Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces
A Quiet Scene of Death
[Frank's P.O.V. ...finally]
The face that stared back at me, the eyes that gazed at me intently, sent cold shivers up and down my spine. This person, this deemed human was someone I would rather avoid for the rest of my life. The title of human did not fit him; he was not fit to be called human. Dirt, scumbag, lowly bastard: these were the titles that suited him; the titles that truly lit his figure in the light it deserved. He was the man that had nearly driven me to the brink of insanity. His constant mind games, the way he drove his fist in my delicate flesh was what had driven me to unspeakable actions. I had vowed to kill him if I ever saw his gaunt face again but fear was the only thing pervading me, not rage.
It was this face that haunted my dreams at night, mocking as ever, deadly as ever. I had hoped to never see him again; it was obvious my wishes would never come true. I had been lucky, that was simply the matter. I had been so entirely lucky that I hadn't seen him in years, even though we both inhabited the same god-forsaken city. We had never encountered again and I had thought myself safe. Oh, how wrong I was to believe such a foolish dream. I fell into a false sense of security, lulled by the passage of time in which his face did not disgrace my waking eyes.
It was him, my silent killer. It was him, the man that had harmed me in the ways I never thought possible. He had controlled my mind like a master at puppetry, pulling the strings in just the right way. And, when he had thought I was simply unnecessary in the world, he attempted to cut the strings in one lead explosion. He missed, grazing the strings so that I would always carry a slight singe; so that I would always carry his memory and live in fear. He had been taken away and we all thought we were safe. We should have realized; this is New Jersey, a dingy, god-forsaken place.
"Well, well, Frank; I never thought I'd see your sorry face again," he snarled, high above me as he had always been. He had been the one above me, always above me, always more powerful than I could ever hope to be. I scrambled to my feet, hoping that the added height would give me the strength I needed to overcome this demon of my past. There was no erasing the damage he had done but still, I was able to at least gain the strength to talk back.
"I could say the same about you, you bastard," I but whispered, a venom tinting my words that I didn't know I contained within me. There was no greater urge than that to kill him; to destroy him as he had destroyed me. But I would not miss, not like him. I wanted a bullet to tear through his flesh, muscles, organs and bone. I wanted him dead. He laughed, however. He laughed a hollow, high-pitched laugh that chilled me to the bone and made me think of fingernails over a chalkboard.
"What a pathetic attempt at bravery, Frankie," he said in a growl, reaching out a hand in an attempt to touch me. Allowing his flesh to reach mine could only result in a burning sensation I wouldn't be able to wash away. Allowing him to lay his hand even lightly upon my cheek would signify returning to the past. And so I used my half-empty bottle to my advantage, rapping the delicate bone of his wrist with the cool glass. He hissed, pulling his hand away sharply.
"Don't you ever dare to try and touch me again," I said, not knowing where this hidden reserve of energy and courage was coming from. Still, I wished only to kill him and it was that one act I still could not find the courage to do. I couldn't kill him. I couldn't take his life or damage it as he had done to mine.
"Where did this come from? As I remembered it, you were just a weak, insignificant splatter of mud on the world. As I remembered it, you were worth absolutely nothing." I shivered, though no cold currents embraced my forlorn body.
"And as I remembered it, you were just a cruel bastard with thoughts on destroying every fiber of my being," I snarled back, my tone matching his for once. But, still, it scares me to have his voice, to speak as he always did. To match his rage and hate for once is frightful and painful. I hate him with every fiber of my being that he wanted to tear apart and break. His hands dart out towards me, wrapping around my throat, the ends of his fingers pressing lightly into my windpipe. He pushes me against the building behind me, bringing his face close to mine.
"Got anything else to say, you sorry fuck?" he spits in my face, his hot, putrid breath reaching my nostrils.
"Yeah, I do," I choke out, clutching the bottle in my hand even tighter, "Watch out." And with that I swing my arm up, catching him in the back of his head with the bottle. Miraculously, it does not shatter but still he lets me go, clutching desperately at the back of his head, allowing me to slide down the gritty wall behind me.
