This Still Belongs to You and Always Will
Chapter 14
Elena’s P.O.V:
“Oh God Frankie what’s gonna’ happen?”
“What’s gonna’ happen? Frankie what’s gonna’ happen?”
I knew this was a bad idea. Dad’s panicking; just as I thought he would. His yells echoed through the house, making me sit up right and listen closely. I could hear Frank’s calm voice talking to him. He’s always been good at handling Dad; calming him down, cheering him up…just like a married partner should. The sound of Dad’s footsteps on the stairs made me scrabble off my bed and open the door. He trailed along the hall until he was under the hatch in the ceiling.
“Dad are you ok?”
He jumped, attempting to reach the cord hanging from the ceiling. I watched in silence as he jumped again.
“Dad?”
“Huh?” He questioned, ceasing his movement to look at me.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” He replied, jumping to grab the cord “Why wouldn’t I be?” He added as he triumphantly pulled the cord, causing the hatch to open.
I shrugged as he got the ladder resting against the wall and set it up so he could ascend the ladder up into the studio. The ‘studio’ was our attic but we modified it. It consists of three ‘rooms’. Frank and I turned the main room into a mini recording studio for when he’s teaching guitar or when we want somewhere quiet to sit and play or write songs etc. It’s got comfy old sofas and armchairs, equipment, spare guitars and loads of other stuff. Open the door on the right and you have the art room where Dad likes to sit and create. He has a sloped desk and all his art stuff in there. There’s even a single bed in there for when he forgets the time and can’t be bothered to turn all the lights off and climb down the ladder to get into bed with Frank. And then the third room is where we keep all our junk. Y’know, Christmas crap, old junk that has no other home, dead bodies…
“Dad, are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah.” He called.
Then Frank yelled up the stairs to me.
“Hey Elena, just leave him alone for a while, yeah? C’mon, come help me cook dinner.”
So I trailed downstairs and into the kitchen. Frank was sat on the side counter, swinging his legs whilst drinking from a glass of water.
“What d’you want for dinner tonight?” He smiled determinedly.
I shrugged.
“How ‘bout some of those roma vine fillets sound?”
“With fries?”
“If you want,” He replied “You get them out the freezer and I’ll heat up that lasagne for your Dad.”
Gerard’s P.O.V:
Bert. Bert McCracken. I hate that name so much. Every time I hear it I’m sent off spinning with fear, hate and disgust. But in theory, I have a lot to hate him for. Hate’s a very strong word that I seldom use. But there’s no other way to describe how I feel about Bert. He tried to kill my little girl. He shot my husband. He…violated me. He treated me like scum on his shoe. He hit me. He tried to hit my child. He had me living in fear. I was constantly creeping around him for fear of his unpredictable outbursts. He wanted to hit Elena just because she called him ‘Daddy’ once. So I ended up flat out on my back ‘cause I tried to stop him. The amount of bruises I had because of him. I still have little half-moon shaped scars on my hips from where his long, dirty nails dug into my skin and scratched. It’s partly my fault they scarred though ‘cause I picked the scabs a few times and it probably didn’t help when I coated them in bleach in a moment of insanity. God it stung. I ended up on the bathroom floor, unable to move ‘cause of that bleach; but what else did I expect?
“Gerard?”
I ignored the gentle voice and turned to the sketchpad I was flicking through. It was a dark red and inside were drawings of his angelic face. His face looked up at me from every page. In some, he smiled sweetly; in others he was focusing on something, guitar or on what someone was saying.
“Gerard? Honey are you ok?”
“Mm.”
Frank’s arms slipped round me as he sat beside me on the edge of the bed. I stiffened, not in the mood for a cuddle, as much as I wanted one. He pulled insistently until I gave in and rested against him. I could feel his heartbeat pulsing through his body, slow and steady, calm and relaxing.
“C’mon,” He breathed into my ear, kissing the skin below it “Just try and forget about Bert. I told you; he’s never hurting you again. Or Elena for that matter.”
“Mm.”
“When you’re ready, you’re dinners in the microwave.” He whispered, getting up “I’ll leave you by yourself for little longer.”
