He isn't awake.

He isn't asleep, either.

He isn't sure if he's breathing; he isn't sure if he's living.

He's just sure of the shades of autumn around him.

Of the fuzzy nature of the world: out of focus, not quite real - and he suspected that it wasn't, but he couldn't find the means to care, or even respond to such a thing.

He found himself seeming to fall apart and drift, as if his body was compromised entirely of gas as opposed to solid matter, as he found nothing inherently composed or real about himself anymore: simply shifting and changing with every movement- not a step, not walking, just moving.

Moving through the world that slowly faded into something recognisable: a certain street, a certain street that Frank owed everything to, and yet nothing. The very street he'd grown up upon, and the very street everything had fallen apart upon.

And then his vision blurred: faded, and he wasn't there anymore.

A front garden. His front garden. Once his. No one's now.

An empty house, that once they'd all lived together in, and then just him and his father, and then just his father. And then none of them at all.

The house appeared empty, and the door began to creak upon in invitation of sorts to Frank, who found himself with little choice as to whether he wanted to go inside or not.

The door closed behind him, and the first thing Frank really took note of was just how dark it was: a never ending, omnipresent kind of hopeless darkness, that seemed to dictate the room, and indeed the whole world: claiming everything it fell upon, and ridding the room of safety and comfort, and everything once known.

Because darkness was foreign, and darkness was impenetrable, and darkness was not something he trusted, but something that he didn't' have much choice in trusting or not at all.

And then, the alternative.

And perhaps the alternative was worse.

Because the bright light was too bright indeed, with no obvious source and intent upon illuminating the entire room, and bringing light upon what should have remained in the shadows, and the scene before him did indeed appear as if a drawing of some sorts, devoid of shadows, uncanny, not quite real, but making a damn good shot at appearing so.

And then suddenly, he was elsewhere.

White room: white walls, voices he didn't recognise, and a different feeling to his existence, as if he was wearing someone else's skin, perhaps, not that such a thing could be possible, not that possibility held much worth anymore.

Not that anything held much worth anymore in this odd kind of not real state, because the thing was, Frank wasn't really conscious of anything at all, because this was perhaps closer to a dream than anything else: a concoction, his own head's doing, but before him a scene he didn't recognise and couldn't place.

White walls, and shouting, yelling, and daffodils: a certain kind of spring scene, and then nothing at all: darkness, the same darkness, and then breathing.

Not his own. He couldn't breathe anymore; he found himself oddly aware and unquestioning of such a fact.

It was someone else breathing.

Perhaps that was simply a far more pressing matter.

"You're back."

The voice was more pressing, still.

Familiar, and striking whatever was left in Frank.

Because this voice was one that he could never forget: one that haunted him his whole life, one that belonged to his father - a dead man, who stood in the darkness beside him.

"I..." Frank's words lodged in his throat, as he spoke they felt more like thoughts with more presence, as opposed to sounds that effected the world somehow.

"Twenty eight." He continued, letting out a sigh, "shame, don't you think? Twenty eight, and that's it. She was hardly much older. Your mother."

"And it was your fault." He spat, attempting to grow angry and respond 'appropriately' but he found every attempt at emotion fizzling out within a few seconds.

"No." He told him rather blankly. "She fell. And I buried my wife. And that hurt me."

"I don't fucking care-"

"Doesn't matter whether you care or not, Frank." With the mention of his name, the words seemed to cut into him a little. "It fucking happened."

Frank felt a weight within him: pulling him down, somehow, not that physical matter or being seemed to hold any meaning at all in whatever state he found himself in currently.

"She came back. She made it hell for me." He continued, "when she was dead, she came back, and I kept seeing her again. I couldn't deal with that. She wouldn't explain, she wouldn't talk, just yell. And you paint her out as the picture perfect mother but no one is perfect and you never really knew her."

"Don't say that-"

"It's true. You were seven. You don't understand things at that age." He continued, "it was hard for me. It was hard for both of us and she wasn't helping. You weren't helping either. You only ever asked for her. You never wanted me, and how was I supposed to tell you that she was gone and not make myself out as a villain somehow."

"You became that villain." Frank told him, rather bluntly, with little care because this all held so little meaning.

"It was hard not to-"

"That's bullshit-"

"I don't what you think, Frank. None of it matters now. None of it matters at all anymore. This is the end, this is your ending, and you're here." He scoffed a little, "seems like you must be here for a reason, can't think what it is. Sure as hell isn't me, I just happen to be here, and it seems like you might have to deal with me."

"So what is... what is..." Frank stumbled over his words. "What is going on?"

"Who knows? It's all in your head, isn't it, Frank? Who knows? I'm not real. This isn't real. Nothing's fucking real, is it, Frank? Who knows what's going on?"

