From the moment I stepped foot inside the forest today, I knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong. The trees didn't sway, the leaves didn't crunch under my feet and my voice didn't bounce back to me as it hit the surrounding tree trunks. It didn't feel real. It felt fake and as if I was in some sort of dream world, or more likely nightmare, because my life seemed to retain this sadistic and rather Gerard-like approach to taunting me. But try as I might, no amount, no godforsaken amount of pinching could wake me and I was stuck in this nightmare. I walked on, into that clearing - he wasn't there.

Of course he wasn't there: we hadn't planned a time, or a date, or anything, but it just felt right. I felt that he was there. But he wasn't. The clearing was empty - no flash of red hair, no puff of cigarette smoke, no excessive amount of black clothing... nothing. I didn't quite imagine myself being able to miss someone like him, but guess what - here I was.

It felt like it was supposed to happen - a fixed point. The reality surrounding it melting and fading to compensate for the gravitational vacuum whirring into life in the sheltered spot that dew lay on. Dew lay on the leaves and bark, because he wasn't there to shelter them. He wasn't there. He wasn't there. Despite how many times I repeated those three words that seemed to snap my entire being in two as they faded into reality, I could never quite believe them; they'd never quite sink in. I'd look to the left and dart my eyes back again, expecting him to just visualise back into his spot with too much effort to make me anywhere near sane.

I began to think I'd imagined him - Gerard Way, my sort of friend. Mikey's complete ignorance to the fact that he existed even supported my theory and of course hallucinations lead to the conclusion that I was mad. Mad as hatter; cart me off to Wonderland mad. Gerard looked mad, he looked psychotic and bloodthirsty in a terribly endearing manner he looked like the Mad Hatter himself, but no - maybe he was just my white rabbit, ready to lead my down the rabbit hole. All he needed was the pocket watch, but somehow he looked like the kind of guy who might even own one and simply consolidated my growing mess of insanity and god knows what else that lurked in the darkened corners of my mind.

No. I was Frank Iero and he was Gerard Way. There was no Wonderland; he was just a guy who likes cigarettes, gore, being a douchebag and apparently disappearing completely for days at a time. And I was just Frank, who should grow up and stop caring. Maybe Miss Craw was right. Maybe I did need help, because who just imagines a friend and who just imagines a friend like Gerard Way. He was far from friend material, far from human material, in fact; he was just weird, he was terrifying and he was just Gerard.

I even considered sucking up to Mikey, just for some godforsaken answers - I needed to know, did Gerard Way really even exist, it was eating me up from the inside, churning my stomach in an unspeakable manner that made me want to hurl. I wanted to physically remove every memory of Gerard Way from my being, pull his soul out from where it had taken up a rather too permanent residence inside me. He didn't belong here: this was Frank's body, not Gerard's, yet thoughts of him seemed to take a higher priority than thoughts of myself these days and that, I reckoned was the most troublesome factor.

Despite, whether I thought I needed counselling or not, I was going, because otherwise I doubted that I'd survive his reaction. I didn't need my father coming after me, hurling insult after insult like breaths of air. Maybe Miss Craw did notice something else under the 'self-harm', under the abuse and under the kid who sat in the corner of the classroom consistently for every lesson. Under the kid who was watching his back all the time, under the kid who was constantly in fear of them. Under the kid that still had his sanity. Maybe she noticed the cracks, the shatters, the way each smile faded as she looked away, because everything was only here to keep up appearances now. I didn't even feel real inside most days; my heart could stop beating and I wouldn't even notice.

Because, real or not - Gerard Way broke me. And it certainly doesn't look like he's coming back to pick up the pieces.

Then, I went back to reality and I gave up, I left the forest. The reason of course, I'd hate to admit it, but it's rather painstakingly obvious, sticking out like a sheep in a pig pen.

I left because it feels rather too empty without him. I don't like that, I'm already far too empty on the inside.

-

"Would you like to tell me your name?" No. No, I would not like to tell you anything about me. No I would not like to even listen to you try and pry and small shard of information you can from between my sealed shut lips. And, no I would not like another appointment. I hate his 'counselling' already, well to put it lightly. I can see my personal details printed on a sheet of paper in front of her and yet she's still persisting on asking me for each and every one of them. Maybe she's incompetent. Maybe she can't read. Maybe both.

That's Miss Craw's choice though isn't it? If I get another hellish session with this royal bitch sat in front of me. Not mine; nothing's ever my decision anymore, which seems rather ridiculous, considering the fact that this is actually my life. Hell, I wouldn't even be in here, listening to Mrs Duck Lips patronise me extensively into submission of my entire long, boring and tedious life story. I can't help snickering at her lips; they're far too prominent and Botox packed to even consider taking her moderately seriously.

