Don’t Tell Me What To Swallow

by orphan_account

Summary:

After enduring years of abuse, Frank decides to run away from home, and ends up meeting Gerard, who leads him to a house for him to stay. He thought this would be his new beginning, but the beginning it's granted him is the start of a cruel end even worse than the pain he ever felt before.

Chapter 1: Tell Me What To Swallow

Notes:

This fic is in no way meant to be romanticized, but includes romance between Frank and Gerard in later chapters, nor is it to be sexualized.

This is a very heavy story and has graphic depictions of sexual assault, the SA tag was not added due to fear of it being read the wrong way.

motherknowsbest wrote the draft for this, and bandagedknees went back and helped revise it to make it into a proper story.

 

playlist

I cannot do anything right.

 

I am fundamentally, to my core, right down to my arteries and on all of my brittle bones a mistake in the face of God.

 

It's all I ever hear, and all I ever see is blood on the walls, broken bones and cabinets, shattered televisions and shattered glasses.

 

I scream and no one hears me, I cry and no one cares for me. No matter where I go, I am a ghost.

 

I must not be human, for how could a human being take this much pain without just falling apart on the floor, guts spilled, intestines and all. Simply a mess on the floor, and my intestines would spell out, "I am a self fulfilling prophecy".

 

They would all scream at having to clean up the mess, and they would take this opportunity to do everything I said they could do over my dead body.

 

I have been dead for years, I cut myself just to see if I still have blood in my veins. I piece together the lines to spell out ‘a cure for what ails me.’

 

I can't feel my heartbeat. I am cold, and I am empty. My heart has grown mold, my blood does not flow, my heart does not beat. My own pulse I cannot feel.

 

I knew I wanted to be dead by the time I was 4 years old, and I've been chasing death ever since- but I'm starting to fear that my love for her is unrequited.

 

If I can't kill myself, and my God does not fulfill these prayers for death, I know I need to at least get out of here. It is the least I can do with myself. I know that now. I've grown comatose waiting to see if anything changes, and this roof over my head is no longer worth it.

 

It's like every word said to me and every random act of violence is another box stacked and it's all tipping over, all at once. Even I, a boy whose taken everything you could possibly imagine, can only take so much.

 

I lock the door to the bathroom, picking at my disgusting skin and trying to contain the monsters in my lungs causing me to hyperventilate, I've grown used to the bile that goes up my throat. I'm being screamed at once again, and I'm reminded I'm not safe anywhere.

 

The door is busted down, and there are hands around my throat once again. There are always hands on me, and there is never an escape. I hide and I am found, I lock the door and it is destroyed. I run outside and I am chased. Everything that meant something to me has long since been broken.

 

I can no longer attach myself to anything, or anyone, it is all quickly taken from me. I cannot speak, I cannot have an opinion. I am disgusting and unwanted. I am stupid, and I am an overdramatic.

 

I hurt, it hurts, but it also feels like nothing.

 

I need someone, something, somewhere to go.

 

I cannot take much more. everything has filled my head to the brim, and now I’m losing memories. I've experienced too much, there is no room left here. My memories have escaped me, like sand through your fingertips, but I must allow it to happen, because I cannot bear to feel my heart break again and shed any more tears.

 

My tears are not of the same kind as anyone else's, my tears are filled with sharp pains, convulsions, thunder and lightning strikes. I just can't take anymore, and I'm tired of these hands. The hands that are supposed to feed me, supposed to care for me and hold me, holding me and touching me in all the wrong places. I am tired of how my stomach acid can never stay put.

 

I feel it go up my throat every time they touch me, as I anxiously anticipate as they crawl, more and more, inching ever so closer. I feel it go up my throat when I'm crying so hard I puke it all up, writhing. I'm either writhing in pain or catatonic. I feel like I must live in extremes.

 

I either cry so hard I choke, or I feel my insides collapse with a blank face. I sleep too much or too little. I talk too much or not at all. I eat too much or too little. i love too hard or not enough. Will I ever be enough? Will I ever find balance? Everyday I am violated, and made out to be the one who is the monster.

 

I am grabbed and I am thrown, and I need to get away. Their mouths reek of venom and cyanide, oh how they say the most poisonous things. My ears burn, so does my mind. These things burn into my head and down into my ribs. They nest there, and they fester. The infection spreads- and it is terminal. As do my eyes, they too burn. I am tired. I am a statue, and I am being chipped away at. And soon, there will be nothing left of me.

 

Anything would be better than this.

 

 

 

Right?