Shadows of the Past (Frerard)

Chapter Three- Pt. II

It wasn't until an hour after clocking in that I immediately regret not having breakfast. So much for wanting change, I thought, slumping my shoulders and sighing deeply. Normally, I would have some slightly-burnt toast with some cheap butter ( or sometimes, once in a blue moon, some jam) and a fruit (normally, an apple or an orange). I don't need breakfast, I told myself as I took a step in the kitchen, some of the tiles were chipped and missing pieces. The cavity between the tiles seemed to collect dust and debris, forming lumps of dirt and filth. In the kitchen sink, weeks of unkept and dirty plates and utensils seemed to reach new height by the end of each day. All across the platform of the kitchen table, there were pages of newspapers, yellowing as the time passed on; there were splotches of what I thought to be ketchup or some sort of jalapeño sauce and some spots of bright yellow (perhaps mustard).

I'll just skip it; change, Gerard, it's starting right now, I nodded confidently, as I poured myself a cup of black, bitter coffee.

I shook my head at my own stupidity. At least you had coffee, I assured myself. Caffeine was something essential to me, like a car needing gasoline in order to function. I usually drank around three or four cups of coffee per day, depending on how many hours of sleep I got and how I felt.

I checked on Mrs.Smiths, who slept most of the time, as if awaiting once she'd have waken up for the good news of a new liver at her disposal, or maybe she was felt her death and was waiting for it to take her peacefully. Frank Iero, the poor and vulnerable boy in Room Twelve was still weak, barely able to keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. My eyes still hurt at the sight of the orphan's gaping wounds. It was as bad as I saw it the first time. Although, my anger reached new heights every time my eyes laid on the patient. I knew it was weeks, if not months, until Frank could talk to the police and the culprit- the fucking bastard- would be held responsible for their sadistic actions. My palms would sweat and my hands would shake at the thought of the individual and of the thought of that individual not being behind bars.

Never had I wanted someone to be held responsible for their actions as much as I wanted for the one responsible for Frank's state to get the lethal injection. It was as if I drew the line at an underaged orphan. Hell, I could tolerate (as I've seen so many before) people getting shot, mugged, ran over, stabbed. But they were all a respectable age, were they? Was the severity of the crime based on the age of the victim? Or was it based on the action? Frank was in a critical state, yes; some of his cuts were deep and of course some where shallow, but he had so many of them it was almost impossible to keep track off. But he wasn't on the verge of dying, he wasn't like Mrs.Smiths who was calmly awaiting her death. Frank was being treated, carefully supervised and healing. Yet, I pitied the wounded orphan boy rather than the older dying woman. Why? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Had it been that death no longer affected me? But it did, it had to. To say that death- in general- didn't make me blink or twitch was to make me void of everything humans were comprised of. It was natural to fear or loathe death because- well, it was instinct. But I didn't even flinch when I thought or when I saw people dying. Was working at the hospital numbing me down?

Maybe this was the change I needed.