Bad Idea! ✐ FRERARD

✩ LONG CONVERSATIONS ✩

i'm not a medical professional, obviously, so bear with me ☆

     FRANK AWOKE TO a piercing light in his eyes. Which was actually the first thing he noticed before the inevitable fucking numbness in both of his legs.

"Jesus fuck," Frank felt himself croak, his mouth drier than it had ever been as he opening his eyes drowsily again, being met with the eggshell white of a hospital room.

The first thing he saw when he looked down, was the hospital gown adorning his torso, his droopy eyes also taking note of his elevated legs. Of course his right leg wrapped up in some sort of cast whilst the other was just wrapped.

His mind immediately replayed the last few things he could remember. Frank's hands nervously scratching at one another as he visualised it all again.

The mark on his conscious was like a chipped stone. The mark was eternal, a scar from the bullet that nearly took him away. One moment his eyes shined with the mirth of Brendon's playful complaining, the next he was bleeding out, eyes open, unfocused. He was nothing to the shooter, not the bullet or gun, and together they could have taken all he had.

The gunshot sounded as if it could have cracked a skull, as if the sound itself could purify the mind. Frank wincing as he thought of the liquified brains like fish guts in a blender.

He let out a shaky breath, feeling his throat burn like an uproar of a silent scream, his eyes burning the more he remembered.

Frank hated it all, he hated how weak he felt- how it all hurt so much and he had been barely awake long enough to count how many fingers he had.

The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down his face. He felt the muscles of his chin tremble like a small child and he looked toward the hospital room window, as if the light could soothe him. There was static in his head once again, the side effect of this constant suppression, constant stress. He heard his own sounds, like a distressed child, raw from the inside.

It took something out of him he didn't know he had left to give. It felt like a theft of his spirit, an injury past just the wound in both of his legs, a much deeper wound that no one would ever be able to see.

Frank's eyes blurred with more tears. His walls, the walls that had held him up, made him so strong were just... collapsing with him still stuck between them. Moment by moment, more would fall. Salty drops fell from his chin, staining his hospital gown and tickling his neck. Perhaps the tears would help wash the images of his own blood off of his conscious.

And Frank nearly shit his pants when someone opened the hospital door he hadn't even seen was there. He immediately wiped his face and neck with shaky hands, suppressing a small noise of pain as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

A man in a crisp white coat walked in, looking sympathetic when he saw the distraught look across Frank's face.

"Detective, you're finally awake." The man smiled, Frank way too drained to even take note of the man's greeting, instead just nodding in greeting.

He cleared his throat when he noticed Frank's lack of speaking, "I'm Doctor Pelissier."

Frank nodded curtly again.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly again.

"So, detective, you're a very lucky man." He said, glancing down at his clipboard.

"Doesn't feel like it." Frank finally mumbled, sniffling quietly before wiping his nose with the hand he now realised was connected to an IV.

The man offered another sympathetic look that made Frank want to flip him off. Which he probably would have done if he hadn't been so weak minded.