New Kid in New Jersey
Caught
**Continue Flashback**
I sat there for a few minutes on the cold floor, just enjoying being on my own; undisturbed by the world outside.
I suddenly heard the sound of footsteps along the landing. They grew closer and closer, until someone knocked lightly on the bathroom door. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard my mother's warm, friendly voice.
"Frankie? Are you In there, Frank, Honey?" She asked. I stayed silent. "Frank, answer me, please? If there's something wrong, I need to know."
I didn't make a sound. I didn't want anyone to see me right now. I glanced towards the door, watching the silver handle as my mom pushed it gently downwards. The door slowly opened, and my mother stood in the doorway, her face pale; shocked at what she saw before her.
Picture the scene. Imagine walking into your bathroom and seeing your depressed, sixteen-year-old son crouched on the floor, shaking from head to toe. His bloodstained shirt has been thrown across the room in a heap, revealing his pale, scarred, bleeding torso. Glass shards from the smashed mirror, are scattered all over the floor, dappled with his shining crimson blood here and there. Tears silently roll down his cheeks, his eyes are red and sore, and he is soaked in his own blood; gashes and wounds in his skin. Can you possibly imagine how that would make a mother feel?
"Frank..." She breathed, dropping down to her knees beside me, her eyes beginning to well up with sparkling tears. "Frank...Frankie..." She repeated, her voice now trembling with every syllable she spoke.
I gazed, unfocused, at the cream coloured wall opposite me. I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. There was no way I would be able to explain all of this. "FRANK!" My mom suddenly screamed, causing me to jump out of my daze. She didn't scream it in an angry way; it was in a confused, upset and fraustrated way.
I twisted my neck to look at my mother. She was crying silently now, letting the salty tears slide freely down her face. We were both breathing heavily, and both shocked and upset with ourselves. "Frank! Speak to me!" She cried. I shuffled around uncomfortably, completely lost about what I should try to say.
"Mom, I..." I began. How to explain, though? I was bleeding all over, I had smashed the bathroom mirror, and I was slumped in a sorry little heap, sobbing to myself, with my shirt tossed onto the floor. What the fuck was I expected to say to her?! There was nothing I could do to cover it up; nothing I could say. "I didn't...I never wanted to...I couldn't..." I mumbled.
She grabbed my shoulders and shook me forcefully, still crying. It was the most upsetting, emotional thing I had ever seen; my own mother, breaking down in front of me, sobbing uncontrollably.
She pulled me into a sad, yet heart-warming hug. We sat there on the bathroom floor for a couple of minutes, lost in our embrace, sobbing silently into each others shoulders.
"I love you, Frankie. Please...tell me what happened..." She said quietly.
I let out a shaky sigh, breathing in and out a few times; preparing myself for the dreaded answer.
"Dad." I whispered.
I sat there for a few minutes on the cold floor, just enjoying being on my own; undisturbed by the world outside.
I suddenly heard the sound of footsteps along the landing. They grew closer and closer, until someone knocked lightly on the bathroom door. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard my mother's warm, friendly voice.
"Frankie? Are you In there, Frank, Honey?" She asked. I stayed silent. "Frank, answer me, please? If there's something wrong, I need to know."
I didn't make a sound. I didn't want anyone to see me right now. I glanced towards the door, watching the silver handle as my mom pushed it gently downwards. The door slowly opened, and my mother stood in the doorway, her face pale; shocked at what she saw before her.
Picture the scene. Imagine walking into your bathroom and seeing your depressed, sixteen-year-old son crouched on the floor, shaking from head to toe. His bloodstained shirt has been thrown across the room in a heap, revealing his pale, scarred, bleeding torso. Glass shards from the smashed mirror, are scattered all over the floor, dappled with his shining crimson blood here and there. Tears silently roll down his cheeks, his eyes are red and sore, and he is soaked in his own blood; gashes and wounds in his skin. Can you possibly imagine how that would make a mother feel?
"Frank..." She breathed, dropping down to her knees beside me, her eyes beginning to well up with sparkling tears. "Frank...Frankie..." She repeated, her voice now trembling with every syllable she spoke.
I gazed, unfocused, at the cream coloured wall opposite me. I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. There was no way I would be able to explain all of this. "FRANK!" My mom suddenly screamed, causing me to jump out of my daze. She didn't scream it in an angry way; it was in a confused, upset and fraustrated way.
I twisted my neck to look at my mother. She was crying silently now, letting the salty tears slide freely down her face. We were both breathing heavily, and both shocked and upset with ourselves. "Frank! Speak to me!" She cried. I shuffled around uncomfortably, completely lost about what I should try to say.
"Mom, I..." I began. How to explain, though? I was bleeding all over, I had smashed the bathroom mirror, and I was slumped in a sorry little heap, sobbing to myself, with my shirt tossed onto the floor. What the fuck was I expected to say to her?! There was nothing I could do to cover it up; nothing I could say. "I didn't...I never wanted to...I couldn't..." I mumbled.
She grabbed my shoulders and shook me forcefully, still crying. It was the most upsetting, emotional thing I had ever seen; my own mother, breaking down in front of me, sobbing uncontrollably.
She pulled me into a sad, yet heart-warming hug. We sat there on the bathroom floor for a couple of minutes, lost in our embrace, sobbing silently into each others shoulders.
"I love you, Frankie. Please...tell me what happened..." She said quietly.
I let out a shaky sigh, breathing in and out a few times; preparing myself for the dreaded answer.
"Dad." I whispered.
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