"You little bastard," he whispers, though his voice is obviously pained, turning angered eyes in my direction. I can only stare, stunned, at the hand holding the bottle, surprised I could do something of that sort. It was not enough to kill him; hell, it was not enough to knock him unconscious. Still, I had the bravery to act against him, to attempt to hurt him. A surge of adrenaline pumps now through my veins, giving me the strength I had searched for. I cannot fear him at the moment; the adrenaline and rage prevents me from such a trite feeling as fear. "You're going to fucking pay for that."
"And what are you going to do?" I hiss, turning for a split second to smash the neck of the bottle off, holding the broken glass like a weapon. "I'm not the same person you knew years ago. I'm not that weakling." I jumped at him, brandishing the glass clumsily. I had never done something of the sort; I had never attempted against any other person. He stops me easily.
"What did you think you were going to do with that?" he whispers, gripping my wrist tight. "Did you think you could end me as I tried to end you?"
"You tried; you didn't succeed. You couldn't even end my life with me standing still right in front of you, you coward." I should learn to shut my mouth when faced with a person capable of killing me.
"I will succeed. I'm going to kill you; I'm going to take the life I lost."
"You didn't lose it; I simply kept it." I managed to slip out of his grip, shocked as he was, grabbing the broken neck from the floor in the other hand. I couldn't help but think, even in this situation, whether I had broken the bottle the right way. Somehow, I kept thinking I hadn't. With a grunt of fury, he charged at me again and this time, I did not miss either. The bottle caught his arm, the shards of sharp glass slicing through his delicate skin. I had hurt him; I had spilled his blood upon the dirty concrete of the street. I was on top for once in my life; for once I had some control.
This control was short-lived. His rage far surpassed mine and he had always been by far the stronger man. His hands gripped my throat again and this time he didn't push me against the wall but brought me crashing down onto the ground, the broken pieces of glass digging into my back. I dropped the broken neck of the bottle, using my free hand to claw desperately at his hands. I had to get away; I couldn't let him overpower me as before. "Get off of me, you bastard," I managed to choke out, though his fingers were pressing down on my throat, cutting off my air supply.
"Such language. Why don't you call me by my name? Why can't you say it? Fucking say my name, Frank; it'll make killing you so much more satisfactory." I tried shaking my head but his hands prevented me from doing such a thing. In a last desperate attempt, I brought up the bottle again and this time, my aim was spot-on. The broken end caught him on his neck, tearing it open, leaving a large, gaping gash on his throat. Blood began pouring out in streams and rivers, soaking his shirt and mine. He let me go finally, his hand going to his throat, his eyes reflecting unbelievable pain. Hacking, the sudden onset of oxygen hurting my delicate, deprived lungs, I rolled away, the glass sticking to the back of my stained shirt.
And then I watched him. I watched as he tried to stop the gushing blood. I watched as his mouth opened and he attempted to talk but instead of words, a dark crimson liquid poured from his pale lips. I watched as he collapsed on the floor, trying to suck in air as if his life depended on it. And it did; he was doomed to die by my hands. A sudden fear overwhelmed me; I had attempted against a man. I made a mortal wound by which his life could seep out onto the concrete. Panic-ridden, I scrambled to my feet, staring down at the man before me.
"You bastard," I said as my eyes pricked with tears. For once I wasn't going to hide them; for once I would allow myself to cry freely in this tough town. I damned well deserved to cry after all that had occurred in these few moments. He couldn't die, simply because I couldn't possibly be arrested so early in my life. There was no way I could carry that in my conscience; there was no way I could continue living knowing that I had taken away the life of someone. Despite all my vows of murder, deep in my heart I knew I had never meant to do any of it.
As if in a stupor, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket with shaking hands, dialing 9-1-1. Numb, I listened to the operator and finally connected with the correct person. Looking around me, I gave my location before hanging up, looking down at the man again. This man had a name; he had a family despite everything. Despite his hate, his rage, his obvious phobias, someone somewhere had to love him. And I had ripped him away from everything. He might have deserved it for everything he had done to me but I couldn't help the guilt coursing through me.
"Don't die, Dorian," I muttered, wiping the back of my hand over my eyes. Suddenly I knew I couldn't possibly stay here. When the ambulance arrived, I would be a suspect for his murder. I would be the only one around; I was the one with his blood over me; I was the one with the deemed weapon. It was my entire fault. Still, I couldn't move, rooted to the spot by a voice shattering the quiet scene of death.
