Bad Idea! ✐ FRERARD

✩ GREEN CURTAINS ✩

i wasn't gonna update for a few days to sort out a schedule for this fic but... i felt bad, okay?

★

WARNING: mentions of suicide (not as bad as the last chapter but still somewhat persistent)

THE SOFT CLICK of the trigger filled the air.

But... Frank felt nothing happen.

His eyes immediately shot open in a haze of panic and desperation as he let his shaky index finger frantically trail to the part of the firearm that had the safety lever. It was on. The safety was fucking on—

And Frank choked on his sobs as he frantically clicked the safety off, though before he could finally press the trigger once again for real, the gun was being ripped out of his hands— the action making him feel naked and vulnerable. Admittedly his hands had been too weak and shaky to really stand much of a chance against Bert's iron grip, but he couldn't help the loud broken cry of protest that tore through him.

Then Frank felt the bile again, this time unable to keep it down as he violently vomited all over himself, his cries louder as he screwed his eyes shut. The reality of it all like a box of dusty junk tumbling into the light.

He buried his face in his hands that were covered in his own vomit. His pitiful screams of pain muffled as he aimlessly kicked his numb legs, trying to jolt himself out of this nightmare.

Frank cried as if the ferocity of it would finally just make it all stop; as if by the sheer force of his own self hatred, the trigger that would blow his brains out would just be pulled already.

"Frank, please calm down, man," He heard faintly, his chest heaving as he felt more bile rise in his throat. "You're hurting yourself-"

He threw up again.

And that was when he felt hands on him, making him stiffen up immediately and shove them off, curling into a fetal position.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Frank screamed, his hands coming up to cover his ears to stop the sound of his own pleading voice, the stench of his own vomit making his gag reflex act up again like some never ending paradox of regurgitating.

And honestly... Frank really wished the safety hadn't been on in the first place.

✩ ✩

Frank didn't realise he had passed out until he woke up again.

Though this time, he wasn't in the same alley as before. He was in a hospital room. Again.

He didn't really remember a lot from what had happened when he woke but he could definitely tell he wasn't wearing his own clothes. He could tell from the texture that he was wearing a hospital gown.

He let out a soft scoff, the noise barely audible in his own ears. This again?

Frank looked around the room, it was as devoid of beauty as he was of security. The walls were simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. There were no decoration at all apart from the limp curtain that separated his bed from the three others in there. It had probably been a nice kind of green once, one that reminded people of spring-time and hope, but now it was faded so much that it reminded Frank only of fungi. Not to mention the room had an undertone of bleach and the floor was simply grey.