The Hunger In My Heart

The night passed too slowly for Frank’s liking, even the brief periods when his eyelids managed to drop shut seemed endless and he’d wake up fifteen minutes later expecting to see the familiar slithers of light peaking through the gaps in the plain curtains.

At the time, he found himself wishing to just succumb to sleep, partly because of the groggy inhuman feeling that started to overcome him and partly because the silence scared him a little bit. He didn’t want any haunting voices to suddenly creep up on him, because obviously, that would mean the end of him. However, he continued to drift in and out of sleep like a drunken phase, until finally the sun began to rise, inviting his lifeless form into the new day.

Whilst lying on his back, facing the ceiling he attempts to recall any dreams or nightmares that played with his imagination during the rare moments he managed to daze off, but no matter how hard he presses no recollections seem to pop up. Seems my brain is as dead as my body, he mumbles before turning onto his side. A light ache rises between his ribs and he groans; he’s wasting away blindly.

As he faces the material covered window Frank is sucked into a daunting memory of when he was in hospital. Without warning a clip of him laying on the white linen sheets facing the open window with a tube in his nose flickers before his eyes and he explores it, remembering shamefully the way he ripped the offending plastic from his nasal passage before heaving uncontrollably in realisation that the tubes go way down his throat and directly into his stomach.

The young man shudders in memory of the sickening sensation.

At the time, he was faced with a difficult situation, seeing as he had already pulled the tube out of their allocated positions, they dangled awkwardly inside his throat making him splutter and choke mercilessly. He had to either continue to haul them out – painfully, or leave them to dangle until he eventually choked to death.

Sadly, however much he wanted to leave the world with nothing but his corpse to remember him by, he also wanted to see Gerard’s angelic face before him once more; as he continued to splutter and choke, his eyes watering, sight blurring, he dragged the calorie pumping tubes out of his airways in disdain before throwing them to the side where they hung off the machine dramatically; a small puddle of mush forming on the floor where the food was flowing.

Not surprisingly, the tortured young man threw up straight after from the uncontrollable heaving and pain, it happened that he threw up blood as well as the bubbling food formula. Regardless to mention, Mitch congratulated him before Frank passed out from pain and sheer exhaustion.

With a simple blink, the scene ends and Frank finds himself subconsciously rubbing his narrow throat. Never again, he decides; Never a-fucking-gain. I’d rather die that go back into one of those places.

He lays in bed some more, nothing in particular occupying his mind, until he hears pots and pans clashing from downstairs. The noise startles him slightly but he makes no effort to block it out, instead, he continues to lay staring up at the slightly out of colour ceiling. He thinks of all the things he’s been through on this exact bed; pieces of material that could tell his life if it was graced with the power to talk. Frank suddenly feels somewhat comforted, knowing that the bed, his room, this house, has been the only consistent thing in his life.

He thinks back to the first time his parents allowed him to redecorate his bedroom the way he wanted; he recollects the excitement he had felt when the childish wallpaper was stripped and painted blue.

He sees the first time he brought a girl home at fifteen, then, first time he done the deed with her four months later- demanding that he’d never fall in love with anyone after her. He feels her moist breath in his ear sealing the promise straight after.

He remembers locking himself in this room at sixteen when they broke up, tears running down his face from her hurtful words. It was the first time he’d ever felt heartbroken- it was the first time he’d ever given his heart out, naively assuming it’d grow bigger, fuller, rather than dry and shatter after a year.

The memories are painful but he bravely trudges through them one by one; they help him ignore the hunger pains that are beginning to burn within him. He tries to find a happier time in his mind- the day he wrote his first proper song on his old acoustic guitar. The words chime cordlessly in his head, I never meant to say the things I said, but I can’t move on until I get you out of my head, My dear I didn’t want to hurt you, but it’s a dark dark world and you have to see the truth…

For the first time in days, Frank feels the need to do something rather than lay in bed until he dies. I have to get up he decides, I want to play. He climbs out of bed steadily, remembering his technique to avoid spells of dizziness, and heads over to his guitars which are stacked up against his wall.

I don’t remember them weighing this much, he groans, lifting up his old wooden acoustic; he admires the scratches that litter its frame briefly before taking a guitar pick from the floor and strumming the all too familiar chords of his memories.

The young mans voice is coarse when he sings, it breaks awkwardly throughout the song making it hard to reach the notes that once slipped passed his lips easily. His hand moved with the rhythm of his words naturally, time having no effect on his actions, the notes come to him almost effortlessly as though he’d played the song just yesterday rather than over nine years ago.

Meanwhile, his mother almost drops her plate when she hears the sound of her sons familiar guitar playing upstairs. She hopes that maybe, just maybe, he’s getting a hold of himself once again before he slips back into his previous near death state.

“Is that-?” Frank’s father questions, looking up at his wife from the table, a look of shock and relief painted on his aging features.

“Yeah, I think it is.” they spend moments staring at each other, relief coursing through both of their veins.

The sound of the doorbell chimes through the house, making the greying women jump and drop the white china plate onto the floor. It crashes loudly and breaks into numerous pieces. Upstairs, Frank stops playing abruptly and listens to whoever may be at the door- he doesn’t want to risk looking out of the window.

A voice, velvet, ink, flows like liquid metal up the stairs, penetrating the guitarists sensitive ears. His heart stops and he places the guitar down with shaking hands. What is he doing here, he questions himself, his head spins uncontrollably and his high slowly drops to confusion and apprehension.

Footsteps, hard and heavy ascend up the stairs, they match the beat of his drying heart. Two quick rasps on the door and Frank wants to scream. Why is he here?

“Frank?”

“Frank?”

Go away, go away, go away. He can’t see me, not like this.

“Frank, please it‘s me…Gerard, I just want…to, talk to you.”

Frank sits on his bed, trying to make the right decision. Should he open or not? He fears that Gerard might see through his weak attire, see everything he really feels, see past the façade Frank put up the other day in his swanky apartment.

“Frank, please I just want to know what’s wrong.” Gerard calls from behind the door. He tries to sound confident, but concern still managed to tweak his words.

A silence follows, its long and tenuous, even slightly convincing and Frank begins to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Gerard has given up on him once again. He stands steadily, quietly and heads over to the door. With shaking hands he slides the metal lock and twists the door knob; the door creeks open and beams of light reveal Franks tired, pale face to the world. A dark haired man sits by the top of the stairs, shock written over his sharp, beautiful features and he jumps up when he realises Frank is opening the door- letting him into his life once more.