Call of the Siren » Frerard

SIX

VI: it's a dark, dark december, but my soul is light, light, light

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A frown was permanently sat on Frank's chapped lips. He was fully dressed, slumped from where he was sat on the edge of the dotted hospital bed -- watching his mother converse with the doctor.

The room was chilly, air blowing in from the vents above as the morning sun shone through the slits in the blinds. Linda was worried beyond belief, forever fretting as she nodded -- her face tired, and makeup-free, hands wringing together. Dave was in the corner, staring at his lap with pursed lips -- feeling just about the same as Frank did, ready to just get out of this damned sterile shithole already.

Somehow, by some fucking miracle -- his mother finally stopped her worries, quitting her jabbering as Frank stood from the bed, stretching out at long last. He still wasn't quite used to the tubes inserted in his nostrils once more, wrapped around his ears and falling down to the stupid damn canister behind him. He'd nearly forgotten of how it felt to wheel the damned thing around, reaching back to grasp the handle and tug it along with him as they finally left the room.

The tank was a dark red, still covered in a few stickers from its previous use back when he was thirteen or so. It had been years since he'd been forced to endure the hells of portable oxygen, and to say he wasn't quite happy to have to do such again, would be quite the understatement.

He'd already been lectured enough by the time that Saturday had rolled around, a bit more alert than he had been after the panic of the previous night. Linda had been horrorstruck, crying at how easily Frank could've died being so reckless again -- and that if it weren't for Gerard, that he'd likely be six feet deep by now.

Frank had endured the worried rambling, his mother going on and on about how he needed to take these things more carefully -- his attack medically blamed on overexertion atop his cold. Frank had chosen to avoid bringing up the topic of sickly spirits wrapping around him, nearly eating him whole, and just accept the more reasonable diagnosis -- the one that didn't make him sound like a delusional lunatic.

Sunday was now upon them, though, nine in the morning striking the clocks all around as Frank had yet to see Gerard after the incident. He wasn't quite sure if he was ready to, though. Gerard had been the reason that any of this had happened, anyway -- even if he had been the one to get help sent, in the end, no-doubtedly saving Frank's life in the process.

He wished that he could've been angry at Gerard, and have somebody other than himself to blame for his lungs working against him in a terrorist attempt once more. But, alas, he couldn't. He knew that he, truly, was the one to blame. It wasn't Gerard's fault that his lungs couldn't handle a simple hike, or that he'd been clumsy enough to fuck up everything and break the soda bottle. Frank was still nervous to face him, though. Terrified of what he'd think of him after seeing him in such a manner -- or if he'd still recall the awkward spare moments spent nearly tumbling over. The moment that sent a jolt of horror down Frank's spine each time he recalled, his heart rabbiting anxiously at the still fresh memories.

The fresh air hit Frank at long last as they waved farewell to the kind lady at the front desk, oxygen still wheeling behind him as they pushed open the doors to the hospital. Frank nearly moaned at how good it felt to feel the cool, ocean air once more -- free from the white rooms and stupid prodding of nurses as he grinned crookedly.

The ride home was silent, the radio playing some sort of soft pop jingle as Frank gazed out the window -- foggy with condensation from the moisture forever lingering in the Kitsfort air. His feet were kicking gently, lips pursed and head falling back against the head-rest, sighing deeply.