And he went out into the main room and descended the rickety old ladder.
“Oh God Frankie what’s gonna’ happen?”
“What’s gonna’ happen? Frankie what’s gonna’ happen?”
I knew this was a bad idea. Dad’s panicking; just as I thought he would. His yells echoed through the house, making me sit up right and listen closely. I could hear Frank’s calm voice talking to him. He’s always been good at handling Dad; calming him down, cheering him up…just like a married partner should. The sound of Dad’s footsteps on the stairs made me scrabble off my bed and open the door. He trailed along the hall until he was under the hatch in the ceiling.
“Dad are you ok?”
He jumped, attempting to reach the cord hanging from the ceiling. I watched in silence as he jumped again.
“Dad?”
“Huh?” He questioned, ceasing his movement to look at me.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” He replied, jumping to grab the cord “Why wouldn’t I be?” He added as he triumphantly pulled the cord, causing the hatch to open.
I shrugged as he got the ladder resting against the wall and set it up so he could ascend the ladder up into the studio. The ‘studio’ was our attic but we modified it. It consists of three ‘rooms’. Frank and I turned the main room into a mini recording studio for when he’s teaching guitar or when we want somewhere quiet to sit and play or write songs etc. It’s got comfy old sofas and armchairs, equipment, spare guitars and loads of other stuff. Open the door on the right and you have the art room where Dad likes to sit and create. He has a sloped desk and all his art stuff in there. There’s even a single bed in there for when he forgets the time and can’t be bothered to turn all the lights off and climb down the ladder to get into bed with Frank. And then the third room is where we keep all our junk. Y’know, Christmas crap, old junk that has no other home, dead bodies…
“Dad, are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah.” He called.
Then Frank yelled up the stairs to me.
“Hey Elena, just leave him alone for a while, yeah? C’mon, come help me cook dinner.”
So I trailed downstairs and into the kitchen. Frank was sat on the side counter, swinging his legs whilst drinking from a glass of water.
“What d’you want for dinner tonight?” He smiled determinedly.
I shrugged.
“How ‘bout some of those roma vine fillets sound?”
“With fries?”
“If you want,” He replied “You get them out the freezer and I’ll heat up that lasagne for your Dad.”
Gerard’s P.O.V:
Bert. Bert McCracken. I hate that name so much. Every time I hear it I’m sent off spinning with fear, hate and disgust. But in theory, I have a lot to hate him for. Hate’s a very strong word that I seldom use. But there’s no other way to describe how I feel about Bert. He tried to kill my little girl. He shot my husband. He…violated me. He treated me like scum on his shoe. He hit me. He tried to hit my child. He had me living in fear. I was constantly creeping around him for fear of his unpredictable outbursts. He wanted to hit Elena just because she called him ‘Daddy’ once. So I ended up flat out on my back ‘cause I tried to stop him. The amount of bruises I had because of him. I still have little half-moon shaped scars on my hips from where his long, dirty nails dug into my skin and scratched. It’s partly my fault they scarred though ‘cause I picked the scabs a few times and it probably didn’t help when I coated them in bleach in a moment of insanity. God it stung. I ended up on the bathroom floor, unable to move ‘cause of that bleach; but what else did I expect?
“Gerard?”
I ignored the gentle voice and turned to the sketchpad I was flicking through. It was a dark red and inside were drawings of his angelic face. His face looked up at me from every page. In some, he smiled sweetly; in others he was focusing on something, guitar or on what someone was saying.
“Gerard? Honey are you ok?”
“Mm.”
Frank’s arms slipped round me as he sat beside me on the edge of the bed. I stiffened, not in the mood for a cuddle, as much as I wanted one. He pulled insistently until I gave in and rested against him. I could feel his heartbeat pulsing through his body, slow and steady, calm and relaxing.
“C’mon,” He breathed into my ear, kissing the skin below it “Just try and forget about Bert. I told you; he’s never hurting you again. Or Elena for that matter.”
“Mm.”
“When you’re ready, you’re dinners in the microwave.” He whispered, getting up “I’ll leave you by yourself for little longer.”
And he went out into the main room and descended the rickety old ladder.