Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces
Time
[Frank's P.O.V.]
Meandering the lonely streets without company once again seemed a foolish idea. It was disastrous to be a teenage boy walking the alleyways alone but then again, safety was last in my mind. Every crooked mind in Belleville seemed to be holed up in their houses plotting their next move because the streets were completely empty. The road was familiar, each street sign pointing in the direction to my grandparent's home. Relief was front and foremost, the fact that I would soon reach familiarity.
With each step came the thought of Gerard, on what he was doing. It was sickening to be this way, to think of one person and one person only after just a few days with him. It was sickening but it was the way things were, simple as that. There was going to be no more complicated solutions to plain problems. I wouldn't begin to twist myself into a figure eight just because I couldn't accept a straightforward solution.
Compared to the odyssey of last time, finding my grandfather's neighborhood was a breeze. The guard quickly let me pass through and, thanks to his exhaustion, no questions were made as to my whereabouts or health. The houses were devoid of children running about, of arguments. Everything was dead quiet to the point where it was simply worrisome. It was as if everyone had simply upped and abandoned their house this night. The thought was not a comforting one.
Still, the warm lights of my grandfather's house were welcoming, beckoning me to bask in their glow. Standing just outside the door, the scent of some baked good seeped through the cracks in the same, leaking out. Mouth salivating, I raised my hand to knock, remembering good manners, remembering that it was impolite to simply barge in. In a few more moments of gentle rapping, there came the sound of footsteps tapping just on the other side of the wood door.
The same was cracked open, a weary eye peering through to see just who this late night visitor was. With a smile then, the door was thrown open and two warm arms engulfed my small frame. "Frank, my boy; come on in out of the cold." Without a moment's hesitation, I slipped into the foyer, released now by the grip of the elderly gentleman standing before me. A smile was stretching his lips, his hands over his chest, the door now shut against the cold night. For a few moments he simply stared at my form, drinking in my appearance.
The smile was slowly beginning to slip off his face, his hand now grasping my upper arm. "What happened, Frankie?" he asked wearily, dragging me across the hallway into the kitchen. He set me down on a chair, seating himself across from me. My grandmother noticed my presence and quickly set to greeting me, planting a quick kiss on my cheek, her hands bustling. She was faster at noticing something off with me, however, and she then set about to offering me nourishment and drink so I could speak.
Gratefully I accepted her offers, suddenly aware that my breath stank of alcohol and my whole appearance was less than satisfactory. For a long moment there was only a deadening silence in the room, no one wishing to be the first to speak just yet. But someone had to break the ice, to speak the first words that would give way to a scintillating conversation.
"What happened this time, Frank?" he repeated with the amount of exhaustion, watching as I devoured the steaming food that had been set before me. A sigh escaped my lips, the fork clattering onto the scratched plate. Mentally, I began to prepare myself, arranging the events in a somewhat coherent fashion that I could relate to the likes of my grandparents. There were parts I would have to omit, parts I would have to keep hidden because they were simply not suitable for them.
"Mom dumped me on the side of the road," I began wearily, poking at the remainder of the food with the fork. Grandma gasped and immediately began to fuss but Grandpa stopped her, motioning for her to sit back down and wait for the rest of the story. Sighing, I explained the events that had brought me to their door, saying that Mikey was a good friend from school and had lent me these clothes. I just barely mentioned the attack, minimizing the actual event. Even with my omission, my grandmother was beside herself with worry, eager to pitch in and give comfort.
I ended in about a half hour, the food now completely cold, the beverage at room temperature. They both remained silent, a feat I thought impossible, mulling over the information that had been injected into their brains. My grandfather, as usual, was the first to speak, "Get to your room; I'll talk to you about this later." Without another word, he left the kitchen, leaving the both of us just staring silently at the tabletop.
"You'd better do what your grandpa says, honey," Grandma whispered, picking up the plate and glass to busy herself. I needed no further encouragement and I quickly pushed the chair away from the table, standing up to go to the room I had claimed. A great weight had been lifted from my shoulders but a lighter one had set in. Zombie-like, unable to focus entirely on anything I was doing, I walked into the room, locking the door behind me.
