Chapter Text
The sun was setting over New Jersey as Frank Iero left the downtown supermarket he had just visited to get cigarettes and walked toward the parking lot at the end of the street.
He wore a black and red striped sweater with several black t-shirts underneath to keep the cold out, a pair of black jeans, and his old, beat-up grey Converse. His dark black hair was shorter at the sides, with a sloping fringe hanging over one of his hazel eyes. The tattoos scattered around his pale arms, including an anchor with the letters NJ, and two others snaking around his right wrist, were hidden by his sweater, which was pulled over his fingers, a habit born out of years of anxiety and self-consciousness. Only his favourite scorpion tattoo peeked out over his collar, earning him some disapproving looks from passersby on the streets.
Frank, however, was too preoccupied with his cigarettes to notice.
He'd run out earlier that day and knew he wouldn't be able to settle without another. So, soon after he'd dumped the empty box in the trash, he'd left the house he shared with his mom, Linda, to get more. She'd protested when he grabbed his keys, and he tried to placate her by promising to pick up a pint of milk, telling her he'd only be a few minutes. That seemed to calm her down enough to let him go.
He was grateful for the brief escape of leaving the house, even if it was only for a little while.
The atmosphere had been suffocating lately.
He knew she was growing increasingly worried about his apathetic behaviour, and he couldn't stand being under her watchful eyes. He didn't want her to worry, so he tried his best to act like he was okay, but it was exhausting, and he knew he wasn't doing a good job of pretending anyway. He could breathe easier when he was by himself.
Besides, he liked to drive. Sometimes, it distracted him. It was leaving the safe, comforting interior of his car to complete whatever errand he'd gone on that he struggled with.
He thrust his wallet into his back pocket and ripped open the cheap packet of smokes. Taking one, he dug out his lighter, slipped it between his lips, and lit it with shaking hands. He inhaled deeply, held it for a second, then breathed out slowly, feeling that familiar burn, and with it, a sense of relief.
Better.
It had barely been an hour since his last smoke, but now, on the darkening New Jersey streets, the tension in his chest eased slightly, and he finally felt satisfied.
As he walked further out of town, he dodged the crowds hurrying along the streets. Unlike them, he was in no rush to get back home, knowing there was nothing waiting for him there but his mom's worried eyes and interfering questions.
The crowds were loud: talking, laughing, calling to each other. He cringed as he walked, head down. He was sure their stares were burning into his back as he passed, judging everything about him: the way he looked, the way he moved. His skin burned with embarrassment, and his heartbeat quickened with anxiety. To someone else, it probably sounded stupid, irrational even, but not even the burn of his cigarette could distract him from how vulnerable and exposed he felt.
Apart from the familiar monotony of school, this was his first venture out in days, and although he hadn't been away from his car for more than a few minutes, he wanted nothing more than to be back inside it.
Today, like every day, he was finding it hard to be around people. He preferred his own company. Spending time around others barely entered his mind. It wasn't something he found enjoyable anymore. He was beginning to hate being at school more and more; the constant stream of other kids was getting harder to tolerate, and even being around his own mom for too long felt unbearable.
Not because of her. In fact, in any other circumstance, Frank's dad leaving them at an early age should have brought them closer together. Instead, as his depression deepened, Frank had pushed her further and further away.
Now, whenever he was around her, he felt vulnerable, as if all his faults were on show. He couldn't remember the last time he had let her touch him or allowed her to comfort him. Not even for a second on his darkest nights, when his thoughts and urges were louder than ever.
He continued on, slowly leaving behind the throng of shoppers, and by the time he reached the entrance of the parking lot and the noise of the streets behind him had faded, he felt breathless.
He took in the wide, open expanse of concrete. The deep and familiar smell of petrol lingered in the air, oddly comforting. The cars in the lot were few and far between, and there was his, sat alone at the far end. Safe and quiet.
He sighed in relief and hurried the last meter.
He reached it, and instantly, it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest, and he could breathe easier. After the ordeal of the last few minutes, he was about to be safe inside it again and, most importantly, alone.
He unlocked his car and slipped into the driver's seat, shutting the world out with a dull thud.
Finally, silence.
He rolled down the window to let his hand graze the outside, then leaned back to lay against the headrest, and closed his eyes.
Outside, the evening carried on without him.
Inside, everything had finally slowed down.
