Dying In LA ||Frerard/Ryden/Petekey||

Daddy Issues Part One

A/N: hey ya'll, this chapter will be a flashback to mr. brightsides childhood before he murdered his dad, hence the title, this chapter will include self harm and child/domestic abuse, I will be revealing mr. brightsides real name somewhere in this chapter, but if you find anything mention above triggering or are just lazy I will be putting his name in the A/N at the end, but i'm sure we can all guess who he is ;)
enjoy!

Franks POV:

I awoke on my mattress in my dark, damp room. The air had a crisp chill to it. Dad cut the power.
Just what I need.
I grabbed my only blanket. It was a pale green. It used to be white a long time ago.
It was covered in many holes and smelled of mildew, but better than freezing.
I wrapped the blanket around myself, gently gliding my fingers over my ribs. They poked out so much that you could count them.
Mom never worried about that though. She claimed I was still a "growing boy" and just needed time to "beef up like the other kids."
Little does she fucking know.
The doorknob jiggled, making a quiet noise that you normally wouldn't be able to hear, but because the room was quiet and empty, you could hear the lock churning in its chamber, slowly unlocking the door so it could open.
So he could get in.
The door swung open. The brass doorknob hitting the exposed wall and leaving a visible dent.
"Good morning faggot."
I shivered in fear at the sound of his voice.
"He-hello hello sir." I stuttered out, barely able to hear my voice.
He walked further into my room, his boots scraping the disgusting carpet.
Once he reached my mattress, he put his hand under my chin and lifted my face, putting pressure on the many bruises that covered my face.
Belts, hands, bibles, anything that would be enough to harm me.
"Would you like something to eat?" He asked, his eyes slicing into me like lasers.
"Yes please, si-sir," I said a bit louder than last time. Practically begging for the food I so desperately wanted.
"Well, too bad, Frank." He said as he lifted his hand and struck my face. Hard.
There would definitely be a mark.
I fell onto my side, clutching my throbbing face. The skin where he had hit me burned like a belt mark.
This was the worst pain.
But the worst part was the shame.

A/N: sorry this was so short, i just wanted to get something out that showed how he lived as a child. His name is Frank Iero, but i/m sure you all have guessed that by now.