Franks POV

Chapter 1

Seven hundred and twenty three. I've counted them all. Seven and hundred and twenty three embedded reminders of everything I've done wrong. Staring back at me. Scars. Puckering my skin from ankles to collar. They are reminders that I am alive. I just wish I could slip off my skin, scurry away fresh and unharmed.

But I will never forget, when every time I am touched, I am blinded by memories. Flushed with regrets. And anytime they ask me, no matter how hard they plea, I will not speak up.I will never let them look into my eyes.
Because I am afraid.

'Frank, don't you think this has gone on long enough?'

I can't help it. If I speak up, they won't listen. All I can do is pull up my sleeves, dress my cuts, and keep it all inside. Because I don't want to be loved. After you've been beat, scarred, and bruised; pain doesn't affect you. Emotional trauma wants to claw it way out of your brain. The bright images of what has happened will always come across your vision, begging to be seen. At night when you shut your eyes you wish away the memories. Only to have them replay on repeat with high quality. It's so fucking real you can taste it, hear it, fucking feel it. Because it never goes away. It will never really leave you body, mind, or soul.

All of your feelings before anything had affected you were washed down the drain. Touches, even slight brushes by family or friends, irritate you.

You feel infected. You are infected. The bugs crawl under your skin, making you want to claw your skin off, crawl away. The scars are a constant reminder that you lived, when in all reality, was it worth to live at all? In a world where you feel the need to repel any form of love, it has no purpose. We were put on the earth for experiences, sadly, there are a couple experiences that were made to make your life a living hell.

My body aches. My throat is raw, like I've been screaming my lungs out nonstop since it happened. I haven't spoken a single word in god knows how long.

They liked it when I made noise. When I begged and pleaded for it to stop. The screeches of pain as the object collided again and again with my soft flesh. Tearing me open in more than physically.

Opening my mouth and letting sound coming forth is a sign of weakness. Those who choose to be around me will be ecstatic. They're little Frankie is getting better.

I'll never get better.

They can plead, and they can beg, but just like in my case; it will never actually do anything.

Soon I will be free. The doors will open, but the walls won't come down.
I'd like to bang my head against the walls, dent the surface with my knuckles, but the walls are inside my head. I'll never let it out. No one will ever know how I feel. I don't mind much. I notice more than they do. I know more than they do. I've seen things I would never wish on my worst enemy. And I should be the only person to ever encounter them. You're only as sick as your secrets.

Sometimes I like to trace the scars. Re-open them. As much as I hate them, I can't stand to let them go because I know if they ever disappear, it will be like it never happened.

I'll always carry this burden around with no evidence to show that it never happened.

People will think I'm crazy.

They already think I'm crazy.

I'm not fucking crazy.

I am aware. I see things. I notice.

I watch.

and I need to get out.

I need to get away from these blind fucks who don't actually give a damn. After all, this town holds them. They're in this town right now. Somewhere. I just know it.

Maybe they don't understand that every time I look in a mirror, I see a body tragically left tattered by ruthless strangers. I see pale skin, veins, scars, big, round eyes that make me look vulnerable.

I spoke once before. When it all happened at first. I had spoken and they hadn't listened. I was wasting my breathe on words that they'd never understand.

I'm just a child in their eyes, and from what I've learned, children are not taken seriously.

I'll never be taken seriously. Therefore, I'll never speak.

It's as simple as that.

Most of the days, I wander around the house. I stopped calling it my house. I stopped calling anything mine. That all disappeared when poor little Frankie's soul was ripped away from him.

I wear long black pants and long sleeves. Though I feel like I need the scars to be present, it makes me sick to see them.

Regrets.

I fucking regret everything so much.

In essence, it was my fault.

I heard regret was a useless emotion. Whoever said that was never in my position.

Regret was all I had.

I didn't go outside. What was outside for me, anyhow. Everything is so bright. As though there's not a care in the world. Kids walk through these city streets unharmed, not knowing just how many dangers lurk in corners of their peer's minds, inside the shadows.

Sometimes I look out the window and watch them. I remember when I used to do that. I used to have friends. Good ones, who my parents approved of. Good friends are hard to find in a town like this. The bad people are the ones who are easy. They welcome you. They are always there. They understand you. It's great. Until they're not so nice anymore.