"Frank?" Shit.
The face that stared back at me, the eyes that gazed at me intently, sent cold shivers up and down my spine. This person, this deemed human was someone I would rather avoid for the rest of my life. The title of human did not fit him; he was not fit to be called human. Dirt, scumbag, lowly bastard: these were the titles that suited him; the titles that truly lit his figure in the light it deserved. He was the man that had nearly driven me to the brink of insanity. His constant mind games, the way he drove his fist in my delicate flesh was what had driven me to unspeakable actions. I had vowed to kill him if I ever saw his gaunt face again but fear was the only thing pervading me, not rage.
It was this face that haunted my dreams at night, mocking as ever, deadly as ever. I had hoped to never see him again; it was obvious my wishes would never come true. I had been lucky, that was simply the matter. I had been so entirely lucky that I hadn't seen him in years, even though we both inhabited the same god-forsaken city. We had never encountered again and I had thought myself safe. Oh, how wrong I was to believe such a foolish dream. I fell into a false sense of security, lulled by the passage of time in which his face did not disgrace my waking eyes.
It was him, my silent killer. It was him, the man that had harmed me in the ways I never thought possible. He had controlled my mind like a master at puppetry, pulling the strings in just the right way. And, when he had thought I was simply unnecessary in the world, he attempted to cut the strings in one lead explosion. He missed, grazing the strings so that I would always carry a slight singe; so that I would always carry his memory and live in fear. He had been taken away and we all thought we were safe. We should have realized; this is New Jersey, a dingy, god-forsaken place.
"Well, well, Frank; I never thought I'd see your sorry face again," he snarled, high above me as he had always been. He had been the one above me, always above me, always more powerful than I could ever hope to be. I scrambled to my feet, hoping that the added height would give me the strength I needed to overcome this demon of my past. There was no erasing the damage he had done but still, I was able to at least gain the strength to talk back.
"I could say the same about you, you bastard," I but whispered, a venom tinting my words that I didn't know I contained within me. There was no greater urge than that to kill him; to destroy him as he had destroyed me. But I would not miss, not like him. I wanted a bullet to tear through his flesh, muscles, organs and bone. I wanted him dead. He laughed, however. He laughed a hollow, high-pitched laugh that chilled me to the bone and made me think of fingernails over a chalkboard.
"What a pathetic attempt at bravery, Frankie," he said in a growl, reaching out a hand in an attempt to touch me. Allowing his flesh to reach mine could only result in a burning sensation I wouldn't be able to wash away. Allowing him to lay his hand even lightly upon my cheek would signify returning to the past. And so I used my half-empty bottle to my advantage, rapping the delicate bone of his wrist with the cool glass. He hissed, pulling his hand away sharply.
"Don't you ever dare to try and touch me again," I said, not knowing where this hidden reserve of energy and courage was coming from. Still, I wished only to kill him and it was that one act I still could not find the courage to do. I couldn't kill him. I couldn't take his life or damage it as he had done to mine.
"Where did this come from? As I remembered it, you were just a weak, insignificant splatter of mud on the world. As I remembered it, you were worth absolutely nothing." I shivered, though no cold currents embraced my forlorn body.
"And as I remembered it, you were just a cruel bastard with thoughts on destroying every fiber of my being," I snarled back, my tone matching his for once. But, still, it scares me to have his voice, to speak as he always did. To match his rage and hate for once is frightful and painful. I hate him with every fiber of my being that he wanted to tear apart and break. His hands dart out towards me, wrapping around my throat, the ends of his fingers pressing lightly into my windpipe. He pushes me against the building behind me, bringing his face close to mine.
"Got anything else to say, you sorry fuck?" he spits in my face, his hot, putrid breath reaching my nostrils.
"Yeah, I do," I choke out, clutching the bottle in my hand even tighter, "Watch out." And with that I swing my arm up, catching him in the back of his head with the bottle. Miraculously, it does not shatter but still he lets me go, clutching desperately at the back of his head, allowing me to slide down the gritty wall behind me.
"You little bastard," he whispers, though his voice is obviously pained, turning angered eyes in my direction. I can only stare, stunned, at the hand holding the bottle, surprised I could do something of that sort. It was not enough to kill him; hell, it was not enough to knock him unconscious. Still, I had the bravery to act against him, to attempt to hurt him. A surge of adrenaline pumps now through my veins, giving me the strength I had searched for. I cannot fear him at the moment; the adrenaline and rage prevents me from such a trite feeling as fear. "You're going to fucking pay for that."
