Trapped

Chapter One: Breakdown

He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't care. Nine months of built up frustration and disappointment. Nine months of holding it all in. Frankie no longer had the strength and will to care.

Frankie was taken by CPS when his father died. He had no other family he knew of. Nowhere to turn, and nowhere to go. He'd seen a bright side, at least tried to make himself see one. "At least I'm not homeless," he thought to himself a million times since last September. No matter how hard he tried though, he couldn't make himself believe there was anything 'good' about this.

He was tired of it all. Frankie had been placed in a new foster home nearly every month. All he heard was full-on sermons about how his father wasn't here anymore of his own choices. How he'd 'chosen' to be addicted. How he'd 'chosen' not to stop. And therefore how he'd 'chosen' to let the drugs take his life. Frankie was kicked out of foster home after foster home. He refused to listen to those things, whether it was from resource parents or foster children. He wouldn't hear a bad word about his dad. Not without a fight.

Now it was June. School was out, so he had nothing to occupy his mind. He tried writing poetry, but it only fueled his emotions. So he'd taken to drinking. He did so in secret though, away from his foster family. At first he'd just sneak a beer now and then. But now it had progressed to whiskey. To hiding from sunrise to sunset, downing full bottles. To coming back in and heading straight to bed, not caring if anyone noticed what was on his breath.

But tonight, even his trusty old bottle couldn't help. So, Frankie went to his room. He decided he needed an escape, be it permanent or temporary. He broke his razor. He took the blades. Frankie then locked himself in the bathroom. With the simplest of movements, Frankie cut his forearm open, and watched for what seemed like forever as the blood flowed freely, before finally passing out.