Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

The scuffed walls, the dirty carpet, the paintings and photographs on the walls, danced. They danced, whirled: graceful, languid movements in a strange new world. The doorway melted, tangled vines spreading out onto the dancing walls. The carpet wasn't steady any longer but full of movement. Each step brought a change to this unfathomable world. The ticking of the clock sounded in the distance, louder, louder still. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It didn't stop; couldn't stop. Time can't be stopped.

And time continued passing, the seconds ticking, ticking, ticking. Every breath was strangled, the liquid vines from the molten wood gripping tighter, tighter, tighter. They were his hands; they were the looks, the faces, the bodies of so many disappointed people. They were the voices whispering on the gentle breezes, the voices that consulted, that spoke advice. They were the voices that dragged people through the mud, those that shattered illusions. These were the voices that spoke now, that gripped at an already tender throat.

None of this was real; none of this made the slightest amount of rational sense. None of this new-fangled world could possibly exist. Eyes playing tricks on the unsuspecting. None of it existed. But at the moment, at the moment, it was all true; for a moment it was the changing world, the vertigo caused by such painful words. I was being set free. And so it was such. He had told me to leave; had implored for me to exit his house. Promises were exchanged between us: promises that now caused the salt tears to stream down my trembling face.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons that the world was so very different. The way it swirled caused only nausea; the way it danced was nothing but utterly sickening. Every step resounded in the twirling air; every inch raised golden dust that was merely reminiscent of his hazel eyes. My breathing shortened, stilling in my throat, constricting the delicate airways. It was sudden confusion, sudden loneliness. It would be the first time I would be without him since the incident.

There was nothing I could do; turning back and falling into his arms was not an option. Subconsciously, my fingers traced my trembling lips, my tongue replacing them when they dropped to my side, useless, limp. Nicotine-laced kisses. I savored the taste of cigarettes, of coffee, of something else: something warm, something sweet and tangy. It was useless to try to identify the bizarre taste; it was just like everything else in this world: odd, arcane.

The full blow of the sudden dismissal hadn't had a chance to sink in, to truly destroy the fragile strands holding together my mind, tying it to my skull, tethering it to reality. But reality was slowly slipping away, becoming tangled with the lies, with the delusion, with the dreams and nightmares. It was blowing away, dust dancing in the air, obscuring my disturbed vision. Feet tapping, walking, on desert ground, on dust, on shredded pieces of grass. I never stopped, never paused to think things over again, to wonder over the location of my clothes or where I could have placed my cell phone, piece of string and bent paperclip. Bent playing cards littering the floor; wreckage, demolition, destruction.

Rustling noises reached my ears. The sound of cars rushing past did nothing to faze me, to tear my gaze from the winding sidewalk beneath me. The sidewalk led pedestrians to unknown places, to the nooks and crannies of the grimy town of Belleville. Belleville. What a name! Bella, bella. But the name suddenly didn't mean the sex-stained alleys and scent of decay. It suddenly meant his clear eyes that danced and shone. It suddenly meant his wandering hands that trailed over my skin that caused me forgetfulness. It suddenly meant him in his entirety and it made the town feel just fine.

Unfortunately, the thought tying me to him, to his house, simply did not suffice. Feeling better definitely wasn't going to take me to shelter; wasn't going to take me home. I wasn't going to appear in his arms, safe in his warm embrace. Therefore I pushed the thought away, leaving it to rot away in the deep confines of my mind lest it be brought to light again. The wind blew harshly, cold currents swirling up from the ground, raising the dust. Dancing dust; dancing eyes.

And I kept walking, ignoring the shouts coming from the building stretching out towards the sky on either side of the street. If I could get lost and somehow find my grandfather's house after running away and encountering Lenore, there had to be a way to find my own home. Yet the length of time pacing down the streets, cutting through alleys, witnessing romance and torture did nothing to bring me closer to somewhere familiar in which I could find my own home.

Giving up was not an option, however. Sooner or later there had to be a way to find shelter, to find a familiar place; to find safety. The hope fluttered in my chest, beating its fragile wings against my ribcage, tickling the edges of my pumping heart. I had to keep walking, despite the knife running into my side; I had to because there would be no other way to get to safety.

