Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

As I stood there, a film of lotion covering my skin and a shirt clutched tightly in my hand, I realized just how much trust I was putting in a classmate, his brother and their friends. I had known them but a few hours and already I was wearing their clothes, sleeping in their rooms and consuming their drinks. If I so much as sat down on a neighbor's couch, my mother would already begin chiding me for the way I sat down; yet here I was lying on their couch with blood coating my body after only hours of knowing them. I was simply completely in the wrong here.

Still, I couldn't dwell on it much; if I did I would attempt to leave again and I knew Gerard at the very least would not appreciate it. So, I merely paced the room again, waiting for my skin to soak the substance in order to put on the shirt I had been lent. Long minutes passed and Gerard still did not arrive. Therefore, I put on the shirt, going over to the bookcases to examine the other novels he might have in store. I thumbed over the titles, passing quickly over the ones I had never heard of and lingering on the ones I had read previously.

Sighing, noting the fact that this was quite a boring way to pass time, I turned away, walking back around to pace the room; it seemed I had been doing that every time I was alone. Resisting another pained sigh, I walked over to my mattress, sitting on it, humming to myself. There was nothing I could really do except watch television and I had already imposed too much on all of them to waste more electricity. However, in this moment of boredom, completely alone, I was most vulnerable. Only, I hadn't known it.

That is, I didn't know it until I turned my head to the stairs. My breath stilled in my throat; he couldn't possibly have returned yet again. Yet he was there, the gash now a horrible scar marring his slightly darkened skin. He had healed, he had rested the time he needed to, and now he was back to haunt me. He could have been a ghost for all I knew but that was it; I knew nothing.

"Why are you here?" I managed to choke out, rising slowly to my feet in the hopes that slow movements would not alarm him. He cocked his head and smirked as if he couldn't understand my words. I repeated the question and a smile spread across his face, a wicked smile that chilled me to the bone. From behind his back, he retrieved a glinting metal object. And what was that shimmering metal but a knife with a silver handle? I backed up slowly, keeping my eyes trained on him.

"Why'd you leave so soon, Frankie? I wasn't done with you." He was sickening, his smile haunting and cynical and his eyes malicious, deadly.

"W-well, I was done with y-you," I stuttered, banging my hip painfully on the bedside table. There was nowhere to run; nowhere to hide. He was watching my every move, his eyes intent on every simple action I took.

"Aw, I knew that courage you put on back there was just a show; you could never find the guts to do anything."

"I had the guts to try to kill you," I snarled, the metaphorical stab at my conscience sudden and sharp.

"But you didn't have the guts to really kill me. If you did, you would have tried harder. But what can I expect from a failure like yourself?"

"You can expect a whole bunch of shit. I'm not afraid of you. You're my imagination. I'm going insane; that's it. You'll disappear." And I realized as I spoke that the only person I was trying to convince was myself. He simply laughed, stepping so quickly towards me I couldn't see the actual move. But suddenly he was there in front of me, his fetid breath in my face, his glinting eyes searching my face. He raised the knife, pointing it towards me.

"If I am only your imagination, would this hurt?" Slowly, almost tenderly, he brought the glinting blade to my shoulder, pressing down and running it over my skin. Pain erupted from the spot, traveling quickly up my spinal chord to my brain. I gasped, grasping at the area he touched with my hand. I could feel the blood slowly trickling out onto my hand, staining the shirt. I cursed inwardly, not only from the pain but from the realization that I had ruined yet another shirt of theirs.

There was nothing I could do but lie, "Yes. Because I believe you're here." I turned my head, a sour taste in my mouth; I had just divulged the secret of believing in his presence. He chuckled quietly, stepping closer still so that there was just the slightest amount of skin contact. My flesh crawled, revulsion at feeling him so very close instilling nausea in me.

"You never could escape and you knew that Frank. You knew that when I left the hospital, I'd work on finding you. You should know that Frank. I'm going to be after you until the day I die."

"By my hands," I snarled, raising my head to stare defiantly in his face, the pain spurring on rage. He sneered, raising a hand to touch my hair. I swallowed hard, my limbs frozen in place so that I couldn't even attempt against him.

"Did anyone ever tell you just how good you look in fear?" I tried to step back but couldn't, held in place by the side of the bed and the table beside it. His head dipped towards mine, his cracked lips puckered. I could see the horrible scar on his neck flash in the light. And suddenly, he was gone, whisked away from in front of me. I collapsed to the floor, breathing hard, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.