"I-I-...." Frank stumbled over his words and the world around him began to flicker and change as he did so: his father, white walls, his bedroom, flowers in spring, his garden, a room with too many chairs, his kitchen, a room with one chair and a man, turned away from him.

And back where he stood.

His father turned away from him.

Out of hatred or whatever, Frank didn't care - Frank couldn't care. There was no sense to be made. There was nothing to be made.

There was nothing left to make anything from.

Nothing left besides a slight hint of sunlight in the dining room, and Frank's feet consequently drawn there of their own accord, and Frank was at this point, utterly beyond protest, and perhaps even just letting the world inflict whatever it saw fit upon him without a single but, and in a world where second thoughts were not just disregarded but indeed non-existent.

This was, of course, also a world in which he was non-existent.

Not really, not anymore.

He had indeed figured that out - not directly, but it was there, at the back of his mind, just waiting for him to stumble over it in time, and time was indeed running out, but there was no news there: time had been running out since the moment time became time itself, because there had always been a beginning, and there would always be an ending.

It just happened so that Frank found himself in the onslaught of such an ending: unprepared, but complacent, because anything besides complacency was redundant in a world viewed dull and in tones steadily growing closer to black and white.

And Frank was okay with that: okay with that all, because he lacked the ability for anything besides okay and mediocre: complacency - a life of complacency without the aspect of life at all, and therefore nothing in essence.

Because that was what this was: the end of the world, and the light growing brighter and Frank loosening his grip upon the world as his father stood behind him: never smiling, because he'd never warrant his son that, not even now.

Because this was the father that could never be proud of him, and Frank was the boy who was the product of that kind of self-criticism and over analytic hatred, and together they stood in evidence that there'd been no hope from the start, and that although responsibility definitely lay in Gerard's hands, that it didn't lay in his alone.

Frank was unsure upon the matter of fate, but the world was so much more than what one man thought. This was the doing of such a thing: this was a sickening kind of fairytale with every twist and turn and sickly plot twist, and all for another's amusement - an odd kind of sadistic amusement, and Frank didn't want to accept such a thing, and it was true, he didn't have to, because this was the darkness and the light and the final closing of his eyes, because true, he stood in his dining room with his father behind him, but the walls weren't made of brick.

The walls were made of nothing at all, and as Frank focused upon them, they did indeed disintegrate and fade not into black, but an absence of everything all together, because closing his eyes and seeing black would be a wish at this point, but what did wishes mean to a man who disregarded fate and luck and the possibility of there being more to the world than what he could see immediately before him?

But what did it all matter now, in a room made of nothing at all, because what is a room made of nothing: constructed of zeroes - just that, nothing at all, because there is no father behind him, there is no light, and there are no racing thoughts, as there is indeed no him, not really, not anymore: this is the reflection in the glass - the one last corner of his universe that light still shone in, but in time: in minutes now it would fall dark just like the rest.

And Frank was aware of this all, but not consciously so, because it was so much easier to look at the ceiling and see a ceiling, and not look past it and see the reality in this all, because in moments like these, reality held about as much weight in Frank's chest as a feather, because perhaps if this was all reality consisted of, Frank was far more interested in the own concoctions of his mind - but who could blame him? The peace of fakery, and unconsciously so, because your mind would chose safety and comfort even in what it knew to doubt: covering up the slight ripples in things for the illusion's sake - for your own sake.

A gift. An odd one, though, but not one Frank could ponder. Not one he wanted to, either.

But there was no room for want anymore. Want was too strong: want would indeed rip down the walls of this house, the walls of this illusion.

Because it had always been this house, because his mother was many things, and many of them were far from perfect, but there was definitely one thing his mother was not, and that was a liar.

It had always been this house, and not just from that moment, not just with what she'd said to Gerard, not just with his disregard, but from the moment he'd taken his first breath, from the moment his heart had first beat, because it was all this odd kind of fate that Frank didn't believe in.

It was this odd kind of fate that Frank didn't have to believe in anymore, as the house indeed assured that: assured him safety in his own head, because there was nowhere safer than your own home, and yet for Frank, there was nowhere worse. Frank had found everything in this building, and safety was not in abundance, for sure, and now, he was just complacent, not quite meeting his father's gaze.

But that man wasn't his father.

That man was nothingness: that man was the concoction of his own mind, and to an even larger extent now, he knew that, and he grew comfortable with it, because he much preferred a false version of that man to the reality, because the reality of his father had been his very own Satan, and those words held meaning - those words held too much meaning and began to ache as Frank uttered them, not even aloud, just to himself.

Because the thing was, Frank couldn't talk anymore.