"Frank?" She clicked her fingers in front of my face in an even more patronising manner and I was rather tempted to slap her smug smile clean off with the back of my hand. I doubted that would go down too well however. "Can you hear me?" No, no. I can't hear you, my ears have evolved to automatically ignore bitches. One moment, let me adjust them. Ah, whining! That's better.

I avoided her question and continued to state the obvious in a monotone, uninterested voice - a tone that I had perfected to a level that wasn't even funny anymore, "you already know my name."

She sighed heavily and it brought me great pleasure to find that she was already annoyed with me. My goal was to send the bitch to crazy town by the end of the week. "Yes, Frank. I know your name." Thanks for clearing that up. I stared at her blankly as her eyes motioned for me to move the conversation on. "I have your details. They were supplied by Miss J Craw. She referred you to me; do you know who I am?" Barack fucking Obama, of course. No wait, Delia Smith. Make me some brownies, bitch.

"No." I didn't even look at her. "Are you a tea lady?" Or was that profession far too complicated for her incompetent and sparsely inhabited brain to comprehend?

"Frank." Her voice was stern in a way that simply shouted the fact that she was supressing several different degrees of hatred and repulsion towards me. "I'm Jane Healy. I'm your counsellor." I didn't say anything. "Miss Craw says that you've been having some issues." That's one way to put it; wondering if you hallucinated your douchebag of a best friend or not could certainly be classed as an issue, but of course she was looking at different 'issues' here. The issues on my arms. The spread across the rest of my body too, but no one really saw them and that was certainly a good, because no matter what she said - it was illegal to make me strip for her.

"Not exactly." Maybe if I could convince this bitch that I was fine, I could get out of this and Miss Craw couldn't do shit about it. Now that sounds like a plan. I just have to suck up to her, act all happy and avoid the subject of imaginary best friends and my reoccurring thoughts involving pushing her out of the window; I doubted she'd be very happy with that.

She raised her eyebrows, "what do you mean by that, Frank?" She said my name too much - I didn't like it. She spoke like I was stupid enough to need reminding that she was speaking to me and there was also the fact that I wasn't quite narcissistic enough to keep hearing my own name every few seconds.

"I'm fine." I forced my face into a smile. It felt wrong, fake and plastic. Is this what it's like for Lindsay Lohan to smile? "There are no issues here." I'd gotten far too good at lying, it had a sadistic sort of advance to it, but I was hardly in the position to worry about moral values right now.

"Hmm..." She glanced down at her paperwork - stacks and stacks of it. Which begs the question: just how much of it is about me? "What I have here suggests otherwise." You're a counsellor, but your incompetence suggests otherwise. You should be listened to, but every word that slips out between those massively oversized lips suggests otherwise.

"Well what does it suggest then?" I end up snapping at her, my words coming out angrily than I expected them too. She looked rather taken a back, but grabs a sheet off the top and scans her eyes over it regardless. At east she has the decency to mildly oblige with my simplest request, but if I took it any further than that, she'd probably end up snapping my neck and chucking the body into some derelict room or maybe she'd eat it. She looked like lonely enough to be a cannibal. Maybe she threatened to eat whoever she conned into marrying her, because that wedding ring on her finger makes about as much sense as her entire existence to me.

"Frank, Miss Craw has said that your harm yourself." The idea is ridiculous: why would I want any more fucking cuts and bruises? Wouldn't you think I go through enough pain already? But they don't know about that, they can't know about that. She's not going to know about that. That's one thing I can make sure of.

"I don't harm myself." I think that's the first truth I've told in this past meeting, but this of course would be the one she wouldn't believe. It's ridiculous really and maybe if I'd drunk a bit more of my energy drink this morning I'd be in a laughing fit by now. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't, because I very much doubted that she'd appreciate a crude gesture like that.

"Frank, Miss Craw said you do." Well, Miss Craw's a stupid bitch. She glanced back down at her notes and inhales a sharp gust of air. "She even said you admitted to it." I shook my head definitely. "She even said she saw them." Maybe she's visually impaired? Haven't thought of that have you, bitch?

"I don't hurt myself." I snapped at her. "Why would I? It's stupid." Rather like you.

