Two Steps Behind
II
When Frankie first told me I was his, he tied pink ribbon around my wrist. He looked up at me, olive-green wide-eyed gaze on me, through the thick haze of smoke and sex, and said that I was his, that I’d never have to worry again. And some stupid and sick and desperate part of my heart tugged and forced itself to believe his promises.
The ribbon is still there, tied around my wrist.
What I am too stupid to realize – what I was always too stupid to realize - is that promises were made just so that same person could break them, and shatter your heart and make your lungs bleed over and over and over again. poorstupidfucked Quinn. But even so, the string still remains tied around my wrist, faded and worn and maybe even fraying a bit, no matter how hard I try to protect it. And probably, it will stay there for the rest of forever.
Frankie’s hand is digging into mine as we hurry through the busy city streets of Godknowswhere, U.S-fucking-A, the noon sun burning through our skin, clear to the bleached-white bones of our broken skeletal systems. Animals don’t come out until nighttime, everybody knows that. Everything passes by in one big smear of greys, blues, blacks, and whites, but all I really know are Frankie’s searching eyes.
And I want to reach out and touch his shoulder and tell him no one’s following us. But I know he’ll pull away. Because that’s another thing Frankie’s good at. It seems like running away and pulling away are just two words on the same fucking page. And I can’t get either of them to erase.
You’re such a fucking martyr, Quinn. Anyone ever tell ya that? Fucking martyr.
While we’re winding through the busy streets, I keep my eyes closed. It’s just another game to pass the time; See-how-long-Frankie-leads-me. I keep tripping and stumbling, and Frankie just grips my hand tighter every time. It’s a warning; knock it off, Quinn. You’re too fucking revealing. And I have to wonder how I’m revealing everything when one look in his eyes shows that he’s just a fucking scaredy-cat anymore these days.
“I needa smoke,” I mumble under my breath, and for a second I’m sure he hasn’t heard me as we wind down another street, and another, his fingers sliding up my hand, reaching my wrist and gripping it tight, and surely there will be ink-stains of fingerprints growing underneath my skin by tomorrow morning. I open my mouth and his green eyes slide over to look at me. The intensity of them shakes through me for a second; curiosity, fear, anger, and annoyance scream out at me, and my mouth closes again.
His feet jerk left, and he pulls me into a skinny alleyway where the sky is just a little sliver of humid grey, and the brick walls are scratchy and touch you even when you hold your breath in and don’t move any more than necessary. He pushes me against the scratchy wall and then pulls his Newports and a Zippo from his pockets. And for a moment, he just looks at me, olive-green wide eyes shining in the dim light, with all of his mixed emotions swirling inside them, a mix of disastrous proportions. And then his eyes snap away, and he lights the smoke, hands it to me, and watches me take a drag and let the stick dangle from my lips.
I watch him through half-lidded eyes, my insides turning softer with each of his almost too-carefully thought out movements. When his head snaps back up to look at me, I swallow, and drop my smoke, my fingers reaching out and curling into his shirt. His smokes and the lighter start shaking in his hands, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. It’s the one that says, Yousofuckingwantme. Isn’t that just so funny? Only it’s not, it’s really not. “Do we have to keep going?” I whisper.
And then the smirk is gone, and replaced with it, a scowl. “God, Quinn,” he mutters. “It’s not like we can just stop in some random city and expect them not to find us.” A bitter laugh fills my throat and spews out before I can stop it.
“You call this a city, Frankie?” I ask. “This middle of Godknowswhere – you call it a city? I don’t even fucking know what state we’re in.” My fingers curl tighter into his shirt, twisting it into tiny knots, and he reaches up and grabs my wrists, tugs at them until I let go.
“It’s Michigan,” he snarls, and smoothes his shirt out with an air of disgusting arrogance floating around him. And my stomach twists and clenches and my throat burns alkaline-acid. My beyond-fried brain sputters for a sharp response, but nothing comes to mind, and I just lean my head against the brick.
“I fucking hate you, Frankie,” I hurl out. And my whole skeletal system feels like it’s on fire, burning, burning, burning to ashes, ashes ashes we all fall down. My eyes are still closed, but I still feel the burning shame of his fingers rushing through the air, meeting the side of my face full-force, without any hesitation. I still feel the shift in the air as our mistakes settle thickly, suffocating-like around us.
When my eyelids slide up slowly, a thick red haze is painting everything angrily, and Frankie’s wide-eyes are even wider, all the sparkle in them gone, flown out the window like a light little bird, mercilessly, what did we just do? But it’s not what we’ve done, it’s all about what he’s done, the monster he’s created.
Once upon a time in a fairytale world Frankie used to love me, I think. He never said it, but he looked at me with his olive-green wide-eyed gaze, sparkling with adoration and affection. And when we moved restlessly, him above me on our white sheets, I could look at him through the sweat and moans and see him looking down at me with this strange curiosity, where did I find him? and I knew he was wondering if we could ever make it.
