Enigma.
002
There were times where Frank just didn’t know what to think anymore. He was tired and hungry... and broke. Frank had no bank account, no credit card, no phone, no email... why? Because that would require him to have contact with other people. He didn’t want that, oh no. So it was another night of nothing. He hadn’t eaten anything in what must’ve been weeks now, months even—the grocery list hadn’t been filled since godknowswhen and it was just too risky to go out to the dumpster in the alley. He’d rather starve.
So instead of focusing solely on the inevitable rumbling of his stomach and the stinging feeling of the acid churning nothing but his flesh, he paced. Frank had been doing this for the past... six hours and he was beginning to create a small shallow groove in the floor from the friction between his bare feet and the hardwood.
There were bullets in his brain. Not in a literal sense, but that was the only way to describe this continuous annoying rata-tat-tat noise that was hammering throughout his skull. If there was an actual gun, then this story wouldn’t exist. There wouldn’t be a life to tell.
Frank’s hands were shaking as he opened up his packet of cigarettes. He watched the stick quiver between his index and middle finger, bringing to his mouth and fishing for his lighter on the floor. Once it was lit, he walked to the yellowed mattress sitting against his dirt stained wall and collapsed on the back of it, inhaling the smoke.
“Fuck.”
He wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore. His mind was so muddled up with numerous lists that he’d never got around to doing and old memories that he’d much rather forget. It was around this time that Frank got so frustrated with everything that was buzzing around in his skull that he’d get up, walk over to the other wall and ram his head repeatedly against it. He had no idea why he did it—he just did. And it made him forget. It made the bullets go away.
“I am... so tired.”
He went through the same thing every day. It was a routine. Everything was on a list, whether it’d be making sure the old phone was still disconnected or having another cigarette, it all had to be a regular thing. Frank wrote lists on the paper from his printer and when that ran out, he opted for newsprint from the sports section, because that was what seemed the most useless. And the music section was next, because he figured he could never do it.
The only part of the newspaper that he kept close was the world section. He bothered to read it to have a spiteful laugh; the world was so stupid and he enjoyed seeing it bring its own demise. The news of wars, crashes, lost children... even if it was as morbid as a bloody murder; it all brought a big grin to Frank’s face. Because it showed how just plain senseless humanity was.
Frank bet that if he really wanted to, he could go out in broad daylight, stab someone in the gut and walk away looking completely innocent for years. No one would see, no one would notice and ultimately, no one would care. This was dark part of Jersey—things like manslaughter and homicide happened almost every day.
It fuelled Frank to know that if he could have the audacity to venture out into the city any day now, he’d be able to add to the misfortune and the terror that graced its streets. And that very thought brought a smile to his face—he could rid this town of all the scum and the filth and the waste of flesh and blood that God had so graciously given, and make it all a better place.
Frank took a deep breath, crushing the butt of the cigarette on the floor. He clenched his fist, loving the feeling of the thought of revenge that he could take. He leaned back against the wall, resting his arms behind his head in content. He shut his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose.
And he smirked.
So instead of focusing solely on the inevitable rumbling of his stomach and the stinging feeling of the acid churning nothing but his flesh, he paced. Frank had been doing this for the past... six hours and he was beginning to create a small shallow groove in the floor from the friction between his bare feet and the hardwood.
There were bullets in his brain. Not in a literal sense, but that was the only way to describe this continuous annoying rata-tat-tat noise that was hammering throughout his skull. If there was an actual gun, then this story wouldn’t exist. There wouldn’t be a life to tell.
Frank’s hands were shaking as he opened up his packet of cigarettes. He watched the stick quiver between his index and middle finger, bringing to his mouth and fishing for his lighter on the floor. Once it was lit, he walked to the yellowed mattress sitting against his dirt stained wall and collapsed on the back of it, inhaling the smoke.
“Fuck.”
He wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore. His mind was so muddled up with numerous lists that he’d never got around to doing and old memories that he’d much rather forget. It was around this time that Frank got so frustrated with everything that was buzzing around in his skull that he’d get up, walk over to the other wall and ram his head repeatedly against it. He had no idea why he did it—he just did. And it made him forget. It made the bullets go away.
“I am... so tired.”
He went through the same thing every day. It was a routine. Everything was on a list, whether it’d be making sure the old phone was still disconnected or having another cigarette, it all had to be a regular thing. Frank wrote lists on the paper from his printer and when that ran out, he opted for newsprint from the sports section, because that was what seemed the most useless. And the music section was next, because he figured he could never do it.
The only part of the newspaper that he kept close was the world section. He bothered to read it to have a spiteful laugh; the world was so stupid and he enjoyed seeing it bring its own demise. The news of wars, crashes, lost children... even if it was as morbid as a bloody murder; it all brought a big grin to Frank’s face. Because it showed how just plain senseless humanity was.
Frank bet that if he really wanted to, he could go out in broad daylight, stab someone in the gut and walk away looking completely innocent for years. No one would see, no one would notice and ultimately, no one would care. This was dark part of Jersey—things like manslaughter and homicide happened almost every day.
It fuelled Frank to know that if he could have the audacity to venture out into the city any day now, he’d be able to add to the misfortune and the terror that graced its streets. And that very thought brought a smile to his face—he could rid this town of all the scum and the filth and the waste of flesh and blood that God had so graciously given, and make it all a better place.
Frank took a deep breath, crushing the butt of the cigarette on the floor. He clenched his fist, loving the feeling of the thought of revenge that he could take. He leaned back against the wall, resting his arms behind his head in content. He shut his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose.
And he smirked.