toxic | | | frank iero au

.1.

(Third times the charm.)

She stands, perched on top of the cushioned chair. Her hair hangs in greasy, brown locks around her face.

Long, mesh sleeves cover her arms and soft pants sit over her legs. All in a white, almost matching her skin-tone.

Her lips are pressed together in concentration as she lifts on foot and places it on the cool tile.

Stepping from the chair to the floor, a hand wraps around her arm.

She stumbles away with a strangled scream.

Nothing.

Everyone is pre-occupied with either the small television, with only daytime dramas and game shows, or the "intense" chess game going on in the corner.

No one stands anywhere near her. They know better.

Two large windows allow light from the early afternoon sun, to dance over the white tile.

It brushes at her toes, but won't go over them.

"Anastasia."

Her name seems to echo as she stands up from where she had fallen.

The head nurse, Mrs. Armstrong, stands in the doorway, staring down at the damaged girl.

"Is time for me to shower?"

Anastasia's voice is small and weak. She doesn't want to do this. To get clean, she'll have to face what happened.

She doesn't want to.

The nurse nods.

The girl picks herself from the floor and follows the woman to the bathrooms.

They resemble a school locker-room. The showers are divided by only a wall covered in sea green subway tile.

The nurse posts herself, just outside the door, making sure no one will walk in on the poor soul.
___________

While Anastasia is facing her fears, Frank is staring his in the face.

"We have no other choice, Mr. Iero. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, and grips the arms of the wooden chair.

As if this wasn't bad enough, now he's going to a Mental Institute.

"Ms. Wentz, you gotta believe me. I'm okay, I promise."

"I'm sorry, I really am, but we have no other choice."

He pulls at his hair, and bites down on the ring through his lip. The one thing they let him keep.

His chest raises and falls in a rapid fashion, pushing air in and out if his lungs.

"If we could change-"

"StOP LYING!!"

His voice is sharp like a gun-shot, his hazel eyes gleaming wickedly. He bites down, hard, on his lip and lunges for the closest thing.

A lamp.

His hands wrap around the wooden stand, and he brakes it over the desk.

Spark erupt from it, as he watches.

"If you run quick enough, you won't die."

His voice is cold and smooth, like the glass his heart is supposedly made from.

Glass Heart Boy with The Imaginary friends.

I am living this so much. Shout out to LemonyToast because shouout.

-Alice.