Frank couldn't move anymore. He couldn't walk. It was just a matter of imagining himself in different places- and his father was gone. And the walls were crumbling and the world was adding up around him.

His heart began to ache further, and he wondered if he might look down and see his chest beginning to bleed. Of course, he wouldn't, because in this state, he lacked the capacity to do such a thing, much as he lacked a physical form: as these were indeed just thoughts- not even thoughts, just echoes: what was left, decaying and fading so very rapidly now, as the whole world fell into nothingness.

His father was gone, and Gerard was gone and-

Gerard.

And Frank's chest ached like his heart longed to tumble right out. His stomach began to burn, and this was feeling, but no feeling at all: this was pain, but in reality, little more than an echo of it.

Gerard.

A ringing in his ears, and his head snapping up: the ceiling, and the ceiling fan, and where his father truly lay, and where it seemed he would too.

And then, he couldn't quite remember what Gerard looked like anymore, and that was him being cut up inside, but cut up more physically in the form of further red slashes down his arms, but indeed none of this held any meaning and any sense at all, but he just let it happen, because he could feel it now: everything fading out around him - the knowledge that he didn't need to face this all for much longer.

And then his throat. And his stomach. His inside burning out: a fire with no match and a screaming that wasn't from his lungs, and once glance up at the ceiling fan.

No one there. No one there at all.

He couldn't quite remember what his father looked like either anymore.

He couldn't quite remember what he himself looked like either.

And, finally, he couldn't quite recall why that mattered.

And in that, nothingness: no more burning, no more room: no more house, no more Gerard, no more father, no more him.

Before him: the beginning, and now, the end.

-

A sudden feeling of regret, a sudden feeling of nausea, a sudden feeling that this couldn't possibly be happening as his eyes focused upon the scene before him: one constructed of simple bright shapes that didn't quite compute inside his head, like when you look at a word and it's just shapes - it doesn't mean anything at all.

In the aftermath, that was the whole world, and the aftermath of what - that was unclear - unclear like his vision: blurred together were the colours, and then washed out in places, and indeed all topped off with an odd sense of deja vu.

And the lack of possibility in how a shade of white could be familiar, and how familiar and comforting worked as antonyms through his eyes, in that moment, and perhaps may more to come.

A headache, and feeling, a stomach ache, and cursing, and words, because suddenly words kick started in his head as if he had simply forgotten the entire English language, which was perhaps an overstatement, but there was no judging that, and there was no worth in his own bias, and there was little worth in anything at all, because perhaps this was all foreign to him now as he stood there: dark hair, hazel eyes, and a craving for a cigarette.

Because he remained uncertain as to whether this was the ending, or if this was indeed the beginning.

He focused on the matter of nicotine, however, simply because it was the easiest thing to, and he was never one for unnecessary levels of effort and such, and with that notion, he followed the wall with his fingertips upon it: focusing on the sensation, because this was feeling and this was so foreign, and the world grew brighter, and he began to stumble a little as he made it through a pair of double doors.

He found his hands travelling to his pockets in search of a cigarette, in search of anything really, but he found nothing at all, besides the evident disappointment, of course.

However, his mind was indeed soon consumed by something else, and that something else took the form of voices, and those voices spoke words: words at first he struggled to tune into, words he couldn't quite manage to contemplate in full force before another set of double doors - across the room from him - swung upon.

And from these doors, in walked two men: one, relatively short with blonde hair and a face that seemed to blur out as he attempted to focus upon it, and then the man beside him... the man beside him made the whole world stop, because if what lay around him were little glass fragments - he was the glue that might stick this all back together.

As he began to focus upon the man's face, he found his head spinning and a hole even beginning to burn through it, allowing certain things to seep through and connect in the mess of clustered and nonsensical thoughts up there. And in the chaos, he breathed, in the chaos, he breathed and found a certain familiarity and comfort within the man.

The man stopped immediately as they locked eyes: an odd expression upon his face - a sense of deja vu, but something he struggled to place. The same went for Frank, who stood there at the door, confused, in want of a cigarette, and in utter unknowing in regards to his surroundings and the world in general, looking upon things with eyes that acted as if they had perhaps never seen the colour green before.

The colour red, however.

The colour red made itself exceedingly striking, and oddly familiar.

The colour red held significance beyond words, even as confusion and mystery filled the room like toxic gas: the two stood there - locked eyes, confusion, a whole world, and white walls, and Frank didn't know this man's name, he barely even knew his own, but he did indeed know that certain shade of fire truck red hair.

-

so lmao i decided upon no epilogue after all :)g)e)t)r)e)k)t))))

vote and comment if u'd like, also I'm doing a q&a so if u want to ask me a question about literally anything go to my q&a book and leave a comment with ur question there