Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

Every single preoccupation; every single worry and concern dissipated as we danced and sang like two utter maniacs. Everything went away when I looked into his bright hazel eyes and saw a smile stretching across his face. I forgot the blood that stained my hands. I forgot the corpse's face as I was only focused on Gerard's. When the dance ended, we were exhausted; apparently cigarettes don't help your lungs. We remained seated on the floor for the longest time, watching the movie. Well, I wasn't really watching the movie; I was more focusing on the contours of his face out of the corners of my eyes, wishing I had some sort of artistic ability so I could capture his features.

Unfortunately all things have to end and so did the movie. I ceased staring at his face, looking back at the television screen as the credits came on. I didn't want to watch them; they didn't interest me at all. Still, I couldn't have Gerard suddenly turning his head and noticing me staring unblinkingly at him; it must be quite creepy. In the dim light I could see his hand reach for the remote a foot or so in front of him. I saw him turn off the screen and I cringed, scooting away from him. He wanted to talk; I was sure of it. I couldn't have it; it was too soon.

He looked at me, and he took on a look of disappointment. "Let's go to bed," I muttered quickly, standing up to attempt walking towards the bed. I couldn't. He grabbed my leg, bringing me down onto the floor. In an instant he was on top of me, his legs on either side of my body and his chest pressing against my back. "Gerrof," I protested, trying to wiggle out from under him.

"Nah," he replied, whispering in my ear. "Who was that man?" Why did he have to bring it up? I groaned, pressing my face against the carpet. Scattered images and blurs of sound flittered through my head. Memories left untouched for years resurfaced in horrible monstrosity. My flesh smarted from the recollections, sending pangs of remembrance to my brain. I whimpered, trying to crawl out from under him. I couldn't have this; not now. The weight disappeared from my back and I crawled as quickly as I could to the mattress. I wasn't going to talk about this.

"Frank."

"No." I could hear his voice, pleading with me to say his name. I could hear him yell at me; his promises of murder hung heavy in the air around my head. I could hear him getting closer and closer but it was warped. Instead of a stealthy rustle, I heard heavy footsteps weighted down with vengeance. A delicate touch on my shoulder made me open my closed eyes in fright and I flinched, a whimper rising in my throat. I hated this; I hated the way I was acting.

"Come 'ere," he muttered, opening his arms to me. I waited, simply staring at him, for my breathing to return to normal. And suddenly, I could see his body staring out at me from the corner of the room. He stood, the gash on his throat visible from where I sat. It was dry and caked with blood; a simply horrible mess of torn flesh, broken veins and ripped muscle. Glass littered his clothes, glittering in some unknown light. His eyes flashed and he stepped forward vehemently; it was obvious he had come to finish what he had begun.

I shook my head, still staring at him. He couldn't be here; he couldn't. I must be going insane. That was my one recurring thought: I must be going insane. A yell stilled in my throat as he brought a pistol out from his pocket, pointing it at me silently. "You're mine; you always were. And you'll be gone, like I knew you would be." His lips formed the words but no sound reached my ears. "Bang." His finger pulled the trigger. I jerked back, certain of the blood running down my body. Panic-ridden, I threw off my shirt, looking down at my chest for the bullet hole. There was none. He was gone.

Breathing heavily, I let my body fall limp. I couldn't handle this. I closed my eyes, falling back against the cool, sleek sheets beneath me. I brought my hands to my face, hiding it from view. There had to be some way to fix my mistake; there had to be some way to fix my brain. "Frankie?" I took another deep breath, taking my hands away from my face. "I'm real sorry," he muttered, tracing a finger lightly down my arm before he pulled me up, bringing my body to his in a hug.

I wanted to say I forgave him; I wanted to tell him he had nothing to worry about but I couldn't speak. I settled on clutching the fabric of his shirt in my hands, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He said nothing more, rocking me back and forth quietly as if I were a child in need of comfort. I didn't mind it actually. On the verge of tears, I tried swallowing the lump in my throat; I couldn't. He pulled away, looking at my face for seconds before smiling slightly, sadly. "Go to sleep," he said, placing his hand on my chest in order to push me down into a laying position.

"I can't," I protested, my voice cracking slightly, struggling to sit up again. He kept his hand on my chest, pressing down so that I remained on the mattress.

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't. It's fucking impossible right now." I brought his hand off of me, reaching for my shirt in order to pull it on again. "I won't." My eyes challenged him to contradict me and he sighed, getting up and offering me his hand.

"Whatever you want," he said, rolling his eyes. I pouted, glaring at him as I stood without his help. He simply shrugged, placing his hand in his pocket while he turned away from me.

