Haunted.
Haunted by him.
This is not the end of the world. The blood is pounding in my ears as I hit the pavement and bring my forehead to my knees, breathing heavy and focusing on the sounds around me. Even though the whole earth seems to be shaking at some super-crazy speed, even though everything around me and inside me is crumbling to pieces, step-by-step, painstakingly slowly, this is not the end of the fucking world.
My blood trembles and I look at me watch. Five minutes late. Bitterly, I’m thinking that if he’d ever take those five fuckin’ minutes to think about someone besides himself, I wouldn’t be waiting for him right now, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
Another deep breath. Complete and total silence except for the traffic on the road outside the alleyway. More deep breaths, and then, I listen as his feet scrape the pavement and he makes his way to me. And even though I can’t see him, I just know he’s there, his tall slender body looming over me, like he’s the boss, like he owns me, and everything else, too.
And before I know it, I’m standing, too, looking up at him, and mean, I’m pissed. So pissed. “You’re late,” flies out of my mouth in a hiss, my index finger jabbing into his bony chest. His eyes lazily glance around the alley, and his dusty pink lips open as if to defend himself, but I beat him to it. “You’d think,” I laugh with such verbal irony inflating my voice, “that after everything, you could fucking make sure you’re on time.”
The next thing comes out of his mouth so dully, so fucking ordinarily, that the rage inside me turns white-hot, scalding everything inside me, burning blistering bleeding. "So?" I throw myself at him, sending us both sprawling to the cold-hard pavement, my fists reaching his gut and punching punching punching until I’m gasping for breath, sobbing. “You bastard,” I breathe, staring up past the towering buildings towards the stars, the moon, God and Heaven and all the things I’ll never be able to see.
Mommy’s perfect little boy is going to Hell. Another bitter laugh escapes my lips, and then big fat stupid tears are rolling down my face onto the road and dirt and his shirt. “You stupid fool.” His eyes widen as I slap him one more time, and the I stop, just stop, and try to let everything go that’s going on inside my head.
“I don’t understand…” he trails off in his low husky voice, and for a moment, I just don’t say anything. Because sometimes, that’s what’s best: shutting your stupid mouth before it makes you go crazy.
But I’m already so crazy, my mind spinning and spiraling and circling over and over again, words and pictures and memories blurring inside it so fast it makes me want to vomit all over. And something about the tone of his voice makes me want to grab him by the neck and hurl him into the ongoing traffic, the satisfactory of seeing his blood, bones, and brains splattering the road.
“You don’t understand,” I say, laughing sharply, “Of course you don’t understand, you’re a fucking moron,” I say it so bluntly, so emotionlessly, you’d never have thought that I’d ever loved him with my whole heart, to the point where it pained me every time I looked into his huge, sad, topaz eyes.
“Franky…” and I hate the way he says my name, like his tongue his curled around it, can’t let go, and then so sharp at the end, like he has to let go of me, and my name, all the time. Like he isn’t worthy.
And maybe, just maybe, he isn’t. “Franky, tell me what’s going through your mind,” he whispers, leaning closer towards me, his breath, minty and smoky at the same time, floating over my face, suddenly so seductive. I push him away and sit up, pulling my arms around my knees.
“Do you ever feel him?” I question, and he looks at me, like I have to explain it better. “His presence, his soul, his stupid fucking eyes drilling into your head, like a…. like a black breeze, there until you turn around. Do you?” And then its like it clicks together inside his brain, and he sighs, tired.
“Franky, w-why are you bringing all of this up, dredging up the past?” He asks me so patronizingly, like a parent telling a child not to ask for the cookies again.
“Because I can’t let go,” I say through gritted teeth, shivering as a cold breeze sweeps over us and hits my bare arms full-force. “I feel him everywhere, Ger, everywhere, and every time I close my eyes at night, his face is behind my eyelids, grinning laughing taunting. All I want is to just forget. And I can’t.”
“Franky.” This time it isn’t something that trails off, or questions, or anything, it’s just a statement, a sentence. Small drops of rain, like teardrops drip onto my skin, and I think about the book I read once; Tears are blue. They’re their own colour of blue, a blue so saddening, a blue that leaves an empty hollow feeling in your stomach that makes you want to be sick. “Franky, we did what needed to be done.” His voice takes on eloquent new authority, like he’s done talking about it, doesn’t want to hear it come out of my dirty little mouth every again.