This didn't comfort him. Instead, it showed him how strong his anxiety was. The idea of it getting worse still scared him. He wasn't so naive as to believe it had hit its worst point.
In Frank's experience, everything could always stand to get worse, and thoughts of how this might affect him and his life often plagued him. Nothing ever stayed manageable for long.
He shook his head in an attempt to scatter his worries and told himself to shut up, to stop it.
He hated how he always had the same thoughts and worries on repeat in his head, the whys and the what-ifs going around again and again, like a record. One that was broken, jammed, or scratched, and could only play the same part over and over again.
After a while of sitting in the peaceful silence and taking drags of his cigarette, he opened his eyes with effort. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, and he knew he should leave and start the drive back home, but as he thought about it, he knew he didn't have the energy or the concentration.
He briefly thought about texting his mom to give her a heads-up that his body and his mind were fucking with him and he'd be out later than expected.
He'd only meant to be out for a few minutes. Then he'd drive home, try to eat something, attempt but eventually fail to do some homework, smoke, and finally fall into bed at around 2am. Later, if it was going to be a bad night, one of those nights.
Now, with the pounding in his head and tears beginning to smart in his eyes, Frank was sure it was going to be one of those nights. He felt like crying out with the sheer pain and repetitiveness; the hopelessness of it all.
As he sat in the car, his cigarette loosely smoking between his fingertips, he felt immovable. The idea of driving home, of keeping his eyes on the road, and remembering which turns to make until he got there, then going inside and attempting to eat dinner whilst his mom tried to hold a conversation with him, and trying unsuccessfully to get through some schoolwork before ultimately failing...It seemed impossible.
The tasks of the night stretched out in front of him, seemingly never-ending, and each felt more difficult than the last, even simple things like brushing his teeth or washing his face. Then, a seemingly inevitable night of spending hours staring at the wall, trying not to cry, absolutely hating himself...It was too much.
He ached just thinking about it.
He already felt exhausted.
In the end, whatever he did, or didn't do tonight, it would achieve nothing. The sun would still rise in the morning, and he would be forced to go through the same motions in a new but completely identical day, trapped in a constant nightmare of monotony and depression. A nightmare without respite or end.
As he thought about this, the last of his energy seemed to drain away, and he was filled with an even deeper, darker sadness that hadn't been there before.
He was desperate to just close his eyes, curl up into a ball, and go to sleep in his car. He ached for it. He could make his way home in the morning and hole up in bed for another few days before he could handle trudging to school and wasting another day there; simply going through the motions, just like he did at home. But he knew he'd put his mom through too much worry over the years to justify another night spent away.
It hurt, knowing that when he got back, he wouldn't feel better. Maybe he never would.
How could he when the guilt and burden of the suffering he'd put his mom through was suffocating him? Her tired, sunken eyes were all because of him and the worry that he'd caused her.
He was constantly carrying this around, a pain almost as deep and all-encompassing as his depression.
He stared out at the emptying parking lot. It was beginning to get darker now, and the night was growing quieter.
He strained his ears. He could barely hear anything anymore, even though the window was open, the air blowing through and ruffling his curls.
The shoppers were going home, back to their families. He knew he should go home, too, to his mom.
Instead, he stared straight ahead, not really looking at anything, until his eyes began to blur. Time crept on, and eventually, he gave in to his exhaustion and closed his eyes.
Just a minute, he told himself. That's all.
For once, he drifted off to sleep easily, his mind grateful for the escape.
As the hours slipped away, in his pocket, Frank's phone rang and rang. Linda was at home and anxiously awaiting his return, biting her nails and pacing the worn kitchen floor.
***
Frank opened his eyes an hour or so later.
The parking lot had emptied considerably, and the sky had noticeably darkened. The window was still open, and he immediately noticed the temperature had dropped, and the wind had picked up. He shivered.
He'd left his arm dangling out of the side of the car and had long since dropped his cigarette in his sleep. He shifted uncomfortably and cracked his neck, drawing his arm back inside and rolling up the window.
His bleary eyes began to focus, and as he woke up, they latched onto the brick wall at the far edge of the parking lot.
Hard, solid, unmoving.
Like he had so many times before, Frank began to consider turning on the ignition, pressing down on the accelerator, and driving straight forward, right into the wall.
There was a reason he liked to park in this lot.
As his depression had gotten worse and worse, he'd been fantasising about it for months.
