Across the Hallowed Ground ♡ Frerard

♡ Part One ♡

Hello and welcome! Before we jump into this, please read the warnings and anticipate that this is a femcr fic, which means the characters, all from MCR, have been turned into women. Please click away if that's not your thing and please refrain from commenting anything negative about it if that's the case. But, if you'd like to stick around and read this, then I hope you enjoy this gigantic fic that I somehow managed to write in four months. Let's begin!

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"The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress. Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest." 

— Howl, Florence + the Machine.

Frankie has these repetitive dreams that begin feeling like a deranged prophecy each time she awakens with a jagged gasp and a cold sweat coating her body.

It isn't a recurring specific element, but rather a barrage of gore and bloody images she's unable to turn away from. Each nightmare is a chilling onslaught of things that are derived from the most sickening horror movies known to man; perhaps some that are so outlawed it's nearly impossible to locate a copy. But Frankie can only assume this is an accurate comparison because her love for horror can only stomach so many horrifyingly realistic depictions of inhumane acts. There's a level she can't surpass. Otherwise, she wouldn't know what to compare it to and the thought of such isolating uniqueness is something she isn't prepared to tackle.

Frankie cracks her eyes open in the glare of the early morning with sweat trickling down her temple and a broken scream stuck in her throat. She gulps it down as hard as she can with a cotton-dry mouth and hacks out a truly wretched cough from the dryness webbed in her throat. Frankie grips the tangled covers and waits for the lingering fear to tide over. She still feels hands curled around her head in an iron grip and pinning her eyelids open to force her to take in the formation of carnage. She fights off the imprints of beyond disturbing images and tries to ground herself by staring down the flyers and posters haphazardly pinned to her walls, burying the plain white she couldn't bother to paint when she first moved in two years ago. It helps in increments and she goes through her routine of reminding herself she's safe.

Another part of her weekly routine causes her to fully awaken with a groan. Exhausted, Frankie slides out of bed, caring little about the rumpled state of her flannel pajamas, and strips her bed of the sheets. She doesn't have to wash the covers every day, but she brings herself to stuff the washer to its maximum capacity every Sunday morning to wash away the traces of desperate fear and shed sweat trickling off her as she thrashes in her sleep. The smell isn't so fresh after a week's worth of slipping under the blankets and uselessly praying she won't endure another cycle of disturbing dreams.

Frankie tiredly pours liquid detergent into the washing machine after dumping her covers inside the hollow barrel. The house is quiet in the wake of another weekend's sunny morning laced in golden sun rays indicating Frankie shouldn't be awake yet after unwillingly succumbing to sleep at three in the morning, but there's no doubt in her mind that she won't be returning to bed despite the hour. No way in hell.

Grabbing a soft quilt from the mound of extra blankets her mother hoards in a closet upstairs, Frankie wraps herself in it and trudges back down to the basement as quietly as she can, but she doesn't think she can dodge her mother's exceptionally sharp hearing for long. The entire spacious basement was converted into a small apartment of sorts for Frankie to inhabit until she's ready to move out entirely. Although she was promised her privacy, she knows her mom still listens out for her and magically emerges each time Frankie resurfaces to rummage around for some necessities she doesn't have downstairs.