"And what are you going to do?" I hiss, turning for a split second to smash the neck of the bottle off, holding the broken glass like a weapon. "I'm not the same person you knew years ago. I'm not that weakling." I jumped at him, brandishing the glass clumsily. I had never done something of the sort; I had never attempted against any other person. He stops me easily.
"What did you think you were going to do with that?" he whispers, gripping my wrist tight. "Did you think you could end me as I tried to end you?"
"You tried; you didn't succeed. You couldn't even end my life with me standing still right in front of you, you coward." I should learn to shut my mouth when faced with a person capable of killing me.
"I will succeed. I'm going to kill you; I'm going to take the life I lost."
"You didn't lose it; I simply kept it." I managed to slip out of his grip, shocked as he was, grabbing the broken neck from the floor in the other hand. I couldn't help but think, even in this situation, whether I had broken the bottle the right way. Somehow, I kept thinking I hadn't. With a grunt of fury, he charged at me again and this time, I did not miss either. The bottle caught his arm, the shards of sharp glass slicing through his delicate skin. I had hurt him; I had spilled his blood upon the dirty concrete of the street. I was on top for once in my life; for once I had some control.
This control was short-lived. His rage far surpassed mine and he had always been by far the stronger man. His hands gripped my throat again and this time he didn't push me against the wall but brought me crashing down onto the ground, the broken pieces of glass digging into my back. I dropped the broken neck of the bottle, using my free hand to claw desperately at his hands. I had to get away; I couldn't let him overpower me as before. "Get off of me, you bastard," I managed to choke out, though his fingers were pressing down on my throat, cutting off my air supply.
"Such language. Why don't you call me by my name? Why can't you say it? Fucking say my name, Frank; it'll make killing you so much more satisfactory." I tried shaking my head but his hands prevented me from doing such a thing. In a last desperate attempt, I brought up the bottle again and this time, my aim was spot-on. The broken end caught him on his neck, tearing it open, leaving a large, gaping gash on his throat. Blood began pouring out in streams and rivers, soaking his shirt and mine. He let me go finally, his hand going to his throat, his eyes reflecting unbelievable pain. Hacking, the sudden onset of oxygen hurting my delicate, deprived lungs, I rolled away, the glass sticking to the back of my stained shirt.
And then I watched him. I watched as he tried to stop the gushing blood. I watched as his mouth opened and he attempted to talk but instead of words, a dark crimson liquid poured from his pale lips. I watched as he collapsed on the floor, trying to suck in air as if his life depended on it. And it did; he was doomed to die by my hands. A sudden fear overwhelmed me; I had attempted against a man. I made a mortal wound by which his life could seep out onto the concrete. Panic-ridden, I scrambled to my feet, staring down at the man before me.
"You bastard," I said as my eyes pricked with tears. For once I wasn't going to hide them; for once I would allow myself to cry freely in this tough town. I damned well deserved to cry after all that had occurred in these few moments. He couldn't die, simply because I couldn't possibly be arrested so early in my life. There was no way I could carry that in my conscience; there was no way I could continue living knowing that I had taken away the life of someone. Despite all my vows of murder, deep in my heart I knew I had never meant to do any of it.
As if in a stupor, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket with shaking hands, dialing 9-1-1. Numb, I listened to the operator and finally connected with the correct person. Looking around me, I gave my location before hanging up, looking down at the man again. This man had a name; he had a family despite everything. Despite his hate, his rage, his obvious phobias, someone somewhere had to love him. And I had ripped him away from everything. He might have deserved it for everything he had done to me but I couldn't help the guilt coursing through me.
"Don't die, Dorian," I muttered, wiping the back of my hand over my eyes. Suddenly I knew I couldn't possibly stay here. When the ambulance arrived, I would be a suspect for his murder. I would be the only one around; I was the one with his blood over me; I was the one with the deemed weapon. It was my entire fault. Still, I couldn't move, rooted to the spot by a voice shattering the quiet scene of death.
"Frank?" Shit.
♠ ♠ ♠
Update! Hells yeah.