Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

Being left alone in the bathroom made me finally snap out of the stupor I had been in. The utter monstrosity of the act had managed to shut down my system, paralyzing me. What I had done deserved only the gravest punishment; a torture. And, besides the obvious guilt plaguing me for the act itself was the shame at having to have someone I barely knew care for me as if I were a sickly child. The feeling was as horrible as the stench of blood wrapping itself around my head, infiltrating my lungs. There was no way I could possibly continue. There was no way I could possibly continue imposing on a stranger.

Yet, what a stranger. In today's society it seems no one cared. "You are nothing of mine therefore whether you exist or not matters not to my own existence," seemed to be the motto of the world. It seemed if a murder took place down the street, it wouldn't matter if the person held no relation to you. We stare upon the evening news, listening to the tragedies in the world and we continue on our daily lives with a smile. I cannot bear to hear the news and that makes me just as bad as everyone else. I have put up the excuse as countless others that because I am not of sufficient age, I cannot do anything.

This murder will not matter to anyone outside of the direct relations. It sickens me. And it sickens me further to feel this vague satisfaction at having eradicated his life. Then again, I still didn't know if he was alive. What if he was? I wasn't sure which thought scared me more: that I had killed him or that I had only attempted against him as he had only attempted against me. If I had indeed killed him I would be free of him for the rest of my life; if I hadn't I was in grave danger of getting jailed. Biting back a sob, I stripped off the remainder of my clothing, retrieving the string, paperclip and cell phone from my jean pocket, looking on horrified as I realized I had smeared the phone with blood.

Setting aside everything with nausea rising in my throat, I turned to the toilet. I regurgitated the pittance I had in my stomach; it smelled oddly of beer. Groaning, I flushed it, entering the bathtub, fiddling with the knobs since I had no idea how they worked. Finally I got it to a comfortable spray of warm water and I sunk to the floor, holding my head in my hands. What the fuck was I going to do now? I scrubbed myself furiously with soap before falling still, sinking into a period of brooding. I was still numb and somehow, remotely, I realized it. I should be freaking out right now, yelling and trying to hide under random glass coffee tables. Instead, I was sitting in a bathtub as the water ran cold.

"Hey, Frank," there came a voice and a gentle rap at the door. "You okay in there?" I couldn't possibly bother answering and instead I simply scratched at my soaked hair. There came a more insistent knocking and I sighed, shutting off the water.

"I'm fucking fine," I whispered to myself, rising unsteadily to my feet. I wished this had never happened and I was simply gulping down the rest of my beer calmly at a street corner. Sighing, I pulled aside the curtain, gazing down blankly at my clothes. They were all dirty, except maybe my boxers and those were about it. I sighed again, beginning to pull them on with a shrug. Suddenly, the door opened. I had just about the worst of luck. I pulled them up to my waist quickly, my cheeks burning though I wasn't sure he had even seen anything.

"U-um," Gerard stuttered, "I bought you a change of clothes." He pushed the clothes into my arms before closing the door behind him. I groaned; he had. Still, it didn't bother me as much as I had thought and I simply ran the clothes he had given me over my hands. I felt like I should just cry but nothing happened every time I tried. Maybe I've used up all my tears and there's nothing left in me. Maybe I'm just numb and everything will hit me like a train wreck later on. I'm just waiting for the blaring horn to shatter my eardrums and bright lights to illuminate my error.

I slipped into the offered clothes, cocking an eyebrow at the length of the shirt; it came down to my thighs. Why do I have to be so short? Shaking my head, I picked up my string, paperclip and cell phone. I'm not entirely sure why I keep carrying that piece of string and that goddamned paperclip; it doesn't make any sense to me and I'm the one doing so. Still, I take them, wiping the smear of blood off the cell phone. Strangely, it no longer disgusts me to the point of nausea. Now, it's only a mild fascination at the way blood looks when it dries. I must be insane, honestly.

I exited the bathroom, completely forgetting my clothes, simply walking, zombie-like, towards the kitchen. I'm exhausted, tired beyond belief. I simply wanted to collapse on the ground and stare at the lights above me until I was blind and deaf so I wouldn't be able to see anything coming. Still, I can't help but remember that I'm not in my house; I'm not even in my grandpa's house where the sight of me sprawled on the floor staring up at the ceiling is not a rare sight or cause for concern. No, I'm at a stranger's house; I'm at Gerard's house. He can't possibly be a stranger anymore.