"Where are you going?" I shook my head, wanting to rinse out my mouth; I sounded like my mother. He looked back with a smirk, nodding his head towards the stairs with an air of stating the obvious.

"I'm going upstairs. You coming?" I pondered this for a few minutes and he sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. Finally I shrugged and nodded; maybe some fresh air would do me some good. He winked at me from the closet as I stepped on the stairs. Swallowing hard, I bounded up, bypassing Gerard in my urgency. I couldn't stay in the room any longer at the moment.

And I knew this wouldn't end. I knew that the guilt and utter shame of this event would haunt me for the rest of my life. I knew that it would follow me like a ghost, touching my mind when I least expected it. I knew that for the rest of time, when I became old and senile and I could not lift myself from bed, I would see him. Never would I be rid of him; never would I be able to erase his image from my mind. It was as permanent as the writing of a pen; no matter how much you try to blot it out, it will remain there. There's no way to cross it out; no way to get rid of what you did.

My relationship with him had been slightly strange. I had fallen for an illusion; I had fallen for a façade and a mask. I believed I was dealing with a saint when in reality I was dealing with a demon in disguise. He was nothing than my end; he was nothing but my destruction. His intentions from the start had been to destroy me; to dismantle my mind and body. He had meant to rot me from the inside until I collapsed in a flurry of bullets. Things had not gone according to his plan. He never succeeded. The tables had been turned against his brilliant plot and now it was he who was laying on a gurney, teetering on the edge between life and death. I knew that was the way it was; he must be in the hospital right now.

At least, that was what my mind convinced me of. It was like a vision, just like his figure in Gerard's room. I ceased my footsteps, remaining transfixed with what I was seeing. Nurses and doctors rushed from side to side, their footsteps squeaking on the tiled floor. Everything was so very sterile; it stank of cleaning fluid, of sweat, fever and death. Monitors beeped from every corner it seemed, the sound ricocheting off the walls, blaring like alarms. There was an overpowering sense of urgency, of the will to survive. Their hands seemed blurs with the speed at which they worked, dashing from one end of the room to the other.

He was there. On the hospital bed he lay. He stained the sheets with his blood, marking the desperation. A flat line. He was gone from them. And yet, they couldn't have it. They couldn't have the loss of a life weighing on their hands. So they worked even faster, bringing out the heavy equipment. They could not have his death. His body jerked, his back arching along with his neck, exposing the wound in a horrific fluorescent light. Frustrated, they muttered beneath their breath, cursing him, willing him to live through this. Death was not an option.

The monitor began a haggard beeping again, quick, shallow. It was desperation; it was a life that was struggling to leave. Work never ceased. Still their feet brought them racing. They hooked various needles to his arms and hands, masking his face in oxygen. Blood raced into his body from bags donated by people who had hoped they would help another survive. Whoever donated this was wrong in believing they were doing the right thing; they were allowing a murderer to survive. They were allowing my murderer to survive.

Suddenly, the scene faded away, leaving me staring down an empty hallway. This was not the hospital; there were no doctors or monitors here. I was alone; I was not witnessing the rebirth of the man I had thought destroyed. Against every odd, he had survived, just as I had. Against every thing pitted against him, against the loss of blood, he came back strong. And now there only existed fear. This fear was grand, overwhelming. It signified the imminent danger in being found and caught. It suggested sleepless nights huddled on a cold cot in a jail cell. It signified the temporary death of my own sanity.

"Frank, you okay?" And I heard his voice. I saw him again, on his feet, perfectly alive and healthy despite the hole in his neck. He was alive and come to haunt me. He was alive and come to kill me slowly. My breath caught in my throat and the world went reeling, spinning uncontrollably on its axis. I could feel it beneath my feet, spiraling out of control and taking me with it. I lost my footing, stepping backwards and falling to the ground. Still the world spun, throwing me off-kilter. Nausea rose in me, horribly tasting of bile and blood. I was not okay.

"Go away," I muttered, reaching out a hand to push him away. Dorian could not have survived; he could not have come back to torture me. This had to be a hallucination, an illusion produced by my damaged mind-set.

"No, Frank. C'mon, get up." The voice was tinted with worry and fear and in an instant I knew it could not be him. He would never worry. I looked up and the swirling images regained their shapes and forms. It was simply Gerard. The thought sent relief whirling through my system and, with a cry of joy at having been brought back to reality, I launched myself at him, ungainly getting to my feet. My lips pressed against his cheek as I wrapped my arms around his abdomen. This was reality. This is what I would yearn after for the rest of my life.