It had become such a comfort to him that the lot felt like a safe space, somewhere that gave him some relief. As if he had a way out right in front of him, if the thoughts became so loud and unbearable that he couldn't take it anymore.
He had no idea what would actually happen, except that his beat-up old car would obviously be totalled. Would he die or just be hurt?
Either way, it was the best option he could think of to put an end to his miserable existence.
There were no pills in his house that he could take. He had refused to continue taking his antidepressants a few months ago, no matter how many times Linda had begged him to reconsider. He'd thrown away the prescriptions she'd gotten filled out of stubbornness, although now he cursed himself for being so hasty.
There was nothing else either. No rafter he could hang himself from, nor a particularly high building in his town that he could throw himself off. There was no way to obtain a gun.
A hard brick wall was the best idea he could come up with.
It became something he thought about all the time, whether he felt unusually okay or depressingly low. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when his head got too loud for him to handle, he found himself sneaking out and driving out to the parking lot. The sight of the wall and the thought alone of how easy it would be helped to quieten the voices in his head, at least just a little.
Frank knew it wasn't healthy, and if his mom found out, she'd be horrified.
But it worked.
Thinking about ending it all was one of the only things that got him through the day. This was his escape plan, and it comforted him to know that if he reached a point where he felt like there was no going back, this was an option.
He visualised himself driving into the wall, his foot on the pedal instead of the brakes. He imagined the bonnet smashing into the wall, scratching up the paintwork he had once spent so long fixing. He imagined his body jolting, his bones breaking.
The more vividly he imagined his death, the worse he knew things were getting.
He also knew he couldn't stop it. He didn't want to.
Right now, though, he couldn't conjure the energy to do anything. The thought came and settled, heavy and familiar, but there was no real urge attached to it tonight.
Exhaustion won.
With his body begging for him to return to sleep, Frank closed his eyes once again.
He let the twisted thoughts envelop him, and as he drifted off, he tried to ignore the familiar churning feeling in his stomach.
***
When he woke, the sky was even darker, the air even colder, and the parking lot had emptied. He was completely alone now.
He couldn't put off going home any longer.
Sighing with exhaustion, he turned the ignition on, his movements slow. The car rumbled to life, and he looked at the radio screen, which told him it was past ten, five hours after he had first left the house.
Shit.
He yanked his seat belt on and put the car into drive, rolling out of the parking lot and into the night. In silence, he drove one-handed through the empty streets as he chewed his nails and tried to blink himself awake.
He knew Linda had been anxiously awaiting his return ever since he left. His stomach flipped over with worry and shame. Why did he do things like this? No wonder guilt was constantly eating him alive.
As soon as he pulled into the driveway, the front door was yanked open, and his mom ran outside into their front garden. Their dog, Mama, ran at her heels, her stubby legs struggling to keep up. She barked at him with excitement, but he barely looked at her.
"Frank," Linda cried, breathless, "Where were you? What took you so long?"
Frank killed the engine and slid out of the car, slamming the door shut. "I went to get cigarettes, Mom, remember?" He closed his eyes for a second and rubbed a hand over his face, too exhausted to face the oncoming argument.
"I know, but that was hours ago," she shouted, her voice tight with worry. "I trusted you to go out alone. I didn’t expect you to disappear for hours on end."
She wasn't angry, Frank knew that. Just desperately worried. He could hardly blame her. She already had enough to cope with, being a single mom who worked a demanding job as a nurse at the local hospital. She didn’t need the stress of having a son like Frank, a chain-smoking, tattooed seventeen-year-old who did badly in school and barely left his room, preferring to hole himself up there for days at a time, sleeping all day or not at all, neglecting to eat or talk.
"I didn't mean to be so long," Frank muttered quietly.
"You didn't answer your phone."
He shrugged. "I didn't hear it."
"Did you meet up with Ray or Bob?" Linda asked, desperate to believe he'd been safe and with company, instead of alone all this time, doing God knows what. "I don't mind, I just want to know."
Aside from school, it seemed to Linda like the only times Frank left the house lately were to see his two friends, and even that wasn't as often as it used to be.
The boys had been friends since middle school and had witnessed everything: Frank's dad leaving, and how his sadness, loneliness, and confusion had changed into something heavier. It wasn't just bad moods anymore, but anger and a bitterness that became a deep depression. They'd been there for him through it all, as best as they could, and as best as Frank let them be. So despite his unwillingness to communicate, they understood his mood swings a little more than he gave them credit for.
