Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces
If a Body Catch a Body
[Frank's P.O.V.]
Realizing there was no way in hell I would be able to fall into a comfortable unconscious state, I stood up, pacing the room in the hopes it would shake off the feelings and leave me completely numb since it was obvious that I was not that. My eyes fell upon the vinyl sitting on a table and a smile made the corners of my mouth twitch. Without thinking or noticing that it might be considered inappropriate to touch his stuff, I grabbed it, looking around for somewhere to play it. What was the point of owning a 7" if you couldn't play it? And I was completely right in assuming he would have a record player for this. I made a straight line (I won't say beeline because I never understood its concept) for it, placing it as gently as I could in place.
The album began to play and, comforted by the familiar strands of sound, I made my way back to my temporary bed. I didn't wish to reflect once more on current events so I merely stared off into nothingness, thinking on my guitar back at home. A vague fear set in that my mother would do something to it; she was definitely capable of it. When she was angered she was the devil in disguise, I swear. Still, there was the faintest hope and love in my heart that trusted she would do nothing.
Sighing, shaking my head, I forced myself to think on other things; there had to be a way to distract myself here. I stood up again, resigned to pacing the room in mindless circles until I got so exhausted I dropped unconscious on the mat. Thankfully (or unfortunately, I'm still not sure which) I was spared the mindless walking by the sight of a book thrown carelessly on the night table. The thought that I was invading his privacy by continuing to touch his things entered my mind but it did nothing to stop me. I picked up the worn paperback, reading the title as a faint smile stretched my lips.
"Catcher in the Rye," I muttered, running a finger across the yellowing pages. I shook my head, bringing the paperback with me onto the bed again. Comfortably, with my back against the bed frame and the strands of Smashing Pumpkins music reaching my ears, I opened the book, beginning to read. I had already read this book countless times and it seemed he had done the same by the state of it. Only I had bought it used and so some of the pages were highlighted in a sickening bright fuchsia color; his was as immaculate as a worn book could possibly be. My lips softly formed the words as I began reading the classic novel:
"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all-I'm not saying that-but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddamn autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that's all I told D.B. about, and he's my brother and all."...
And so I continued reading, somehow enthralled by the writings of Holden Caulfield and the way he expressed himself. In a way it just seemed the way any teenager or young adult would express themselves (with a bit more eloquence, surely) but at the same time, underlying the maturity he possessed. And the social criticisms were quite fascinating as well. Still, I couldn't help but get distracted because, having read the novel various times; I really wanted to get to a particular scene. Rolling my eyes at my own stupidity and realizing that I couldn't possibly read more than a hundred pages required to get to the portion I really enjoyed, I flipped through the book until I got to page 170. Grinning to myself, I began reading again with some grotesque fascination.
"There was this one boy at Elkton Hills, named James Castle, that wouldn't take back something he said about this very conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy, and one of Stabile's lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So Stabile, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle's room and went in and locked the goddamn door and tried to make him take back what he said, but he wouldn't do it. So they started in on him. I won't even tell you what they did to him-it's too repulsive-but he still wouldn't take it back, old James Castle. And you should've seen him. He was a skinny little weak-looking guy, with wrists about as big as pencils. Finally, what he did, instead of taking back what he said, he jumped out the window. I was in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running through the corridor and down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran downstairs, too, and there was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and all. He was dead, and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody would even go near him."...
Surely that tidbit on James Castle wouldn't comfort me in the slightest but there was some macabre fascination I needed to fulfill. Sighing, slightly sickened by the image that formed in my mind, I set aside the book for a few moments. I couldn't continue. I stood before allowing myself to collapse on the mattress again. I surely wasn't in the mood for walking around the room and, as Holden says on countless occasions, "You've really got to be in the mood for something like that."
Chuckling inanely, I rolled over, staring at the ceiling. Now that I could finally do this, it just wasn't as satisfactory as I had thought it would be. In this way I couldn't possibly be distracted by any other random thought and my mind could drift freely. I closed my eyes, hoping it would help me. It surely didn't. I rolled over again, keeping my eyes shut tight. I couldn't bear open them right at the moment. Realizing there were currents of cold air encompassing my body, I sighed. Gerard hadn't left me any sheets; he must have thought I wouldn't need them or he simply forgot. Then again, I might have refused them; after all I hadn't wanted to accept anything more from him...
Groaning, I sat up, forcing my eyes open, wiping them to facilitate the action. I grabbed the sheets off his bed, deciding he wouldn't mind and I would give them back once he came back or I was warm. Wrapping myself in the comfort the fabric brought, I lay back down. "Now, I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep and if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." I giggled childishly at the prayer though I really shouldn't have. Hopefully I would die before I awoke so I could be spared of the life that awaited me.
Warmth came upon my prone figure, wrapping me in its embrace. I could feel my thoughts drifting into nothingness, my eyes closing of their own accord. Faintly the sounds of music still reached my ears and yet even the soft bars were drifting away from me. I could feel consciousness slowly leaving me as if it didn't want to alert me to its dissipation. Still, I tried to adjust myself and found I didn't have the strength or energy for it. Therefore, I let my eyes shut and the sounds to fade away. I let myself fall into the abyss of sleep that awaited my tired soul.
