The Opposite of Love Isn't Hate, It's Apathy.

Violent lives end violently; or, that's how I planned to go.
It was my senior year in high school, I had no friends. I was that freaky art kid with the permanent nick name, "Gay-rard."
Ha, clever. Instead of you know, Gerard.
I became a pit of ennui and depression. I hovered around, lifeless and apathetic. I was a giant black hole. Throw what you wanted at me, I sucked it up. But, don't expect to get some kind of emotion back.

Since I was five I'd gone to numerous therapists. All telling me what was wrong with me but never actually bothering to fix me. I was surprised, as I came to the conclusion on how to fix it all. Suicide. It awed me, I mean, really floored me that I hadn't thought of this before. This hell I was in could be all gone if I only pulled that trigger.

So, I packed up all my s**t from my locker and dragged it home. I locked myself in the bathroom and began to dig through the medicine cabinet. I grabbed the first bottle of whatever I could find, a bottle of Tylenol and counted.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8... 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50.
And swallowed them all with water from the sink.
It didn't happen fast and it wasn't easy.
It was certainly a violent end. Lots of vomiting and pain.
And then, there was black. Nothing but black.

But, that wasn't the end. I woke up to chaos.
I woke up to intense pain and more vomiting. I smelled disgusting and I felt worse.
This was worse then death, I wanted to end it. The doctors didn't understand.
They were wasting their efforts on a person who was already dead, but his heart hadn't stopped beating yet.
I didn't want to be alive, I wanted the pain to stop.

-----

It was straight to the mental ward for me. My parents packed my bags and off I went; screaming "F**k you!" as they left me in the starch white hell hole to rot and repent for my sins.
Apparently accepting death qualified you as crazy.
But, I wasn't crazy enough to not have a room-mate.
The ward, Lesley showed me to my room (jail cell) that would be mine until they decided I functioned enough to leave.
Inside was a young boy, a boy, my age with stark brown hair with a floppy little faux-hawk and bangs. He sat there with hazel eyes that pierced.

"And this is Franklin."
The boy's head popped up, "It's Frankie." He stated.
Lesley nodded, leaving the room to let me get settled.
"Who are you?" He asked, his tone seemed to lighten now that Lesley had disappeared.
"Ga-" F**k, I was even calling myself by my own stupid nickname. "Gerard." I mumbled.
I unzipped my duffel bag, tossing the pristinely folded note with my name on it (from my mother) and began taking out my clothes, shoving them into the drawers that were provided for me.

I turned around, Frank was staring at me.
"What?" I hissed, my lip curling up.
Frank shrugged, "You've got the blackest eyes I've ever seen."
"So What?" My voice was icy.
"They're lifeless."
I slammed my duffel bag to the ground.
"F**k off. Who the f**k died and made you-"
"My father," Frank interrupted me. "My father killed himself."
I sneered, "So what?"
That was harsh, I know it was harsh. I should apologize, but it made him shut up at least.