The familiar, peculiar scent of the room filled my nostrils, giving me extreme nostalgia. This was my refuge, my little haven that I could hide in until I needed to face the world and my problems again. This was the place that would give me comfort when I most needed it. There was the bed that would engulf me in its safety, whisper to me to sleep until I could get up again. But it wasn't the same this time. This time there were bigger problems nipping at my ankles, constricting my air supply.
"I'm in deep shit now," I muttered to myself, collapsing onto the bed without any more hesitation. There were a dozen things I wanted to do running through my mind. I wanted to go back to Gerard. I wanted to throw myself off a building. I wanted to crawl under the sheets and sleep. I wanted to curl in a corner and cry. I wanted to hide under a rock and simply die. But I couldn't act upon any of them, frozen in time, staring at the ceiling. They all seemed so very foolish, anyway; something a child might wish for.
Time sped by once again, counted by the clock ticking on the wall. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. And it never once paused. Incessant, horrid time. The seconds, minutes, continued passing without nary a moment's pause for the world. Time was independent; the world depended upon the time. Stupid, stupid Time. There were probably dozens, hundreds, thousands of people around this fragile, small earth begging with time, pleading with it to remain still. And there were probably the same amount of people begging for it to speed up.
Time didn't listen to the pleas of so many hapless souls. Why should Time, something so adored, so accursed, pay attention? The people living in this hell-hole had no control over something so majestic; they couldn't control something so different. It wasn't anything material, anything anyone could hold on to. Time was simply passing us by, leaving behind a wake of humans that had thought they could appeal to it.
Suddenly, a wry laugh welled in my throat, escaping my pursed lips. I couldn't stop it, couldn't stop Time. And Time laughed at me; Time spat in my face and laughed and laughed. So I would laugh with it, for thinking mere humans could invent a machine to tear through Time. I would laugh at the thought that we wanted to warp Time, render it materialistic as everything else in this hunk of rock we call Earth.
I laughed until my ribs hurt and my lungs strained to fill with the needed oxygen. I laughed until the tears slipped from my eyes and fell onto the sheets. I laughed until my limbs were weak and I was lying on the floor with no recollection as to how I got there. And then came the hapless staring into the carpet. Then came the moments looking at the dirt particles that somehow remained before my eyes. No one wants to clean up the messes made by other's problems. And the dirt was my problem; all those little grains soiling the carpet.
A sigh escaped my lips now as I stared into the grime, not wishing to get up and away from those. What was the use in running from my problems? What was the use in fleeing the country or avoiding the very people that had tried to save me? Ribs pushing painfully into the carpet, heart thudding into the sternum. I was in pain but I couldn't move, couldn't turn away.
There came a gentle knock on the door, then; so quiet I could barely hear it. My mouth opened to speak but no words escaped and I promptly closed it again. "Frank," a voice called, one which I recognized as my grandmother. I ignored the call, burying my face in the rather foul-smelling carpet. The stench barely bothered me; I had smelled worse. The call came again, fainter, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her but me. I paid it no heed, digging my nails into the carpet, closing my eyes tightly.
I'd rather be blind at the moment, unseeing, unfeeling. If I couldn't see, my problems wouldn't be before me, taunting me. If I couldn't see, I wouldn't have hurt Dorian. But the fact is that I can't change Time. Time laughs at me, mocks me with the ticking of the clock, reminding me that it'll keep going whether I want it to or not. The gentle knocking ceased; it appeared she had given up. I laughed again at the thought that even my relatives were giving up on me.
Clawing at the bedspread, I managed to sit up, still staring blankly at the same spot on that accursed carpet. Why couldn't it have simply been spotless? But life wasn't clean, Time wouldn't stop. Therefore the rug would continue to get dirty, would continue to get stained until it was utterly destroyed. Metaphorically speaking, I was the carpet and I was slowly going to destroy myself until I ended up six feet under.
