*Now in present day/ 2 years later*
My name is Frank Iero, I am a heavy thinker, and depression enthusiast. But the doctor's say different;
I have cancer.
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I walked outside, it was raining again. Not to mention it was cold, in January. I was wrapped in a long sleeve shirt, 2 hoodies and a coat. My mom didn't want me to get sick; I already am.
My mom failed to realize that I was always sick and the illness wasn't going away anytime soon. It's been 2 years filled with chemotherapy, a shaved head, medication, fearing I would get the flu, and sometimes even surgery.
None of it helped.
I can't really complain, the passed 2 years have been a blur for me. The day I told Gerard about the cancer was the last day I spoke to him. He never showed up to school after that to my knowledge. I never saw him, so I guess he moved. Or he just hid himself from me very well.
Being diagnosed with cancer did not have it's perks. Everyone wanted to feel sorry for the cancer patients, people wanted to befriend them in pity. I didn't want any of the bullshit, I wasn't fake like that.
I reached the park and sat on the oldest bench there was. It used to be red, but the colored paint was peeled and rusted. I was the only brave human to sit on his bench, everyone feared it would fall apart under the weight. I didn't, I had faith into the bench named Stanley. I named it, in respect, it may be an inanimate object but that doesn't mean it's less than something. Everything is made of matter, everything matters.
Except the depressed and sick.
Of course our condition is serious and matters, but we as humans do not. We don't get respect; instead we get pills shoved down our throats, strong instructions given to us, we get treated like children, we can't live our own lives because someone is constantly controlling it for us.
For once, I would like to manage the hour I swallow the venomous pills. They're supposed to help, but what if I were to over-dose? No thanks!
Being depressed means you're watched like a hawk. Constantly someone is observing your behavior and movements, making sure you want slit your wrists under the act of depression. Everyone thinks just because you're depressed you'll attempt suicide. That's not always the case.
I'm depressed, cancer infested, and I'll tell you what; I'm sick of being the wild animal everyone watches. I just want privacy. I want something real.
I sighed, the air coming out of me was pure white. Almost as white as my paling skin. I watched everyone, hypocritical, right?
There were these kids, shoving one another and laughing, parents talking on cell-phones, guys with briefcases dressed in suits, they made the town look posh. They put out this rep for this small town in New Jersey, acted as if we were always busy full of dull enlightenment, when really we were boring. There was not a single thing in New Jersey itself that would be exciting.
I suddenly wondered what everyone else was thinking. Knowing myself, I think plenty, but what about all the others? Do they ponder up unfathomable questions of illness, ways of life or existence? Or is that just me?
As I ran through my thoughts and observed everyone around me, I had this feeling that grew. My chest tightened, the air was getting thicker, I was slightly sweating in all these layers, and I just wanted to leave. I was in a panic, I didn't know what was happening. But then I realized something; this was where I started to fear the unthinkable and fearless.
I never thought myself to my breaking point. That is, until now. My breaking point consisted of all these thoughts crammed into my head, making me think of the worst possible scenarios.
For example; I realize I have a greater chance of dying before I turn 20 than anyone else in this small park. They'll most likely live to adult-hood, but what shred of hope do I have for that? Exactly.
I let out a shaky breath and continuesly ran my slick hands over my jeans, desperately trying to rid them of their sweat.
"You okay?" Someone asked. I didn't even look up at them to see who it was, in all honesty, I didn't care. "Fine." I mumbled.
I got up from the bench, not wanting to carry on a conversation with the stranger, and walked down the side-walk to a destination unknown.
After walking and observing for countless minutes I came across this little coffee shop. It looked friendly, and I was tired. So in other words, I walked in without hesitation.
I sat in the booth farthest from the door, unseen to most people. Hah, just like my existence.
"What can I get you today sir?" A grinning waitress with black hair and a name tag that said "Hi! I'm Brenna!" Asked.
"Just a coffee with some cream." I said quietly and shrugged.
She looked sort of disappointed that I didn't 1-up her cheerful mood. Honestly, do I look like I'm up for smiling and laughing, pretending our economy isn't fucked and we aren't going to all obliviate from the only Earth we know? For Christ's sake, I'm doused in black clothing, and I have a major lack of hair and happiness as it is.
"Coming right up." Alas, she kept grinning like an idiot.
It's people like Brenna that make up such a fake reputation. People like her are over-happy, pretending that world disaster and crimes don't exist.
I would love to not feel the way I do about certain things and have rainbows and birds chirping in my head but that's just not the way I'm built.
Brenna set my coffee on the table, asked if I needed anything else, I said no, so she went off on her merry way. For me, it isn't hard to push people away. Even strangers.
I sighed and wrapped my hands over the medium sized mug in attempt to warm my cold hands. I felt like I was drowning, in the hot liquid, metaphorically speaking. I was lost, lonely, broken, entirely made of cancer. Cancer was my full extent, that's as far as I would go in my life.