Once upon a time, Frankie might have really cared, but now, here, in this dark and disgusting alleyway, every bit of doubt that he ever cared has become the truth. He simply cannot care, how can anyone like Frankie ever care about someone other than himself anymore?
And even though the shame of his fingers is still burning through the side of my face, even though I’m blinking rapidly, even though I have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds, staining my teeth carmine red, I still say something utterly stupid, my fried brain not even bothering to fight back, tongue just swallowing back acid-tasting blood, lips murmuring a pathetic, “S-sorry.”
Frankie’s jaw sets again, his lips purse, and his eyes harden once more, the stubbornness still existing strongly inside of them. He looks at me carefully, as if to see if I’m going to say anything more, and then he reaches his fingers out. I don’t even flinch when he traces the angry red outline of his fingers, just stare at him through the red haze covering everything in my vision, just hold my breath and wait, because it seems that it’s all Frankie ever wants me to do. Sit, wait, listen. Sitwaitlisten! Sitwaitlisten!
He snaps his fingers from my cheek, and moves them down my arm slowly, until he reaches my wrist, and he grasps his hand firmly around it once more. “W-we’ll just find somewhere to stay for the rest of the n-night,” he mutters, words slurring together so fast I have to strain to understand what he’s saying.
I think back to the other night, when I imagined Frankie was this perfect angel when he was sleeping and I know that tonight sleep won’t even come easy to him.
I have been here before. This strange room, with these strange mold-spotted objects, carpet, ceiling, walls. I have been in this room before, with the loud and cheap fan, the snowy, 70’s style television that only has three channels, the strung-out manager sitting at the service only one floor below, clicking his pen loud enough that I can hear him, even through the floor. clickclickclick click clickclickclick. I have been in this room, even if it isn’t on the same street.
Frankie peels his shirt off, unzips his jeans and lets them slide slowly down his hips. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, and when I see his head snap towards me, the knowing smirk curling on the edges of his lips. I snap my eyes away and look back at the fuzzy TV, where the newscaster drones monotonously about today’s stock markets on the rise.
He crawls panther-like onto the bed, and suddenly, I know what he wants. I know that he can’t sleep until he’s made peace with me, not really said sorry but done something that makes me think he’s sorry. Because Frankie’s mind doesn’t run like others, it doesn’t know the simple pleasethankyousorryokay. It just knows actions and reactions. Cause and effect.
His lips press against my collarbone and as I close my eyes I know I’ll give in. Because I still need Frankie to lead the way, and if I fight back, Frankie just goes away.
The ribbon is still there, tied around my wrist.
What I am too stupid to realize – what I was always too stupid to realize - is that promises were made just so that same person could break them, and shatter your heart and make your lungs bleed over and over and over again. poorstupidfucked Quinn. But even so, the string still remains tied around my wrist, faded and worn and maybe even fraying a bit, no matter how hard I try to protect it. And probably, it will stay there for the rest of forever.
Frankie’s hand is digging into mine as we hurry through the busy city streets of Godknowswhere, U.S-fucking-A, the noon sun burning through our skin, clear to the bleached-white bones of our broken skeletal systems. Animals don’t come out until nighttime, everybody knows that. Everything passes by in one big smear of greys, blues, blacks, and whites, but all I really know are Frankie’s searching eyes.
And I want to reach out and touch his shoulder and tell him no one’s following us. But I know he’ll pull away. Because that’s another thing Frankie’s good at. It seems like running away and pulling away are just two words on the same fucking page. And I can’t get either of them to erase.
You’re such a fucking martyr, Quinn. Anyone ever tell ya that? Fucking martyr.
While we’re winding through the busy streets, I keep my eyes closed. It’s just another game to pass the time; See-how-long-Frankie-leads-me. I keep tripping and stumbling, and Frankie just grips my hand tighter every time. It’s a warning; knock it off, Quinn. You’re too fucking revealing. And I have to wonder how I’m revealing everything when one look in his eyes shows that he’s just a fucking scaredy-cat anymore these days.
“I needa smoke,” I mumble under my breath, and for a second I’m sure he hasn’t heard me as we wind down another street, and another, his fingers sliding up my hand, reaching my wrist and gripping it tight, and surely there will be ink-stains of fingerprints growing underneath my skin by tomorrow morning. I open my mouth and his green eyes slide over to look at me. The intensity of them shakes through me for a second; curiosity, fear, anger, and annoyance scream out at me, and my mouth closes again.
His feet jerk left, and he pulls me into a skinny alleyway where the sky is just a little sliver of humid grey, and the brick walls are scratchy and touch you even when you hold your breath in and don’t move any more than necessary. He pushes me against the scratchy wall and then pulls his Newports and a Zippo from his pockets. And for a moment, he just looks at me, olive-green wide eyes shining in the dim light, with all of his mixed emotions swirling inside them, a mix of disastrous proportions. And then his eyes snap away, and he lights the smoke, hands it to me, and watches me take a drag and let the stick dangle from my lips.