I brace myself for the screaming match that’s about to come, and shake my head. “No, Ger, we jumped to conclusions. We fucked everything up and we jumped to conclusions; you can’t deny it, and neither will I.” A hiss slips through his teeth and rage soars through his eyes.
“No, Frank, we didn’t screw anything up,” he says. “We did what. Needed. To. Be. Done. Please can we stop talking about this?” he begs now.
“How do you not see him?” I screech, standing up again, rage pushing me to hit him just once more, maybe twice. “How can you just forget him?”
Because I truly want to know how he can just push that night, the water, the anger soaring, the frustration and the mood that takes place after death has occurred. I just really want to know. Us against the world, now and forever Franky. Don’t you forget that, ever. Unforgettable, don’t worry.
All the sudden, his big sad eyes are filled with tears, blue tears, dripping onto the pavement and burning into it, scarring us. “Y-you think I j-just forgot?” he stutters. “G-God F-franky, I’m low, shit I know, but I n-never forget what we – I d-did that night, okay? It’s still in the b-back of my mind, and a-at night, when I’m finally all alone, t-that’s the worst!” His sobs are loud and pathetic and hopeless as he sinks back to the ground again.
He lets out a sad laugh and grabs my hand, pulling me down next to him, rocking back and forth like suddenly he’s the one who’s completely lost his mind and, deep inside, his truest self. “God, Franky, I’ve dreamt of him before. At first, they’re so peaceful; he’s an angel, all dressed in white, so… so… eerily beautiful, peaceful, happy.” Another laugh, “Can you even be happy when you’re dead?”
“If you’re me,” I muster the strength to let out.
“And then…then it turns so bloody and violent, l-like that night, and I alwaysalwaysalways wake up screaming and crying, for you and for him and for God to let it go. B-but God doesn’t just let those types of things go, does he, Franky?”
“N-not exactly.” He places a sad kiss on my lips and stands up once more.
“Let it go, Franky. He’s forever haunting us, you know. But it’s better if you don’t think about it.”
And then, like a ghost, he walks away too, this time for good, never turning back around.
My blood trembles and I look at me watch. Five minutes late. Bitterly, I’m thinking that if he’d ever take those five fuckin’ minutes to think about someone besides himself, I wouldn’t be waiting for him right now, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
Another deep breath. Complete and total silence except for the traffic on the road outside the alleyway. More deep breaths, and then, I listen as his feet scrape the pavement and he makes his way to me. And even though I can’t see him, I just know he’s there, his tall slender body looming over me, like he’s the boss, like he owns me, and everything else, too.
And before I know it, I’m standing, too, looking up at him, and mean, I’m pissed. So pissed. “You’re late,” flies out of my mouth in a hiss, my index finger jabbing into his bony chest. His eyes lazily glance around the alley, and his dusty pink lips open as if to defend himself, but I beat him to it. “You’d think,” I laugh with such verbal irony inflating my voice, “that after everything, you could fucking make sure you’re on time.”
The next thing comes out of his mouth so dully, so fucking ordinarily, that the rage inside me turns white-hot, scalding everything inside me, burning blistering bleeding. "So?" I throw myself at him, sending us both sprawling to the cold-hard pavement, my fists reaching his gut and punching punching punching until I’m gasping for breath, sobbing. “You bastard,” I breathe, staring up past the towering buildings towards the stars, the moon, God and Heaven and all the things I’ll never be able to see.
Mommy’s perfect little boy is going to Hell. Another bitter laugh escapes my lips, and then big fat stupid tears are rolling down my face onto the road and dirt and his shirt. “You stupid fool.” His eyes widen as I slap him one more time, and the I stop, just stop, and try to let everything go that’s going on inside my head.
“I don’t understand…” he trails off in his low husky voice, and for a moment, I just don’t say anything. Because sometimes, that’s what’s best: shutting your stupid mouth before it makes you go crazy.
