Shadows of the Past (Frerard)

Chapter 4- Consciousness

Frank was in and out of consciousness for the past few weeks, only being awake for a few minutes at the time. And those few minutes of consciousness were met with panic and confusion, utter disorder and dissonance. The police investigation was put on hold due to a "lack of evidence". Besides, there were bigger cases than the assault of some orphan on the streets, so Frank and his case was tossed aside unto the muck of the street. And it fucking pissed me off because these were the people that were meant to be protecting us. They were the face of justice and they shrunk away in the daylight.

My anger began to subside as the second month rolled in like stones skipping across the surface on a lake. I never once gave up on Frank, whose arms and torso were marred with stab wounds. The boy was strong; a fighter as far as I could tell by the way he grabbed on to live with an iron fist. Many would succumb to their wounds but the boy from Room 12 fought back in the only way he could, by surviving. The morphine was gradually being amped down, and the doctors determined that psychological damage was to be expected.

I talked to Frank whenever I checked up on him, about the weather, shit politics and anything that came to mind. I had to reassure the boy who ultimately reminded me of Mikey that he wasn't alone and he was alive.

It took him two long months to recover, and I tried to be there the most I could, if just to see flecks of a fire burning that had not been present in my life for the longest time. And by them, I began to find aspects of myself as a teenager, rebellious and angry, before I had been subdued by society.

And every time my eyes laid upon the face of the boy that reminded me that human will could crush any odds stacked against us, I was reminded that even if I was severely unhappy with my life and the direction it took me in, it could always be worse.

Frank didn't talk much and whatever he spoke were vulgarities. Things like, "When's the fucking food coming?" or "Can you tell that motherfucker to stop crying? They don't let me sleep, God dammit."

He was angry, at the situation he was put in. He didn't ask for this, he confessed one day as I was checking the machines.

"When can I leave?" Frank asked me, voice lacking the usual bite it carried. "I'm getting better, and I fucking hate this place."

"Hmm," I replied, adjusting a monitor that was faltering. The hospital really did need more funds. "Until your wounds heal completely and-"

"This shit will never heal, man." Frank shook his head, letting out a deep breath out. "I was assaulted."

"I understand, Frank. But your wounds can open and if they do, you're fucked. You won't survive."

"I'll take the risk," He responded. "I'm going to die either way and I don't want it to be in this shithole with the loud bitch crying in the next room. Can't I have surgery and leave?"

"No," I turned around, looking down at the hazel eyed boy, who looked hopeless. "Don't be so thick, we're here to help you. You're still 17, as much as you're wanting to grow up. You're still a child, and you're treated as such."

"You're here because it's your job to be here. Not because you want to help me, you bastard." Frank shot at me, getting defensive about his age. And I remembered feeling the same way as I was approaching the legal age. I remember wanting to spread my wings and get the fuck away from all this muck and all this shit in New Jersey.

"True," I agreed, tilting my head to the side. His eyes met mine and he didn't look away and backed down. His eyes were fixed on me even as I turned back around to the machines. "You've got a mouth on you. No wonder you got assaulted."

He laughed, a weird sort of laugh. Like it wasn't him that actually got assaulted and was currently lying in the ICU. A cynical laugh, much like how I laughed. It sounded familiar and yet foreign to my ears as I filled a form, annotating Frank's heart rate, pressure, progress, and medications. "Well, what the fuck am I to do?" He paused, clearing his throat. I turned my head halfway still filling the forms. "You talk, they pull out a knife on you. You spit and they pull out a gun on your ass."

"It's a fucked-up world," I nodded, signing the form at the bottom. Before I left, Frank replied.

"I know."