Realizing there was no way in hell I would be able to fall into a comfortable unconscious state, I stood up, pacing the room in the hopes it would shake off the feelings and leave me completely numb since it was obvious that I was not that. My eyes fell upon the vinyl sitting on a table and a smile made the corners of my mouth twitch. Without thinking or noticing that it might be considered inappropriate to touch his stuff, I grabbed it, looking around for somewhere to play it. What was the point of owning a 7" if you couldn't play it? And I was completely right in assuming he would have a record player for this. I made a straight line (I won't say beeline because I never understood its concept) for it, placing it as gently as I could in place.
The album began to play and, comforted by the familiar strands of sound, I made my way back to my temporary bed. I didn't wish to reflect once more on current events so I merely stared off into nothingness, thinking on my guitar back at home. A vague fear set in that my mother would do something to it; she was definitely capable of it. When she was angered she was the devil in disguise, I swear. Still, there was the faintest hope and love in my heart that trusted she would do nothing.
Sighing, shaking my head, I forced myself to think on other things; there had to be a way to distract myself here. I stood up again, resigned to pacing the room in mindless circles until I got so exhausted I dropped unconscious on the mat. Thankfully (or unfortunately, I'm still not sure which) I was spared the mindless walking by the sight of a book thrown carelessly on the night table. The thought that I was invading his privacy by continuing to touch his things entered my mind but it did nothing to stop me. I picked up the worn paperback, reading the title as a faint smile stretched my lips.
"Catcher in the Rye," I muttered, running a finger across the yellowing pages. I shook my head, bringing the paperback with me onto the bed again. Comfortably, with my back against the bed frame and the strands of Smashing Pumpkins music reaching my ears, I opened the book, beginning to read. I had already read this book countless times and it seemed he had done the same by the state of it. Only I had bought it used and so some of the pages were highlighted in a sickening bright fuchsia color; his was as immaculate as a worn book could possibly be. My lips softly formed the words as I began reading the classic novel:
"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all-I'm not saying that-but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddamn autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. I mean that's all I told D.B. about, and he's my brother and all."...
And so I continued reading, somehow enthralled by the writings of Holden Caulfield and the way he expressed himself. In a way it just seemed the way any teenager or young adult would express themselves (with a bit more eloquence, surely) but at the same time, underlying the maturity he possessed. And the social criticisms were quite fascinating as well. Still, I couldn't help but get distracted because, having read the novel various times; I really wanted to get to a particular scene. Rolling my eyes at my own stupidity and realizing that I couldn't possibly read more than a hundred pages required to get to the portion I really enjoyed, I flipped through the book until I got to page 170. Grinning to myself, I began reading again with some grotesque fascination.
"There was this one boy at Elkton Hills, named James Castle, that wouldn't take back something he said about this very conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy, and one of Stabile's lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So Stabile, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle's room and went in and locked the goddamn door and tried to make him take back what he said, but he wouldn't do it. So they started in on him. I won't even tell you what they did to him-it's too repulsive-but he still wouldn't take it back, old James Castle. And you should've seen him. He was a skinny little weak-looking guy, with wrists about as big as pencils. Finally, what he did, instead of taking back what he said, he jumped out the window. I was in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running through the corridor and down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran downstairs, too, and there was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and all. He was dead, and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody would even go near him."...
Surely that tidbit on James Castle wouldn't comfort me in the slightest but there was some macabre fascination I needed to fulfill. Sighing, slightly sickened by the image that formed in my mind, I set aside the book for a few moments. I couldn't continue. I stood before allowing myself to collapse on the mattress again. I surely wasn't in the mood for walking around the room and, as Holden says on countless occasions, "You've really got to be in the mood for something like that."
Chuckling inanely, I rolled over, staring at the ceiling. Now that I could finally do this, it just wasn't as satisfactory as I had thought it would be. In this way I couldn't possibly be distracted by any other random thought and my mind could drift freely. I closed my eyes, hoping it would help me. It surely didn't. I rolled over again, keeping my eyes shut tight. I couldn't bear open them right at the moment. Realizing there were currents of cold air encompassing my body, I sighed. Gerard hadn't left me any sheets; he must have thought I wouldn't need them or he simply forgot. Then again, I might have refused them; after all I hadn't wanted to accept anything more from him...
Groaning, I sat up, forcing my eyes open, wiping them to facilitate the action. I grabbed the sheets off his bed, deciding he wouldn't mind and I would give them back once he came back or I was warm. Wrapping myself in the comfort the fabric brought, I lay back down. "Now, I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep and if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." I giggled childishly at the prayer though I really shouldn't have. Hopefully I would die before I awoke so I could be spared of the life that awaited me.
Warmth came upon my prone figure, wrapping me in its embrace. I could feel my thoughts drifting into nothingness, my eyes closing of their own accord. Faintly the sounds of music still reached my ears and yet even the soft bars were drifting away from me. I could feel consciousness slowly leaving me as if it didn't want to alert me to its dissipation. Still, I tried to adjust myself and found I didn't have the strength or energy for it. Therefore, I let my eyes shut and the sounds to fade away. I let myself fall into the abyss of sleep that awaited my tired soul.