I am not afraid

1.

I can see him, he thinks I can't but I definitely can. He's been sat in the same old armchair for at least two hours now, just staring.

Maybe he thinks that because his face is hidden in a book, I can't see him looking. Or that I think his attention is on the words printed I front of him.

I know better.

I know better than to expect him to act normal. I know better than to expect anything else from Frank Iero.

He's been here seven times now over the past two months, and yet he still hasn't spoken to me or anyone else for that matter. It worries me, because here isn't a nice place despite its calm and comfortable demeanour, here is the place people go when they can't control certain things inside their heads.

When the voices get too much.

When they never feel any happier than the day before.

I'm not a permanent patient, I just have to come to be judged and scrutinised for my all together different mind than anyone else's and told that, every time I speak to the psych doctor, I need overnight observation and copious amounts of 'drugs that will make you feel better'.

They don't, they never have. I suspect it's something to do with having nothing wrong inside my brain like everyone thinks. I'm just... Different. That's all.

I just get a little...down at times.

I lift my head when I hear the floorboard creak in the... Well they call it the 'quiet room' but I know that really it's just a room for watching what we, especially myself, get up to. There's a big mirror on the wall, it has a lot of scratches and I've seen it change shade a few times. It's the light turning on and off in the room behind it, it's a two way mirror. I know they can sit in that secret room and watch me, despite how much the doctor tries to deny it when I tell her that.

The person that creaked the floorboards is indeed Frank Iero. He isn't sat in the chair anymore, he's stood half way across the room, overly tattooed hands shaking and his wide chocolate brown eyes fixed on me. He wasn't smart today, pretty much like every other day, just wearing a black band shirt with a striped long sleeve underneath and some black skinny jeans. His canvas trainers are falling apart, the rubber soles barely hanging on.

Despite the fact he looks a little scruffy, he still looks extremely attractive.

I mean, I'm not what people would categorise as gay, I'm...just impartial. I've never cared that much for gender, never taken it into account.
Nobody has ever told me what I am. But I hate being categorised, so I've never asked either.

He just stands there, shaking fingers gripping the book he's been looking through so tight that his knuckles are white, he doesn't say anything at all. He doesn't have the chance to either.
Dr. Widman appears in the doorway, her soft voice echoing across the room.

"Frank? Your mother is here"  

He jumps at the sound, takes a deep breath, then places the book on the table closest to him and scurries rather quickly out of the room.

Those are words I want to hear right now, that my mother is here. I need her, now more than ever.
She won't be here for at least another two hours though, Widman made sure of that. I heard her call earlier, I stood by her office quiet as a mouse and heard her speaking to her. My mother wants me to get 'better' and of course she agreed to the longer admission today.

"Mr Way? You're very...compliant today"

Dr. Widman's voice, Frank had quite apparently run from the building.