A/N: Trigger warning to those who are sensitive to self harm. When it starts, I will put *** when it ends, I will put another *** stay safe.
Douchebag, and a drunk. That's what his father was. He was okay with it normally, he knew that drinking was the only thing that could take the pain of Franks mothers death. But the bruises on Franks arms said otherwise. This was too far though. Every other month his father moved them. Frank knew why. He had always known why. You see, Franks father didn't just drink. There were always drugs. He could never pay his new dealers back though. So they moved. They moved away from their troubles. Frank hated that. Yes, he understood why his father did the things he did, but he also knew that it was bad, Frank knew that if he could cope with his mothers death, so could his father.
But yes, you guessed it, they were moving again. Frank was used to it. But he did what could possibly be the worst thing to do in his situation. He confronted his father. Frank was riding the bus from the place he hated just a little less than his own home, school. He thought through these thoughts of his. Wondered if it were worth it. Worth the beatings. Alas, he stepped off of the bus, with the happy chatter of the obnoxious teenagers behind him, knowing the words he would speak to his father, getting ready for covering the fresh bruises on his arm with his dead mothers old makeup.
As Frank walked through the door to his house, he saw his father drunk, on the couch with a bowl of chips on his stomach and the remote tucked under his leg. Of course, of course he is drunk. Frank thought as he slipped off his black and white converse and tugged back his lip ring with his tongue. He bit back his tongue, unsure if he should speak or not. Finally, he musters up the courage to say what he needs to say. "I know, I know why we keep moving", Frank simply stated, hoping this would end well. But, as all ways, it didn't.
"What did you say to me, fag?", his father said in a slurred voice, yet harsh tone. Frank didn't know what to do. All of his plans and thoughts from earlier left his mind. He knew what would come next though. He feared his fathers rough fists that were sure to crash into his body. Soon enough, he felt the familiar feeling of the knuckles of his father slamming into his side. "You do what say and don't question why I fucking say it, ungrateful fucking prick". Frank left to his small, not fully unboxed bed room, and started carefully repacking the boxes still left in his room. Frank didn't think much of packing the boxes, he only had a couple belongings. But he did something most would find rather unusual. He started unpacking one of his only boxes. ***looking for something only he knew about. Aha!, he thought as he pulled a small bag with a silver object in it, out of his art kit. Frank sighed in relief, happy that it was still there. Not that his father would care enough to see if Frank had the object, the silver object that is similar to the one that killed his mother. He slid the blade across his wrists. He smiled as he saw the red spots emerge from his skin, covering the old, fading scars from the last time his father did this. Frank didn't show how much his fathers words hurt him. He was too afraid to be called a pussy, a fag. Frank didn't understand. He wasn't gay, just pan. But the people at school and his father are too stupid to understand that. So Frank is left to only the blade sliding across his wrist. He sighs, wiping the fresh blood from his wrist. He felt content. The cutting helped him forget, he couldn't show his pain emotionally without more physical pain, more beatings. It was best to keep it inside, replacing the emotional pain with his own physical pain. It was stupid but Frank thought it was better that way.***
Frank slipped out of his Iron Maiden t-shirt and skinny-jeans and just replaced them with more skinny jeans and a Smiths t-shirt once he was done packing his boxes. Tomorrow he would be leaving, leaving the house he had just barely gotten adjusted to. Frank laid down on his small bed, wishing for sleep to come, surrounding him. Of course that didn't happen though, not at first. It never did, he never got much sleep, oh well. After about three hours of contemplating life, and death, Frank finally fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of what it would be like if his beloved mother was still alive.
Frank was awoken by the loud, irritating sound of his annoyingly happy alarm. Time to leave this place, to start unpacking at a new home, starting at a new school.