As I checked my shoulder I realized the wound was gone. There was nothing there; no reminder of the encounter I had just had. There was no blood dripping down between my fingers; the orange fabric of the shirt was wonderfully intact. And I was alone, a strange sense of urgency coursing through my veins. With as much calm as I could muster, I turned to face the clock mounted on the wall, watching the seconds hand tick steadily. Tick, tick, tick.

The simple movement sent sounds rebounding over the walls, reaching my ears at a much higher volume than it should have. Tick, tick, tick. It moved around the face of the clock, counting down another minute, another moment of my life. And the seconds seemed to pass quickly, defying my perspective of time and my expectations. The moments passed, trickling through my fingers as sand would. Yet I was doing nothing, frozen in place by the hypnotic ticking of the clock. My heart would not slow down to its normal beat; instead it was pounding hard against my sternum, struggling as a caged animal would to leave my system.

I would have allowed it to if I could. I wanted no part in the emotions raging through me or the pain the beat of my heart was causing. I wanted no part in anything that tethered me to this world, leading me to continue in this cursed existence. I wanted no part in overall existence; I wanted no part in this chaotic world. Yet, I couldn't tear myself away; I could never separate myself from the dreary city I called home. I could never successfully take my heart from Jersey even if I lived thousands of miles away.

"It's going to be okay, Frank," I began whispering to myself, my eyes still trained on the clock. "He won't bother you again. He's still in the hospital and by the time he gets out, you could already be on the other side of the country, in Utah or somewhere. And he'll never find you because who the hell is going to search in Utah for Mr. Iero? I wouldn't and I'm him." I stopped, confusion riddling my brain. I had to stop thinking in this manner and talking to myself before I really went insane. Then again, I don't believe I could have been any more insane at that moment.

I sighed, still watching the mind-numbing movement of the second hand on the clock. However, though I was watching the clock intently, I wasn't keeping track of the actual time elapse. My mind was hopelessly lost on other subjects, hopelessly stuck on the way the ghost of my actions haunted me. Therefore, after a countless length of time, I heard faint footsteps on the stairs. I didn't bother moving, didn't bother moving my head. What was the point of facing the stairs when I would find out who it was soon enough? There was no point and I remained fixed on the clock, finally noting the time and not the clock's hand: it was 8:46 in the evening.

A steady pounding in my head suddenly erupted, matching the steady footsteps creaking down the stairs. I let out a groan, blinking rapidly in what seemed to be the first time in hours. "Hey, Frank, you want something to eat?" I shook my head, raising a hand to support my head as it lolled to the side. There was nothing for me to say, nothing for me to do. The encounters or visions or whatever I had been having drained me completely of my energy to the point where a single movement such as shaking my head was more difficult than it really should be.

"No thanks," I replied, my voice hoarse. I was contradicted, however, not by the man before me but by my own stomach as it gurgled. He cocked an eyebrow as he shot me a disbelieving look. I shook my head again, trying to convince him. The sudden movements made the room spin and I lay down on my side, still staring at the distant ticking clock. He sighed but his features softened to a great degree, his eyes gaining precious warmth he had lost. Yet I couldn't stand staring at him knowing that as I kept staring into his eyes, I kept losing myself.

"C'mon, Frank; you've got to eat something."

"I'm not hungry," I growled, my eyes shut tight. Unfortunately, my voice was not the only thing growling, my stomach did also. I could hear his sigh, above me and distant. I couldn't possibly be bothered to take incredible notice to it; all I could do was concentrate on keeping my eyes shut tight. However, I was forced to take notice of his hands hoisting me to my feet. Every part of me was limp and so my head lolled onto my once-injured shoulder, my eyelids heavy as my eyes fluttered open.

"I think you might be, Frank." I decided there was no point in arguing with him anymore, no point in trying to hold myself up. As I began to fall, gravity pulling me straight down to the ground, his hands gripped my upper arms, pulling me towards him more forcefully than I had expected. Still, I did not really respond, simply trying to ignore the nausea rising in my throat. "You okay, Frank?" I merely nodded, closing my eyes tightly. He said nothing, trying to make me walk with his hand on my back. When he realized it was a fruitless endeavor, he dipped down, bringing an arm to the back of my knees, knocking me off my feet.

I couldn't protest, surprised as I was by the sudden action, as he carried me up the stairs, depositing me on a stool in the kitchen. Muttering to himself- or me, I'm not certain which- about how I was going to eat, he set about the kitchen. I could only stare, thoroughly convinced that caring was creepy.