When I enter the kitchen there is an absolute silence. Every hushed conversation comes to a close and every eye turns to face me, questioning me without words. I know that look; I see the way they simply want to know what happened, the way they wish to know the details. I sigh, walking despite every warning blaring in my head to one of the stools, seating myself. Their eyes follow me intently as though they were trying to see right through me. I'm sorry to disappoint but I am quite a solid creature. For that is what I am: a creature- a beast. I see out of the corners of my eyes the way they struggle to find a way to phrase their ideas. I see the way they give up, unsure on how they could possibly began an investigation into my life and the reason for murder.

I see the way the fear is quelled by utter curiosity. I see the way they seem to cast aside all doubts; cast aside all fear at what I might do. It breaks me apart to see the way their emotions play out on their faces. Apparently it is true what they say: the eyes are the windows to the soul. And those windows give way to troubled minds: to concern, worry and curiosity. I wonder what they see in my eyes. I wonder if they can tell how empty I have become; I wonder if they can see the hideous act playing again and again in my head, in my mind. I wonder if they can see my numbness; my utter uncaring attitude towards the entire act.

I wonder if I am as invisible as they make me feel. "Hey, Frank. Do you still want to borrow Ava Adore?" I stare at him in shock; I committed such a dastardly crime and all he thinks of is whether or not I still want to borrow that precious vinyl? He shrugs, turning his face away, scratching lightly at his cheek. I nod slightly, though I'm almost certain I won't be able to borrow it anymore. I am a monster now and I deserve none of this. "You gonna stay the night?" he then asks and again I stare at him in surprise. There is no explaining his hospitality and concern.

"If you want me to," I say my voice oddly hoarse and cracked. I tried to keep it steady but still it warbles, marking the slight fear I feel. I take a deep breath, still feeling their eyes examining me closely.

"Sure I do," he mutters and I can't help but wonder at the sincerity of his words. Why would he possibly want a potential killer in his house? It seems he wonders the same but he says nothing more, staring down at the counter with his finger lightly tracing patterns upon it. I shrug and force a quick smile, wondering what I can possibly do. When the night comes, I honestly don't know how I'll fare. It seems that will be marked as my breaking point. I'm not sure, sincerely. Somehow I think I'd be better off on the street, simply because the street does not care and all this care is killing me more than what I have done, strange as it seems.

"Where am I going to sleep?" I whisper, my voice small and insignificant. Still, he hears me as though he had been trained to hear any sound, however minute.

"In my room; we can put up one of those air mattresses there for you if you'd like," he says, a smile gracing his lips. I can't help but smile back, though the smile hurts my cheeks.

"I'd be fine sleeping on the floor," I reply, turning back so I won't have to see his eyes. I can't stand them because I'll be sure to get lost in them, beautiful as they are. I shake my head; I can't think in that way. Thinking like that was what got me in this whole situation.

"Don't be stupid," he says, a hint of a growl in his voice as he stands. He walks towards a bag next to the stove, retrieving the bottle inside. He never let go of that bottle, even as he tried lugging my body across town. I really should apologize but the words won't come to me. He sighs, putting the bottle aside for the moment and I can see what it is: vodka. High quality it seems as well.

"Is there any way we can set it up now?" I ask quietly. "I'm tired," I admit. I wish for more time in solitary confinement in reality; I wish to stare at the lights above my head. He nods quickly, as though my one comment deserves immediate attention. I can't help but smirk slightly; he seems rather foolish for wanting to comply with my every question. He shouldn't. And the thought twists my intestines into a harsh, tight knot and my lungs seem to cease to function. I can't allow him to do such.

"C'mon," he says, breaking me out of my thoughts, grabbing a light hold of my wrists, bringing me to my feet. He leads me out of the kitchen where I can hear their conversation resume, thinking I was out of earshot. In a few seconds I was and I was spared the cruelty of hearing their thoughts on the whole deal. The next few moments were a complete blur in my mind as we went to the hallway closet, extracted the box with the air mattress and set it up on the floor next to his bed. Personally, I wanted it farther apart, not because I was uncomfortable with being in such close quarters to him but because I felt it would inconvenience him when he wanted to get to his bed. He protested adamantly at the suggestion.

Once he was sure that I was not in the need of anything else (I refused anything more), he left and I was alone with my own troubled thoughts once again. Despite everything, however, I couldn't fall asleep. Every single time I closed my eyes, I saw his face again; I saw the gash spurting out blood, a gaping hole on the side of his neck. It was a mess of flesh and muscle and artery wall. It was a scene straight out of a horror movie except it was real. It was right before my very eyes.