiful face.
Once porcelain skin is now almost entirely masked in either bruises, gouges, stitches, swelling, or dried blood.
A once- empty canvas is now battered and torn and dirtied.
And he's still beautiful.
The hack-job on his face did absolutely nothing to decrease the unearthly beauty that he always can attain.
He still looks beautiful and alive even in his unconscious state.
Or maybe I just love him too much.
And I really want him to come home.
But he will come home.
He's the strongest person I know.
I'm sure he'll wake up.
I know he will.
Maybe I am just clinging desperately to any little thread of hope that I have left, but I need him. I need him so badly.
He can't leave me now.
Tenderly, my fingers stroke his face.
I couldn't bear never seeing this face again.
I carefully wrap his cold, pale hands in my own.
Trying to warm him up.
Trying to wake him up.
But in vain.
It's funny how much faith we can put into such small, insignificant things.
When all other hope has been torn away, we find ourselves dangling over the mouth of the gaping chasm of despair- gripping to the tiny strands of whatever hope remains.
In the end, those minuscule strands are all that remains.
All that keeps us from breaking.
There's an almost inaudible knock on the hospital door before Mikey's head peeks through.
"Gerard, it's time to go."
Our eyes meet, and I see the same sadness in my eyes reflected in his own.
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek and nod before turning back to my lover.
My lover fast asleep, cold, and pale and crumpled in the hospital bed.
Beep
Beep
Beep
Savouring my final glimpse of him before I leave my place of vigil for the night, I lean in slowly and place a gentle kiss on his bruised forehead.
"Goodnight Frankie," I whisper into his skin.
I'm not awaiting a reply, so when I get one, it takes a few seconds to understand it.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
And that is when my final fragile strand of hope breaks in two, and I fall down into the bottomless pit I hung so precariously over for this long.
♠ ♠ ♠
Greetings.Alex here.
I really hope you liked this story, though its pretty sad.
Seriously though, why do I kill off Frank in literally every one shot I've ever written??
I feel really cruel.. :(
Also, who else is still emotionally suffering from the MCR breakup? *raises hand*
I'm surviving it by reading and writing an insane amount of frerard, watching every single interview that's ever been made, listening to all the albums on repeat marathons, and eating my feelings (aka eating my body weight in Cheerios).
How about you all?
So leave a comment (constructive criticism is always highly appreciated), recommend if you want your friends to cry over character death too, and add me as a friend if you wanna be depressed about my chem together
Till next time -
Alex