They didn't know the full story, though. Not even close. No matter how hard they tried, it seemed like Frank would never truly confide in them.
They had no idea about the scattered attempts on his life, and he never wanted them to.
He hated opening up and being vulnerable, but he knew that some things were obvious. His friends could see that he was depressed in the way that he acted. He never wanted them to know how bad he truly felt, and he tried to pretend to be okay as much as possible, whenever he had the energy for it.
But he couldn't keep the mask up all the time, and lately, it felt harder.
Frank knew that he was more withdrawn and harder to communicate with. He could feel it happening, but he didn't know how to stop it. He was left with the aftermath: his friends were drifting. Slightly at the moment, but Frank noticed enough of a difference that it hurt. He knew that was unfair; he was the one who was pushing them away. But he ached for people to understand what he was going through and how awful he truly felt.
Up until recently, they'd dragged him to parties most weekends. They had the best intentions, hoping to see a glimpse of who Frank used to be, stupid and fun and carefree; so giggly that he'd laugh at almost anything. Usually, he didn't want to go. There would be too many people there, too much noise. It would be too bright, compared to the dark of his bedroom.
Once he was there, he'd drink too much, too soon. It helped him relax and made things easier for a while. But more often than not, he'd take it too far, getting drunk and passing out somewhere: on the floor, on the stairs, on a couch, or someone's bed.
When they'd find Frank slumped over, Ray and Bob would argue with one another. Ray hated seeing Frank like that and thought it was dangerous for his health, both mentally and physically, and it was only making things worse.
Bob thought the opposite; without going to these parties, he'd rot in his room and refuse to see anyone or do anything, and at least it got him out of the house and back around other kids their age.
Frank knew they'd disagreed about it more than once, and hated being a cause of tension in the friend group.
There was truth to both of their opinions, but if they faced up to it, they both knew that Frank was only willing to go out if he could drink to excess. He was actively trying to forget or escape his depression with vodka, whiskey, or whatever else he could find. By bringing him to these parties, they were handing him an opportunity to hurt himself on a plate. They knew it had to stop.
Linda hadn’t seen either of them in a while.
The last time they'd gone out, they'd ended up back at his house. He didn't remember much of it, but Linda had walked into his room in the early hours of the morning and found the three of them asleep, curled up together on the floor, tear tracks running down Frank's cheeks.
That had been weeks ago.
She thought that perhaps Frank's friends had gotten tired of his eagerness to self-destruct, as well as a little bit scared of what might happen next. The same had happened to her long ago.
"No, Mom. I wasn't," Frank sighed with regret. He wished he had been. He wrapped his arms around himself, freezing in the bitter cold. "They haven’t invited me out in weeks."
Linda's expression softened, but the concern didn't leave her face. "Really?"
A shrug. "Yeah. I've only seen them at school, in class, and at lunch," Frank said quietly.
He didn't mention that he rarely made it through a whole school day to get to lunch, and even if he did, he often sat in his car listening to music, purposely avoiding the few friends he had left. The thought of a cafeteria filled with people he hated looking at him and watching him as he tried to eat made him sick.
"Well, where were you then, Frank, if you weren't out with your friends? You can’t have just been getting cigarettes. It doesn’t take that long."
"I was just out," he muttered quietly.
She gripped his hand, a pleading look in her eyes. "Frankie, please. Just tell me where you really were. Where did you go? What have you been doing? I'm worried about you!"
Frank fought back the urge to scream. He knew this would happen, and he wished he'd pushed himself to text her. Nowadays, he couldn't do anything or go anywhere without his mom worrying. Her head was filled with thoughts of her depressed and unstable son acting on the dark thoughts she knew plagued him.
"Mom, I swear I was just getting cigarettes, okay?! On my own. I lost track of time, I guess. I fell asleep. I don’t know...Just please...stop."
He was too exhausted to talk and couldn't give his mom the honest discussion and heart-to-heart he knew she deserved. Instead, he snatched his hand out of hers.
Linda's shoulders dropped slightly, and Frank immediately felt guilt gnawing a hole inside of him.
He knew he was a horrible son, causing his mom so much worry. He'd tear himself up over it later, but in the moment, he couldn't handle explaining exactly why he'd been so long; that he fell asleep because he was exhausted by living and couldn't stand himself or the fact that he was alive.
