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The memories come, but they don’t go
The first thing Frank was aware of was the voices that surrounded him, a cacophony of worry. That, and the bright piercing light that burned his retinas even with his eyes closed, the bright light he recognized as belonging to the Pitt.
Why the fuck am I laying down in the E.R? And I’m not on a bed, I’m on the floor. Did I… pass out or something?
He tried to sit up and promptly discovered that was an extremely bad idea. Burning pain in his stomach had him crying out and slumping back against the cold marble of the hospital floor, and then he remembered why he was on the ground. There’d been another active shooter, and Frank had been unlucky enough to be one of his victims.
Of course he was. His luck was shit. As it should be. He was a good-for-nothing divorced drug addict and a criminal. This was karma for everyone he’d hurt.
I hear the echoes pounding in my head
Robby peered down at him, his glasses askew and his eyes more worried than they had ever been. “Frank-”
Robby side-eyed him. They were standing in the ambulance bay. “-I don’t know if I want you working in my ER-”
Frank took a double-take. Reality was blending together with memory, and as exhaustion swept over him, Frank knew he didn’t have the strength to tell the difference.
As long as I keep my eyes closed
His eyes fluttered shut. It didn’t matter anyway. Who would care if he died? Frank himself didn’t care; he was so tired. So tired of the judging stares, the cold shoulders, the distant silence, even though he knew he deserved it all and worse. He had gotten off lenient, getting just a forced leave of absence; he could’ve lost his job or his license just like he had lost every friendship he had and his marriage.
How fall he’d fallen, like Lucifer from the heavens after his rebellion. Once a prodigy, once Robby’s, now the prodigal son, like an angel who lost his wings after defying God.
Voices called out but Frank didn’t respond and slowly the voices faded away. He lay there, on the cold floor of his workplace that had once been his home, and he wondered if it would turn into his mausoleum. He sort of hoped it did.
This was what he deserved, right? He was sick, with a disease that had already killed him in spirit, and dying would be one final mercy, one that would spare everyone around from having to deal with his mess ever again.
So he let go. And he knew they would all be fine without him. Frank Langdon was a blight, a malignant cancer on the world and those who were closest to him; this would ensure remission, and then they could all go on with their lives.
It was about damn time that he did something selfless again.
You’re lying right back in my arms again
As the darkness swallowed him, Frank felt warm, like he was lying in bed again, before everything had gone wrong. Like he was home before he had fucked everything up. Like he wasn’t divorced and sleeping alone every night in a tiny apartment that was as empty as his heart.
It felt like Abby was snuggled up beside him. He had missed the touch. He’d missed her.
I moved out, but I never moved on
He had never stopped loving Abby. Frank knew he never would. She was the first person to love him, the first one to kiss him, the first one to show him ecstasy. She was his soulmate, and he’d had to let her go.
So tell me now, where did we go so wrong?
All because he was a fucking disappointment. A fuck-up. A drug addict, a shitty deadbeat father, a horrible husband, and a disgraced doctor. He was a huge mess
She’s already happier without me, he thought. She’ll be even happier when I’m gone for good.
I was your something once, the picture on your dresser
Frank remembered being loved, once. He remembered being the Frank Langdon, ER Ken, Robby’s prodigy, Abby’s husband, the father of two kids who saw him practically every day instead of maybe every week. He missed it all with every atom in his body. But he knew…
When did I become your something to remember?
…that he’d never get any of that back. He’d had one chance, and he’d fucked it all up. Now it was all gone forever.
All my friends are wrong, they said that I’d forget her
Just like he almost was. And Frank really, really hoped they’d forget him. He didn’t deserve to be remembered…and his kids didn’t need the lingering memory of their drug addict father haunting them into adulthood. It would be less painful for all those he was leaving behind if Frank Langdon, M.D, once the pride and joy of PTMC, was buried once and for all six feet down in a grave that would be forgotten a decade from now and then would be consumed by fauna as per the natural order of things.
But she’s the kinda song you could play forever
If they did remember him, he deserved to only be remembered for his sins, for his flaws. Frank was such a fuck-up in life, why shouldn’t he continue to be even in death when he couldn’t defend himself (as if he could or would in life; he knew his place)? They- those who had known him in life- could sing a song hating him forever and as much as thought felt like being shot all over again Frank knew he could take it. He had to. To repent. To atone.
He deserved it. He did.
Oh, oh, oh
I thought we had it all
He’d had it all, once. A wife, children, a nice paying job where he was respected, a nice house, friends. But he’d lost almost all of it; and even if he still had his job, Frank knew everyone there hated him. Santos and Robby most of all. But he deserved it. He had hurt them all. He had deserved the limbo-esque purgatory his life had become, and he deserved whatever hell was awaiting him once his thoughts dissolved into the nothingness that surrounded him.
I was your something once, now you found something better
And Frank wished everyone he’d loved well. He really did. He hated how he’d hurt them, the way he’d ruined everything he had touched. They deserved much better than what he had given them. He hoped they had prosperity after his death that they’d never found while Frank was alive.
How did I become just something to remember?
Frank couldn’t feel his body. He was aware of nothing but his own thoughts and the darkness that surrounded him. He wondered what his caretakers were seeing right now- because obviously he hadn’t died yet. This wasn’t hell. This wasn’t purgatory. Was he bleeding still? Was he in asystole; were they giving compressions? Was he in surgery?
I’m not worth the effort, he thought and wanted to say. Don’t waste your time on me. I am okay with dying. Go save someone else.
But he hung on, clinging to this half-state of existence somewhere between life and death and sleep, and he knew whoever was treating him was unwilling to let him become just something to remember. And he figured that meant that it was no one he knew- if they knew him, they’d know what kind of asshole he was and let him die.
As they should.
Oh, do you think of me at all
Or have I never crossed your mind again?
Do you not miss me anymore
Or are you really good at hiding it?
I moved out, but I never moved on
Just let me go, he pleaded. I want to die, please.
So tell me now, where did we go wrong?
I’ve only ever made things worse. I’ve let down everyone in my life. I have nothing to live for. So let me go.
I was your something once, the picture on your dresser
Let my heart stop and my body rot away until the only traces of my presence on this earth are records, pictures, and the scars I left behind (and let those heal).
When did I become your something to remember?
I don’t want to remember how much I hate myself. I don’t want to remember the hurt I’ve caused. I don’t want to remember how alone I am and how much that is entirely my fucking fault.
All my friends were wrong, they said that I’d forget her
Please, just forget me. Let me fade away like blood in the water.
But she’s the kind of song you could play forever
And Frank stayed there, between life and death, and desperately wished that someone would just let him die. He was a monster, after all. And why bother to keep a monster alive when it should be put down?