Post by Henry Gale on Oct 20, 2007 14:43:15 GMT -4
To celebrate the arrival of the 'Jumping Off Bridges' DVDs, I present to you a Frank fic.
I apologise in advance for any deviation from the events of the film, as I haven't seen it yet.
Breakdown
Frank collapsed against the whitewashed tiles, his chest heaving, his breathing erratic. He grabbed his forehead, his face contorted in a mask of sorrow.
A tight lump formed in his throat. He could feel the tears begin their slow journey down his cheek as his breathing passage clogged up.
Even as he slumped down onto the dirty floor, face buried in his hands, he tried to make sense of this. A breakdown was inevitable; he had repressed himself for far too long. For years, he had bottled up all his anguish, and it had built up gradually through the days and weeks and months and years... and suddenly here he was, dangling at the edge of his sanity, clutching desperately at a sliver of promise that would give way at any moment. He had tried to lock everything away in a little box somewhere in his head and tried to get on with life, as if nothing had happened. Was he really naïve enough to think that life could go on normally, that life could ever be the same? No person could have held on for that long carrying the burden that he did, and he was a fool to delude himself.
Echoes of his father's gruff voice rebounded through his head. "Come on, be a man. Keep your chin up. Crying is for sissies."
He scoffed bitterly. Well, Dad, it's not as easy as you make it out to be...
He would never say anything like that to his own children. Bottling up your pain never helps, he knew that. Recent studies had found that crying is therapeutic, or so he heard.
His tears had dried; he breathed in hard. And then all of a sudden his face crumpled again and his body was wracked by an onslaught of violent sobs.
Gods, what would a student think if he walked in and saw me here in this condition?
But he couldn't move. He was frozen in place; his body was determined to cry it out, the years of pent-up grief and heartbreak and the pain. He had to let it all out. It was the only solution.
Catharsis.
Drawing a shuddering breath, he wiped away his tears and slowly got up from his corner; tried to compose himself and make himself presentable as he looked at the reflection of a broken wreck in the mirror.
His students would ask questions, no doubt. Why was Mr. Nelson gone for twenty minutes? Oh, he said Mr. Jones needed to talk to him about something or the other, but really, did they really believe him? Why did Mr. Nelson return sniffling, red-faced and red-eyed, try as he might to cover it up?
He splashed his face with water. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed his face off.
He glanced at his reflection again. He still looked a dishevelled mess.
He sighed. He could just imagine how rowdy his class would have gotten by now. Later today, he would have to endure a telling off from the principal...
He dropped the soaked paper towel into the rubbish bin, replaced his glasses and headed back to class.
I apologise in advance for any deviation from the events of the film, as I haven't seen it yet.
Breakdown
Frank collapsed against the whitewashed tiles, his chest heaving, his breathing erratic. He grabbed his forehead, his face contorted in a mask of sorrow.
A tight lump formed in his throat. He could feel the tears begin their slow journey down his cheek as his breathing passage clogged up.
Even as he slumped down onto the dirty floor, face buried in his hands, he tried to make sense of this. A breakdown was inevitable; he had repressed himself for far too long. For years, he had bottled up all his anguish, and it had built up gradually through the days and weeks and months and years... and suddenly here he was, dangling at the edge of his sanity, clutching desperately at a sliver of promise that would give way at any moment. He had tried to lock everything away in a little box somewhere in his head and tried to get on with life, as if nothing had happened. Was he really naïve enough to think that life could go on normally, that life could ever be the same? No person could have held on for that long carrying the burden that he did, and he was a fool to delude himself.
Echoes of his father's gruff voice rebounded through his head. "Come on, be a man. Keep your chin up. Crying is for sissies."
He scoffed bitterly. Well, Dad, it's not as easy as you make it out to be...
He would never say anything like that to his own children. Bottling up your pain never helps, he knew that. Recent studies had found that crying is therapeutic, or so he heard.
His tears had dried; he breathed in hard. And then all of a sudden his face crumpled again and his body was wracked by an onslaught of violent sobs.
Gods, what would a student think if he walked in and saw me here in this condition?
But he couldn't move. He was frozen in place; his body was determined to cry it out, the years of pent-up grief and heartbreak and the pain. He had to let it all out. It was the only solution.
Catharsis.
Drawing a shuddering breath, he wiped away his tears and slowly got up from his corner; tried to compose himself and make himself presentable as he looked at the reflection of a broken wreck in the mirror.
His students would ask questions, no doubt. Why was Mr. Nelson gone for twenty minutes? Oh, he said Mr. Jones needed to talk to him about something or the other, but really, did they really believe him? Why did Mr. Nelson return sniffling, red-faced and red-eyed, try as he might to cover it up?
He splashed his face with water. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed his face off.
He glanced at his reflection again. He still looked a dishevelled mess.
He sighed. He could just imagine how rowdy his class would have gotten by now. Later today, he would have to endure a telling off from the principal...
He dropped the soaked paper towel into the rubbish bin, replaced his glasses and headed back to class.
