November 1st (Frerard)

1: Monday, October 1st

It's the last thing he expects to see and it's most certainly the last thing he wants to, because Frank can't deal with this shit, with this mess, especially not now, because his head is a mess and he's totally late for French, but as he picks the screwed up piece of paper from the floor and attempts to make out the words, French class doesn't seem to matter at all anymore.

The paper was a letter or some sort: handwritten in blue ink, and smudged to shit, which really wasn't helping matters at all, but Frank could hardly complain, seeing as he was technically invading someone's privacy by picking this up and reading it, but he read it nevertheless, or at least what he could make out of the smudged inky mess that had perhaps once been of some value and some importance to someone.

The only legible paragraph perhaps explained it all, because perhaps Frank didn't need to know, perhaps Frank shouldn't know, but from the looks of things, he really should.

'I've been underwater for a long time now, but I'm drowning, I'm beginning to think I can breathe like this, but I can't, I'm gasping for breath, and I have to do this, Mikey, I have to end this myself. I'm going to the lake on the 1st of November, don't wait for me... I'm not coming back.'

And Frank knew nothing; he knew not who the letter was from, as the name, much like the rest of it had been smudged away with what Frank desperately hoped was tap water. And he doesn't know who Mikey is, or who this person is to them.

But Frank most definitely knows that the person who wrote this isn't okay, and that they're planning to kill themselves, and that they're planning to do so on November 1st. He also reckons that Mikey never did receive this letter, because the way it was laid on the floor seems accidental, almost as if it slipped from a pocket or something of the like.

And just like that, sixteen year old Frank Iero forgets all about French and meets his reflection in the mirrors of the boys toilets were he was stood, now in some form of panicked state, because the letter and the consequences it had brought on deserved nothing less.

Because Frank was stupid, but not quite stupid enough to be able to trick himself into thinking that he could just leave it and that everything would be okay, because Frank cared, even if the person who'd written this turned out to be a major asshole, because no one deserved that, and Frank knew it all too well.

He'd been there himself after all: a few years ago, he reckoned it wasn't as bad as the person who'd written this letter, because Frank had never quite reached the letter and date part, but sure he'd gotten close.

But this wasn't about him, but about the person who'd written this letter, and what on earth Frank could do about it.

Sure, he could hand it in to school but what the fuck would they do? What the fuck could they do? It wasn't like the person was just going to own up and babble out their sorrows to the shitty school counselor; it was evident that they were far past that point now.

And Frank was out of his depth, and that was perhaps knee-deep water in the vast stormy ocean that the writer of the letter found themselves in, and he couldn't possibly brave this on his own and save them like this.

But he had to.

He had to try at least.

Because Frank wasn't heartless, and he was the one person who'd happened upon this letter and there was no changing that now.

He had one clue, after all: Mikey.

And Frank had very little clue as to who Mikey was, or who Mikey could possibly be, but he had to try, he had to ask around, because at the very least, they deserved to see this letter, and surely, fucking surely Frank just hoped that they could do something from there.