She sighed heavily for what I think is the seven hundredth time in the last ten minutes. "Sometimes when someone is sad, really sad," she looked at me as if I was five. In fact, this whole speech sounds like she's trying to explain where babies come from to a nursery school age kid. "They don't know how to cope and they have to cope in a really bad way by hurting themselves, by cutting or burning or other methods. It's addictive and very hard to stop." Why I'm even listening to this I don't know, but at least the thoroughness of her speech indicates that she may be beginning to accept my continuous denial of anything being wrong. Maybe if I'm just persistent, then all will go well. I think being irritatingly persistent is one of my only strengths, despite it being rather lacklustre, at least I have strengths.

"I still don't get the point?" She raised her eyebrows inquisitively; she looked like a prat. "What good is more pain going to do? Surely more pain is a bad thing?"

"Yes, but self-harmers aren't in the right mind set." You aren't in the right mind set, by even considering that I'd actually want to pursue conversation with you. She paused, "that's why you have to see me, so we can work together to help you stop hurting yourself, Frank." For fuck's sake! And I had gotten my hopes up, by of course she'd never quite get it, would she? I'm fine, par imaginary best friends, of course, but Gerard is something we are not going to discuss.

"Jesus Christ!" I pulled my legs up into the seat and glared at her over the top of my knees. "I don't hurt myself." I thought we were at least getting somewhere here - somewhere that involved me getting out of this shit would've been preferable. But even out of this building would do, because then I wouldn't have to look at her ugly face.

"Show me your arm then." I can tell by her voice that she's more than fed up, she's probably running through ways to murder me in her head and for god knows what reason that makes me smile, because maybe that bitch won't want to put up with me for another session next week. "If there's nothing then you're telling the truth." It's a brilliant idea, but it's far too brilliant, because it's brilliant enough to catch me out and I began to reassess the intelligence level I had previous branded her with- nah. She probably got instructed to say that or something else similar. Or maybe a single word she's spoken this whole meeting was her own. Maybe she's being controlled with an earpiece by the mafia or most likely Miss Craw, because I doubted the mafia would be entirely too fascinated with dreary, fucked up and borderline insane Frank Iero.

"What?" Every chemical in my body is going into mass production overdrive mode and I feel as if I'm about to pass out right in this very chair. "You can't force me to do that!" This woman seems to forget about laws far too often to have studied something vaguely relevant to counselling in college; the mafia theory seems just a little more plausible, but I have a shred of sanity still left inside me, so I quickly dismiss it and flick my mind back to plotting the best method to kill this bitch. The window would be easiest, but I'd be more likely to get caught and well, you know what they do to guys like me in prison.

"I'm not forcing you, Frank," her tone softened and she leaned in closer to me, "I'm asking you to, because if you're telling the truth and you can prove it, I guess you don't have to be here." That sounds wonderful, but the problem is - I can't. If I showed her my arms then situation would probably get shittier; they look worse than what I'm guessing she's imagining. I wonder if she even has the mental capacity to possess an imagination or even more than four decaying brain cells. I doubt it. I wonder how she even got through college; she was probably sucking off her professor in order for him to let her pass. Why anyone would let her near their private parts, I have no clue: for one I certainly wouldn't. This is something I would definitely rather not imagine, so swiftly dispel the thought from my mind.

"I-I-" I shook my head firmly. Fuck this! "I'm not showing you my arms." She looked displeasing un-phased by my sudden outburst. I wanted her to jump, or even shake, just a little, but nope - nothing. I began to suspect her every action is planned to annoy me just as much as mine are set up to annoy her. No, she has to stay 'professional'. I almost snort aloud at the thought: this bitch is not one bit professional.

"Okay," she scribbled something down in her notebook, "then I guess this demands another session." At least she sounds as disheartened as I am; that at least brings me entertainment. I sighed, but at least she wasn't seeing my arms. I'm good, this'll all be fine, I just have to cope with this until god knows how long; most likely until she quits due to no longer being able to tolerate the gift of my presence. "Is this time next week good for you?" I nodded in response, not exactly accounting for what she was saying, but I hardly cared: I'm sure Miss Craw would follow this up all too thoroughly leaving me unable to forget the details of my next appointment. My mind however would be far too preoccupied with the mystery regarding a certain Gerard Way.

"Goodbye, Frank." I nodded, not responding and simply walking out the door, glad to see the back of her, for at least a week. A week was better than nothing at least.

-

I was hurried to get out of this fucking hospital as fast as I could. Push every though of this monotonous hell from my mind. I felt as if I was killing off brain cells by simply being here and was more than glad to finally step out into the outside world. But as my hand reached the door handle; the exit sign a shimmering beacon of hope, I caught a sight of something far too familiar and far too real to be good for my sanity.

I caught a sight of red. Unruly and tangled.

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