Meandering the lonely streets without company once again seemed a foolish idea. It was disastrous to be a teenage boy walking the alleyways alone but then again, safety was last in my mind. Every crooked mind in Belleville seemed to be holed up in their houses plotting their next move because the streets were completely empty. The road was familiar, each street sign pointing in the direction to my grandparent's home. Relief was front and foremost, the fact that I would soon reach familiarity.
With each step came the thought of Gerard, on what he was doing. It was sickening to be this way, to think of one person and one person only after just a few days with him. It was sickening but it was the way things were, simple as that. There was going to be no more complicated solutions to plain problems. I wouldn't begin to twist myself into a figure eight just because I couldn't accept a straightforward solution.
Compared to the odyssey of last time, finding my grandfather's neighborhood was a breeze. The guard quickly let me pass through and, thanks to his exhaustion, no questions were made as to my whereabouts or health. The houses were devoid of children running about, of arguments. Everything was dead quiet to the point where it was simply worrisome. It was as if everyone had simply upped and abandoned their house this night. The thought was not a comforting one.
Still, the warm lights of my grandfather's house were welcoming, beckoning me to bask in their glow. Standing just outside the door, the scent of some baked good seeped through the cracks in the same, leaking out. Mouth salivating, I raised my hand to knock, remembering good manners, remembering that it was impolite to simply barge in. In a few more moments of gentle rapping, there came the sound of footsteps tapping just on the other side of the wood door.
The same was cracked open, a weary eye peering through to see just who this late night visitor was. With a smile then, the door was thrown open and two warm arms engulfed my small frame. "Frank, my boy; come on in out of the cold." Without a moment's hesitation, I slipped into the foyer, released now by the grip of the elderly gentleman standing before me. A smile was stretching his lips, his hands over his chest, the door now shut against the cold night. For a few moments he simply stared at my form, drinking in my appearance.
The smile was slowly beginning to slip off his face, his hand now grasping my upper arm. "What happened, Frankie?" he asked wearily, dragging me across the hallway into the kitchen. He set me down on a chair, seating himself across from me. My grandmother noticed my presence and quickly set to greeting me, planting a quick kiss on my cheek, her hands bustling. She was faster at noticing something off with me, however, and she then set about to offering me nourishment and drink so I could speak.
Gratefully I accepted her offers, suddenly aware that my breath stank of alcohol and my whole appearance was less than satisfactory. For a long moment there was only a deadening silence in the room, no one wishing to be the first to speak just yet. But someone had to break the ice, to speak the first words that would give way to a scintillating conversation.
"What happened this time, Frank?" he repeated with the amount of exhaustion, watching as I devoured the steaming food that had been set before me. A sigh escaped my lips, the fork clattering onto the scratched plate. Mentally, I began to prepare myself, arranging the events in a somewhat coherent fashion that I could relate to the likes of my grandparents. There were parts I would have to omit, parts I would have to keep hidden because they were simply not suitable for them.
"Mom dumped me on the side of the road," I began wearily, poking at the remainder of the food with the fork. Grandma gasped and immediately began to fuss but Grandpa stopped her, motioning for her to sit back down and wait for the rest of the story. Sighing, I explained the events that had brought me to their door, saying that Mikey was a good friend from school and had lent me these clothes. I just barely mentioned the attack, minimizing the actual event. Even with my omission, my grandmother was beside herself with worry, eager to pitch in and give comfort.
I ended in about a half hour, the food now completely cold, the beverage at room temperature. They both remained silent, a feat I thought impossible, mulling over the information that had been injected into their brains. My grandfather, as usual, was the first to speak, "Get to your room; I'll talk to you about this later." Without another word, he left the kitchen, leaving the both of us just staring silently at the tabletop.
"You'd better do what your grandpa says, honey," Grandma whispered, picking up the plate and glass to busy herself. I needed no further encouragement and I quickly pushed the chair away from the table, standing up to go to the room I had claimed. A great weight had been lifted from my shoulders but a lighter one had set in. Zombie-like, unable to focus entirely on anything I was doing, I walked into the room, locking the door behind me.