But I’m already so crazy, my mind spinning and spiraling and circling over and over again, words and pictures and memories blurring inside it so fast it makes me want to vomit all over. And something about the tone of his voice makes me want to grab him by the neck and hurl him into the ongoing traffic, the satisfactory of seeing his blood, bones, and brains splattering the road.
“You don’t understand,” I say, laughing sharply, “Of course you don’t understand, you’re a fucking moron,” I say it so bluntly, so emotionlessly, you’d never have thought that I’d ever loved him with my whole heart, to the point where it pained me every time I looked into his huge, sad, topaz eyes.
“Franky…” and I hate the way he says my name, like his tongue his curled around it, can’t let go, and then so sharp at the end, like he has to let go of me, and my name, all the time. Like he isn’t worthy.
And maybe, just maybe, he isn’t. “Franky, tell me what’s going through your mind,” he whispers, leaning closer towards me, his breath, minty and smoky at the same time, floating over my face, suddenly so seductive. I push him away and sit up, pulling my arms around my knees.
“Do you ever feel him?” I question, and he looks at me, like I have to explain it better. “His presence, his soul, his stupid fucking eyes drilling into your head, like a…. like a black breeze, there until you turn around. Do you?” And then its like it clicks together inside his brain, and he sighs, tired.
“Franky, w-why are you bringing all of this up, dredging up the past?” He asks me so patronizingly, like a parent telling a child not to ask for the cookies again.
“Because I can’t let go,” I say through gritted teeth, shivering as a cold breeze sweeps over us and hits my bare arms full-force. “I feel him everywhere, Ger, everywhere, and every time I close my eyes at night, his face is behind my eyelids, grinning laughing taunting. All I want is to just forget. And I can’t.”
“Franky.” This time it isn’t something that trails off, or questions, or anything, it’s just a statement, a sentence. Small drops of rain, like teardrops drip onto my skin, and I think about the book I read once; Tears are blue. They’re their own colour of blue, a blue so saddening, a blue that leaves an empty hollow feeling in your stomach that makes you want to be sick. “Franky, we did what needed to be done.” His voice takes on eloquent new authority, like he’s done talking about it, doesn’t want to hear it come out of my dirty little mouth every again.
I brace myself for the screaming match that’s about to come, and shake my head. “No, Ger, we jumped to conclusions. We fucked everything up and we jumped to conclusions; you can’t deny it, and neither will I.” A hiss slips through his teeth and rage soars through his eyes.
“No, Frank, we didn’t screw anything up,” he says. “We did what. Needed. To. Be. Done. Please can we stop talking about this?” he begs now.
“How do you not see him?” I screech, standing up again, rage pushing me to hit him just once more, maybe twice. “How can you just forget him?”
Because I truly want to know how he can just push that night, the water, the anger soaring, the frustration and the mood that takes place after death has occurred. I just really want to know. Us against the world, now and forever Franky. Don’t you forget that, ever. Unforgettable, don’t worry.
All the sudden, his big sad eyes are filled with tears, blue tears, dripping onto the pavement and burning into it, scarring us. “Y-you think I j-just forgot?” he stutters. “G-God F-franky, I’m low, shit I know, but I n-never forget what we – I d-did that night, okay? It’s still in the b-back of my mind, and a-at night, when I’m finally all alone, t-that’s the worst!” His sobs are loud and pathetic and hopeless as he sinks back to the ground again.
He lets out a sad laugh and grabs my hand, pulling me down next to him, rocking back and forth like suddenly he’s the one who’s completely lost his mind and, deep inside, his truest self. “God, Franky, I’ve dreamt of him before. At first, they’re so peaceful; he’s an angel, all dressed in white, so… so… eerily beautiful, peaceful, happy.” Another laugh, “Can you even be happy when you’re dead?”
“If you’re me,” I muster the strength to let out.
“And then…then it turns so bloody and violent, l-like that night, and I alwaysalwaysalways wake up screaming and crying, for you and for him and for God to let it go. B-but God doesn’t just let those types of things go, does he, Franky?”
“N-not exactly.” He places a sad kiss on my lips and stands up once more.
“Let it go, Franky. He’s forever haunting us, you know. But it’s better if you don’t think about it.”
And then, like a ghost, he walks away too, this time for good, never turning back around.