Book Wørm (Frank Iero AU)

4am.

That night, as Frank sleeps like a log after taking some pills I "shouldn't worry about" I can't help but lie here.
I check my phone for the time:
4:00am
Why am I still here? I'm not moving in with him, am I? Better yet, what is so wrong with me, that I'm kissing, talking to, sleeping with, a murderer? Am I scared? In love? Both? I don't know, I don't know what I feel. I just feel empty, I feel like I lost a large part of who I thought he was. I guess I feel like he's just a product of his environment, and now that he's alone he's better.
Wait, did I just justify murder? 
I move off of the bed, not trying to be stealthy, a tornado couldn't wake up Frank when he's tranquilized like this.
If he's not ready to show me all the surprises, I'll have to find them myself.
I make my way down the hall and into the library, where I marvel at all the books, and snoop around to only find nothing.
Maybe twenty minutes later, I find a silver lunch box on one of the shelves with a happy face painted on it. I open it to find the drugs he was talking about, all but his stash of weed, which he keeps more readily available. I dump the box onto the couch, I pick up small baggies filled with white powder with slightly bigger chunks in it.
Cocaine? I think. But how am I supposed to know.
There's a few orange pill bottles, some say "Xanax" some say "Percocet" some say "Vicodin" the most used is the Percocet, though. There's different sleeping pills and different doses of the other pills too.
Shit I think to myself.
What have you been doing in here, Frankie?
I look underneath the round couch and pull out a big cardboard box full of bullets and shells, in all different shapes and sizes.
I stand up and look at them on the ground.
Okay, bullets, but no guns.
I search the room up and down for an hour, but find nothing but a small note book.
I sit on the floor and flip through the pages.
"If the voice inside our head is ourselves, then who's listening to it?" Is scribbled in sharpie on one page.
Probably high off the sharpie, too.
I darkly joke to myself.
Probably just a book full of random thoughts he has when he's high.
I become so interested in the note book that I start reading it page by page, finding some notes disturbing and some highly intelligent.
Some are really deep, but some are morbid and meaningless, like the one page that reads:
"Why do I like pain? The slightest scratch leaves my skin warm and happy for more. Is it healing or hurting?"
The sun starts to peek through the curtain as I stay involved in the interesting book that should be titled "A Look Inside Frank Iero's Mind".
My eyelids grow heavy with every distressed scribble they read, until I unexpectedly pass out on the floor with the note book still in my hands, my thoughts distracting me from how tired I was.