Finally, after an hour or so of mindless walking, of broken thoughts and shimmering dust, the street signs read the way that led to James's store. In relief my feet continued down the path though they protested from the pain subjected to them. I ignored the agony surrounding my feet, simply focusing on reaching the place, on getting somewhere safe as the sun began to go down.

The glass doors opened under my slightest touch, the cool rush of air greeting my drawn, sweaty face. A sigh escaped my lips, my legs trembling beneath me. The liquor greeted me, the shining glass bottles catching the overhead fluorescent lights. Wearily, I traveled down between the racks of glinting glass, firmly resolute on reaching the counter. Collapse seemed imminent and it was only the thought of seeing a familiar face that would offer a seat and some refreshment that kept me going.

My finger landed on the bell as I reached the desk, my voice gone from me so that I couldn't even call for the man. Haggard pants took away the oxygen, my body absorbing it greedily, never giving me time to relax. It was a minute or so of incessant ringing that finally brought upon the appearance of the shop owner, an apron covering his chest, his hands twisting a towel. His eyes turned towards the counter, a growl springing to his lips before he even had a good look. When he realized who it was, a grin spread across his lips, his fingers idling.

"Frankie boy, how are you?" When I didn't immediately answer, he gave me a good once-over, heading quickly over to the side to open the way for me. "Get over here, boy. What happened to you? Been running around through the entire city or what? Come with me." I didn't bother answering, simply dragging my weary body behind him, following him into the back portion of the store where his domino games were usually held. Once we entered and the door had clicked closed behind him, he shoved my already-weak frame into a chair, questions pouring out his mouth.

I held up a hand, willing him to give me a moment to rest and put my thoughts together. He remained quiet, arms crossing over his chest, his face demanding answers to his countless questions. Once I had use of my voice again, I looked into his face, preparing myself to lie, lie and lie. "I'm sorry, James," I muttered, taking the bottle he thrust in my hand. I took a fortifying gulp, feeling the bitter taste rush down my throat. I sighed, "I was just at a friend's house and I thought I knew how to get home but apparently I don't. I just spent the last hour trying to find someplace familiar." He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, throwing the towel he had in his hands on the table, still littered with domino pieces, cigarette butts and empty glasses from the night before.

"How was the game last night?" I smirked, trying to push away the subject as to my state. A gruff smile appeared on his face as he pulled up a chair, plopping down on it.

"It was great as usual though one guy was missing, never even called or anything. Pretty strange seeing as he always comes. Young guy he is, a bit older than you. He's the worse domino player I've ever seen; throws the game almost every time. He's got no strategy, nothing. But other than that, it was great. I won, as usual; you know how good I am at these games," here he winked, and I couldn't help but grin, remembering how my grandfather had told me how they lost the games to Cabel in order to please him.

Oblivious of my look, he continued to prattle on, informing me how he had bet one of his best bottles of wine this time: a delectable 2003 Seavey Cabaret Sauvignon. He still had it and would likely sell it to the loser of the game which just so happened to be my grandfather; he had seemed distracted at the game and had lost spectacularly. I grinned wider, remembering yet another conversation in which he had completely explained to me his strategies; my grandfather was a pretty wily man. However, I just never understand why none of them simply won a game and took the bottle home for free. He had never truly answered my question, stating that it was a manner of respect or whatever it was.

When the monologue was over and done with, James stood up, grabbing the empty bottle of beer from my hands. "This," he waved the bottle at me, "is between you and me. Don't let your grandfather find out; he's mighty protective of you, you know." I nodded eagerly, promises flying from my lips that this was our secret. I didn't really know the secrecy in this; my grandfather probably wouldn't mind at all that I had drunk that bottle; I had taken worse. For his sake, though, I promised, standing up to take my leave. He nodded, wiping his forehead with the towel he had dropped onto the table.

"I'll see you later, James. Want me to give a message to my granddad?" A smirk slowly crossed his lips as he nodded.

"Tell him that mine's not a high horse; he doesn't need to lose so badly to make me feel good."