He just wanted to escape. And even though it made him feel ashamed, sometimes his mom's questions and worries made him so angry or frustrated that he couldn't stand it - he hated himself so much that he couldn't stand to be fussed over or comforted.
"Can't you just drop it?" he asked, anger creeping into his voice.
“Frank…”
He stiffened. "What?"
"What’s going on with you lately?”
“Nothing,” he said too quickly.
“Don’t do that. You can tell me if something's wrong." She hesitated, unsure whether to push it or not. "If this is like...before...I need to know."
She reached for him again. "We can get you some help. You don't have to go through it alone-"
Frank stared past her, jaw tightening. "It's not like before. I'm fine."
Before. What a simple way to describe the worst time in his life.
Linda watched him for a moment longer, taking in his flat tone, his pale face and distant eyes, the way he couldn't quite meet her gaze. She didn't believe him, but she knew she wasn’t going to get any further tonight.
She sighed in defeat. "Okay. Just...Just get the milk out of the car, okay? Then come inside, and I’ll make you something to eat."
She cast her eyes over his body, not missing how her son drew back underneath her gaze. "You’re getting too skinny, Frankie. I don't know what's happening with you, but I don't like it," she worried.
Frank cringed inside, hating his mom's eyes on his body. Instead, he nodded and tried to smile, the action feeling foreign and plastic on his lips. He just wanted to get inside and go to bed, to escape. Maybe then he'd finally get to relax. Maybe then his head would give him some peace.
Not likely.
He turned towards his car and opened the passenger side door, ready to grab the milk. He froze. He hadn't gotten any.
He tried to think back on the last few hours, tried to remember being in the store. But it was all blurry. He couldn't think.
"For fuck sake," he hissed, slamming the door shut in frustration. His brain was so full of fog, his mind so burdened and heavy, that he couldn't even run a simple errand for his mom. "I forgot it."
"It doesn't matter," Linda said immediately, knowing the anger in his voice was directed at himself. "I'll get it tomorrow."
"I said I'd get it. I'll go back out."
"It's late, Frank. You've already been out for ages, and you have school tomorrow. You're exhausted. I don't want you driving anymore tonight."
"I'm fine," Frank said automatically. His voice sounded flat and unconvincing, even to him.
She clasped his arm again, her voice tightening. "Please don't go. Just come inside and eat something, then you can go to bed."
Frank flinched at her touch, and Linda blinked with hurt.
"I have to go."
Before she could stop him, Frank was in his car again, backing out of the driveway and speeding off down the road. Linda watched him go, speechless.
Mama whined at her side, having never even gotten her ears scratched by Frank before he disappeared.
***
The drive back to town felt shorter this time, or maybe he just felt more disconnected.
He focused on the road instead of thinking; the road signs, the street lights, the stop and go of the traffic lights. Thinking felt dangerous.
The store was nearly empty. Everyone had already gone home.
He walked straight to the dairy section, grabbed the milk without really looking, and headed for the checkout. He paid for the milk without making eye contact with the cashier.
By the time he got back into the car, his hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel until it hurt.
***
Later, Frank arrived home for the second time that night and pushed the carton of milk into his mom's hands. "Got it."
He turned around and started up the stairs. He didn't want her to see he had been crying, more so out of frustration than sadness.
"Please come eat something," Linda called after him desperately.
"I'm not hungry."
"Frank-"
"I'm tired," he muttered. "I'm going to bed."
He sloped off to his bedroom. The door shut behind him with a dull thud, and he locked it immediately.
He took a second to lean against it with his eyes closed, trying to breathe easier.
The house was quiet, but the thoughts were already starting back up, now that there was nothing to distract him.
For a second, he thought about going downstairs and saying something. Trying to fix it.
But he didn't have the energy.
Instead, he stripped himself of all of his clothes except his boxers and crawled into bed. He quickly curled up on his side and pulled the duvet over his body.
He shivered.
Glancing across the room, he noticed the window was open.
But he was too exhausted to even consider closing it, and the thought of emerging from his warm nest of blankets was too much to bear.
He stayed where he was and closed his eyes, letting tears of frustration and anger seep out of his eyes. It felt like the hundredth time that day.
As he pushed his fingernails into the skin of his forearms so harshly that it was sure to leave a mark, his mom was leaning against the other side of the door with tears gathering in her own eyes, and Mama at her feet, butting her head into her mistress's side and whining quietly.
"Thanks for the milk, Frank."