Loss | Oneshot

Loss: a Platonic Oneshot

Frank sat on the swing, calmly kicking back and forth to propel the motion. He had a smile on his face as he watched the sun dip below the horizon, casting a warm light over the playground. His friend Mikey was on the swing next to him, deep in thought.

"Hey Frank,"

"Yeah?"

"What do you think happens when we die?"

Frank sighed peacefully, "I think we just become empty. Not the bad kind of empty though. The quiet kind of empty."

Mikey cocked his head, pondering Frank's answer, "I like that."

--

Frank sits in his car, feeling a tear roll down his cheek, too numb to wipe it away. He has to go inside soon, but going inside makes it real, and he isn't ready for that yet.

--

Mikey clutched the bag of potato chips close to his chest, sticking his tongue out teasingly at the younger boy. Frank giggled and lunged at his best friend, tackling him on the ground before plucking the chips out of the lanky boy's grasp. He only managed to shove a handful in his mouth before there was a knock on the wall and Donna, Mikey's mom, stood at the top of the stairs.

"Dinner's ready!" She practically sang, "come help set the table!"

Frank bolted up the stairs, bag of chips forgotten at the promise of warm food. Mikey followed hurriedly after. Donna's cooking was always exceptional. The boys were each given a stack of plates and silverware to distribute.There were a lot of place settings because Frank's parents, the Iero's, were staying for dinner. Because there were seven people filling a table that had merely six chairs, Mikey's older brother, Gerard, had to bring in an extra seat. The thirteen year old scowled at the younger children, Gerard would much rather be in his room listening to music and drawing right now, thank you very much.

Eventually all the adults made their way into the dining room and the boys were allowed to start eating. Mikey wasn't a fan of asparagus and Frank didn't like mushrooms, so they happily traded. Secretly, of course, because the parents didn't like it when they did that.

--

Frank hung up and numbly watched his phone fall from his limp hand and clatter to the ground. He felt a lump build in his throat and the familiar burn behind his eyes. They were lying. They must be lying. This couldn't've happened to him. No. It hadn't. Frank was going to wake up tomorrow and this would all have been a bad dream.

He felt a feeling grow inside of him, all mucusy and gross, it kept piling up, like buckets of slime were being poured down his throat, sinking and sinking before finally settling in the bottom pits of his stomach. This was all just too much. Too much weight on his shoulders. Too much gunk in his heart. Too much pressure building around him, sinking farther and farther into the depths of the ocean, opening his mouth to breathe but only managing to choke on the icy water of his own tears, drowning in a sea of misery, suffocated by the encroaching guilt, amd pain, and hopelessness.

He needed his best friend. He needed Mikey. Frank boiled over into a scream of pure agony. He screamed a lot that night.

--

Frank sat at the lunch table, half-heartedly picking at his food. He wasn't having a very good day. First, he woke up and promptly tripped over some month-old laundry. Then he closed his eyes "for just a minute" (you know how that goes) and woke up half an hour later to the sound of his time to leave for the bus stop alarm. He barely had time to put his shoes on, much less any eyeliner, before he rushed out the door so he wouldn't miss the bus. To make matters worse, his usual spot on the bus, next to Mikey, was taken by some senior with major raccoon eyes.