The familiar, peculiar scent of the room filled my nostrils, giving me extreme nostalgia. This was my refuge, my little haven that I could hide in until I needed to face the world and my problems again. This was the place that would give me comfort when I most needed it. There was the bed that would engulf me in its safety, whisper to me to sleep until I could get up again. But it wasn't the same this time. This time there were bigger problems nipping at my ankles, constricting my air supply.
"I'm in deep shit now," I muttered to myself, collapsing onto the bed without any more hesitation. There were a dozen things I wanted to do running through my mind. I wanted to go back to Gerard. I wanted to throw myself off a building. I wanted to crawl under the sheets and sleep. I wanted to curl in a corner and cry. I wanted to hide under a rock and simply die. But I couldn't act upon any of them, frozen in time, staring at the ceiling. They all seemed so very foolish, anyway; something a child might wish for.
Time sped by once again, counted by the clock ticking on the wall. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. And it never once paused. Incessant, horrid time. The seconds, minutes, continued passing without nary a moment's pause for the world. Time was independent; the world depended upon the time. Stupid, stupid Time. There were probably dozens, hundreds, thousands of people around this fragile, small earth begging with time, pleading with it to remain still. And there were probably the same amount of people begging for it to speed up.
Time didn't listen to the pleas of so many hapless souls. Why should Time, something so adored, so accursed, pay attention? The people living in this hell-hole had no control over something so majestic; they couldn't control something so different. It wasn't anything material, anything anyone could hold on to. Time was simply passing us by, leaving behind a wake of humans that had thought they could appeal to it.
Suddenly, a wry laugh welled in my throat, escaping my pursed lips. I couldn't stop it, couldn't stop Time. And Time laughed at me; Time spat in my face and laughed and laughed. So I would laugh with it, for thinking mere humans could invent a machine to tear through Time. I would laugh at the thought that we wanted to warp Time, render it materialistic as everything else in this hunk of rock we call Earth.
I laughed until my ribs hurt and my lungs strained to fill with the needed oxygen. I laughed until the tears slipped from my eyes and fell onto the sheets. I laughed until my limbs were weak and I was lying on the floor with no recollection as to how I got there. And then came the hapless staring into the carpet. Then came the moments looking at the dirt particles that somehow remained before my eyes. No one wants to clean up the messes made by other's problems. And the dirt was my problem; all those little grains soiling the carpet.
A sigh escaped my lips now as I stared into the grime, not wishing to get up and away from those. What was the use in running from my problems? What was the use in fleeing the country or avoiding the very people that had tried to save me? Ribs pushing painfully into the carpet, heart thudding into the sternum. I was in pain but I couldn't move, couldn't turn away.
There came a gentle knock on the door, then; so quiet I could barely hear it. My mouth opened to speak but no words escaped and I promptly closed it again. "Frank," a voice called, one which I recognized as my grandmother. I ignored the call, burying my face in the rather foul-smelling carpet. The stench barely bothered me; I had smelled worse. The call came again, fainter, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her but me. I paid it no heed, digging my nails into the carpet, closing my eyes tightly.
I'd rather be blind at the moment, unseeing, unfeeling. If I couldn't see, my problems wouldn't be before me, taunting me. If I couldn't see, I wouldn't have hurt Dorian. But the fact is that I can't change Time. Time laughs at me, mocks me with the ticking of the clock, reminding me that it'll keep going whether I want it to or not. The gentle knocking ceased; it appeared she had given up. I laughed again at the thought that even my relatives were giving up on me.
Clawing at the bedspread, I managed to sit up, still staring blankly at the same spot on that accursed carpet. Why couldn't it have simply been spotless? But life wasn't clean, Time wouldn't stop. Therefore the rug would continue to get dirty, would continue to get stained until it was utterly destroyed. Metaphorically speaking, I was the carpet and I was slowly going to destroy myself until I ended up six feet under.