I watch him through half-lidded eyes, my insides turning softer with each of his almost too-carefully thought out movements. When his head snaps back up to look at me, I swallow, and drop my smoke, my fingers reaching out and curling into his shirt. His smokes and the lighter start shaking in his hands, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. It’s the one that says, Yousofuckingwantme. Isn’t that just so funny? Only it’s not, it’s really not. “Do we have to keep going?” I whisper.
And then the smirk is gone, and replaced with it, a scowl. “God, Quinn,” he mutters. “It’s not like we can just stop in some random city and expect them not to find us.” A bitter laugh fills my throat and spews out before I can stop it.
“You call this a city, Frankie?” I ask. “This middle of Godknowswhere – you call it a city? I don’t even fucking know what state we’re in.” My fingers curl tighter into his shirt, twisting it into tiny knots, and he reaches up and grabs my wrists, tugs at them until I let go.
“It’s Michigan,” he snarls, and smoothes his shirt out with an air of disgusting arrogance floating around him. And my stomach twists and clenches and my throat burns alkaline-acid. My beyond-fried brain sputters for a sharp response, but nothing comes to mind, and I just lean my head against the brick.
“I fucking hate you, Frankie,” I hurl out. And my whole skeletal system feels like it’s on fire, burning, burning, burning to ashes, ashes ashes we all fall down. My eyes are still closed, but I still feel the burning shame of his fingers rushing through the air, meeting the side of my face full-force, without any hesitation. I still feel the shift in the air as our mistakes settle thickly, suffocating-like around us.
When my eyelids slide up slowly, a thick red haze is painting everything angrily, and Frankie’s wide-eyes are even wider, all the sparkle in them gone, flown out the window like a light little bird, mercilessly, what did we just do? But it’s not what we’ve done, it’s all about what he’s done, the monster he’s created.
Once upon a time in a fairytale world Frankie used to love me, I think. He never said it, but he looked at me with his olive-green wide-eyed gaze, sparkling with adoration and affection. And when we moved restlessly, him above me on our white sheets, I could look at him through the sweat and moans and see him looking down at me with this strange curiosity, where did I find him? and I knew he was wondering if we could ever make it.
Once upon a time, Frankie might have really cared, but now, here, in this dark and disgusting alleyway, every bit of doubt that he ever cared has become the truth. He simply cannot care, how can anyone like Frankie ever care about someone other than himself anymore?
And even though the shame of his fingers is still burning through the side of my face, even though I’m blinking rapidly, even though I have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds, staining my teeth carmine red, I still say something utterly stupid, my fried brain not even bothering to fight back, tongue just swallowing back acid-tasting blood, lips murmuring a pathetic, “S-sorry.”
Frankie’s jaw sets again, his lips purse, and his eyes harden once more, the stubbornness still existing strongly inside of them. He looks at me carefully, as if to see if I’m going to say anything more, and then he reaches his fingers out. I don’t even flinch when he traces the angry red outline of his fingers, just stare at him through the red haze covering everything in my vision, just hold my breath and wait, because it seems that it’s all Frankie ever wants me to do. Sit, wait, listen. Sitwaitlisten! Sitwaitlisten!
He snaps his fingers from my cheek, and moves them down my arm slowly, until he reaches my wrist, and he grasps his hand firmly around it once more. “W-we’ll just find somewhere to stay for the rest of the n-night,” he mutters, words slurring together so fast I have to strain to understand what he’s saying.
I think back to the other night, when I imagined Frankie was this perfect angel when he was sleeping and I know that tonight sleep won’t even come easy to him.
I have been here before. This strange room, with these strange mold-spotted objects, carpet, ceiling, walls. I have been in this room before, with the loud and cheap fan, the snowy, 70’s style television that only has three channels, the strung-out manager sitting at the service only one floor below, clicking his pen loud enough that I can hear him, even through the floor. clickclickclick click clickclickclick. I have been in this room, even if it isn’t on the same street.
Frankie peels his shirt off, unzips his jeans and lets them slide slowly down his hips. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, and when I see his head snap towards me, the knowing smirk curling on the edges of his lips. I snap my eyes away and look back at the fuzzy TV, where the newscaster drones monotonously about today’s stock markets on the rise.
He crawls panther-like onto the bed, and suddenly, I know what he wants. I know that he can’t sleep until he’s made peace with me, not really said sorry but done something that makes me think he’s sorry. Because Frankie’s mind doesn’t run like others, it doesn’t know the simple pleasethankyousorryokay. It just knows actions and reactions. Cause and effect.
His lips press against my collarbone and as I close my eyes I know I’ll give in. Because I still need Frankie to lead the way, and if I fight back, Frankie just goes away.