I didn't mind knowing that I was destined to die, everyone dies. But it was something greater than that, I was pleased at the thought of meeting my early grave. And, I guess that's what lead me to what I did next.
"Mom, I wanna go shopping." I said blantly, after I walked home.
My mom raised a skeptical eyebrow, "What for?" She asked. My mom knew I hated shopping. Just like I knew that my mom hated when I brought the topic of death up. I would get the same lecture each time, 'you're my only son, I love you and I don't want to imagine you 6 feet under.' She doesn't understand that she's going to see my lifeless body one way, one day, or another. Whether it be from the cancer, or my successful drowning in depression.
"A grave." The words came out smoothly, they rolled easily off the tongue. It was as if I weren't talking about my soon-to-be rotting flesh, laying gently in a wooden sleek black casket, surrounded by insects and dirt as I lay way below 6 feet under, permanently having constant nightmares of the hell I will join.
"Frank," she sighed. I knew where this was going, and I needed to steer this in my direction.
"Mom, I just want this over with. When I die, you'll be left with all this debt and I don't want that. Please, let me help." I practically begged.
"Okay."
And just like that- I bought my own grave. It sat underneath this oak tree, farthest away from all the other tombs and graves. Mine was in the shade, but it still got a few rays of golden sunlight to be touched by. It was perfect.
Isn't it odd how you only find pleasure, when you live on this said to be 'beutiful, peaceful creation', in the darkest of thoughts? I did at first, when I was first diagnosed. I went through hell in those first few months. I didn't understand anything; I was afraid of needles and hospitals, I didn't understand why I had no hair, I didn't get what chemotherapy meant, I was totally oblivious to cancer itself.
It was like a town for the ill, these hospitals were. You could just walk around and understand most of everyone's thoughts, especially if you shared the same illness. You could just look at another patient, look into their eyes without a word, and BAM! You automatically known they feel deprived, neglected, tired, and on ocasion, emotionally unstable. We, as cancer kids, were like the tickling clock strapped to multiple sticks of dynamite. You know we're there, you can see us, our fragile state. But yet, you never really pay any mind to our time left, until we cause our painful, yet painless, destruction.
"Frank, it's time to go home now." My mothers soft voice came from behind me.
I was snapped back into reality. I was under the tree, sitting on the top of my own grave. As I hopped down, I let my fingers trace over the words 'Frank Iero.' The engraving was cool, and the letters felt just right on my fingertips. It appealed to me, to have my own grave. Not just because I know my mom wouldn't be buried in debt when I die now; it was because I now knew I had something that was mine forever. It wouldn't be ruined, not by disease, not by war,not by dissatisfaction of the human race. It was mine, and for once, I got the opportunity to control something pertaining to my own life. Every since the diagnosis, all descions have been made for me. My bedtime, the time I eat, shower, take pills, everything was demanded at a certain time by someone that was not named Frank Iero.
But what do you expect me, as nothing but a shell of someone I used to be, to do? I can't just tell all the people to fuck off, even though that's what I would like to say. I don't have the heart to tell my mom that I'm waiting to die. People believe in that destiny shit, right? Well, what if I was born destined to die young?
I jumped off my grave and walked down the hill, meeting my mom at her beat up, silver paint chipping, mini-van. She had to sell the car my dad bought here before they divorced to pay for all the doctor and hospital bills. The medical equipment costed serious money, money we didn't have in our budget.
"Ready?" Mom asked, I could hear the uneasiness in her quivering voice.
A mom, this is the last place they want to be standing. A graveyard, for their dying son.
Well, it wasn't so much that I was dying, I was already dead. I was dead on the inside, empty and lonely. I didn't have a 'pan for the future' because I knew there was going to be no future for me. I had no purpose of direction. I was simply spiraling out of control, and sooner or later I would crash down.
The car ride with my mom was mostly silent, besides when she asked "have you been taking your pills?" She probably thinks I've stopped taking them, the reason why I say I'm going to die, the reason why I wanted to by my grave. Jesus Christ, woman, you watch me take the prescribed poison everyday, multiple times a day! I want to quit, but I obviously can't do so with you watching over me like a hawk. "Of course, I have been." I sighed in response.
I got out of the car as quick as possible when we arrived in the drive way. I couldn't stand another moment of awkward silence. My mom's curiosity and sadness was suffocating me. She watched as I ran into the house, up the stairs and walked into my bedroom.
I plopped down on my messy bed and stared up at the ceiling. I guess you could say I lead a very boring life. Between the cancer and medication/treatements to attempt to cure the cancer itself, I had no life. I was completely made of my illness. I let it run my whole life, including everything I did and felt.
The full extent, was all the cancer cells running my pathetic life.