I'm Sorrier Than You Can Know
One
It took Frankie a month to finish the painting, but it was worth it. The picture was taller than he was, and twice as wide, and the black paint dripping down the background gave the impression that the wall was melting. The last part of Frankie’s holidays had been spent in the dark, painting this huge work of art. Sucking contemplatively on the end of a paintbrush, Frankie surveyed his work and smiled. A dead, grey tree reached up into the black of his painted sky, covered in bats. The faceless woman hanging from the noose seemed to stare at Frankie, sending chills up his spine, from the tips of his toes to the top of his black-haired head. The psych would want to see this painting, but she was only going to increase his dosage.
“Frankie, come down for dinner.” His father’s voice reached his ears, and in typical teen angst fashion, he ignored the call. With a little more than nonchalant composure, Frankie turned to his sketchbook. It was barely more than a scribble, but a new picture began to emerge onto the paper.
“Son, why do you lock yourself up all day?” sadness tainted Frankie’s father’s voice.
“I sleep. I’m nocturnal.” It was true. His pallor glowed against the dim light of the dining room.
“Right. Eat, please,”
“You cant make me.” Frankie muttered, letting his fringe fall over his eye, in which a tear was welling.
“Frankie, you can’t be like this forever. If you still refuse to move on, you need talk to your psych more,”
Frankie stood up, taking his plate with him, which he flipped over, sending spaghetti flying across the table.
“How can you just block mom out of your head? What the fuck is wrong with you, you…”
Angry tears were falling onto his grey My Chemical Romance shirt. His father’s eyes looked so empty; so devoid of compassion. Frankie gripped his hair with both hands and turned away from his father.
“Frank, calm down.”
“NO!” he roared, banging his fist on the table.
“FRANK, SIT THE FUCK DOWN, NOW!” Frankie’s father grabbed his son’s shoulder in an iron grip. Frank ignored his father’s order, and sent his fist flying at the disgusting face that grimaced only inches from his own. Blood trickled from Frank’s father’s nose, and the punch sent his stumbling backwards in shock. Taking his chance, Frankie bolted upstairs and locked his bedroom door. As the sound of his father’s footsteps made their way up the stairs, he rushed around his room, searching for a jacket. Finding one, Frankie took one last look at the painting he had just finished, and climbed out the window. Just as his converse-clad feet hit the ground, his father burst through the bedroom door and yelled threats out of the open window.
“Fuck you, and goodbye.” Frankie whispered, the soft underside of his hood brushing gently against his cheek. A cool breeze whipped past him, and he pulled the hoodie tighter around him.
The streets of Berkeley, CA are not a safe place to be at night. No streets are a safe place to be at night, as a matter of fact, and Frankie knew this. His pierced lip, Adeline hoodie and middle-class air about him screamed roll me. In addition, the earring in his right ear got him regularly bashed. Frankie needed to go somewhere, and home was not an option. His only other option was a place he never wanted to go again, but at this time, it was safer than walking the streets. Brendan’s house was a few blocks down the road, and Frankie dreaded what awkward conversation awaited him there. He had said to himself a month ago that he would never set foot in his ex-boyfriend’s house again, but his situation said he had to. So it was do or die.
“Frankie! What are you doing here?” Brendan spoke in a loud whisper from his bedroom window.
“Can I stay come in?”
“Uh…” Brendan shot a concerned look behind him. With a sigh, Frankie ran a hand through his hair.
“Who’ve you got up there?”
“No one…my friend…”
“Okay, I don’t care who it is; I cant stay out on the streets Bren,”
“Ok ok. Climb through the window, but for god’s sake don’t make any noise.”
Frankie pulled himself through the window, and shot a greasy look at the guy who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with his fingerless glove and looking awkward.
“Jay, this is Frankie. Brendan didn’t look at either of them as he spoke.
“I can sleep on the couch. It’s cool,” Frankie looked Brendan in the eye and saw a glimmer of something, something he wasn’t sure of the meaning of. Something that said “I’m sorry,”
“Ok,” said Brendan, “just don’t make any noise down there. And could you be gone by the time my parents get up?”
“Sure. Goodnight, bren,”
The clock in Brendan’s living room struck twelve, the loud ringing pulled him from the dream Frankie had been having. Images of blood, the noose and ghostly trees haunted his dreams, his mother’s last words constantly burning themselves into his brain in that shaky handwriting.
“I’m sorrier than you can know…”
“Frankie, come down for dinner.” His father’s voice reached his ears, and in typical teen angst fashion, he ignored the call. With a little more than nonchalant composure, Frankie turned to his sketchbook. It was barely more than a scribble, but a new picture began to emerge onto the paper.
“Son, why do you lock yourself up all day?” sadness tainted Frankie’s father’s voice.
“I sleep. I’m nocturnal.” It was true. His pallor glowed against the dim light of the dining room.
“Right. Eat, please,”
“You cant make me.” Frankie muttered, letting his fringe fall over his eye, in which a tear was welling.
“Frankie, you can’t be like this forever. If you still refuse to move on, you need talk to your psych more,”
Frankie stood up, taking his plate with him, which he flipped over, sending spaghetti flying across the table.
“How can you just block mom out of your head? What the fuck is wrong with you, you…”
Angry tears were falling onto his grey My Chemical Romance shirt. His father’s eyes looked so empty; so devoid of compassion. Frankie gripped his hair with both hands and turned away from his father.
“Frank, calm down.”
“NO!” he roared, banging his fist on the table.
“FRANK, SIT THE FUCK DOWN, NOW!” Frankie’s father grabbed his son’s shoulder in an iron grip. Frank ignored his father’s order, and sent his fist flying at the disgusting face that grimaced only inches from his own. Blood trickled from Frank’s father’s nose, and the punch sent his stumbling backwards in shock. Taking his chance, Frankie bolted upstairs and locked his bedroom door. As the sound of his father’s footsteps made their way up the stairs, he rushed around his room, searching for a jacket. Finding one, Frankie took one last look at the painting he had just finished, and climbed out the window. Just as his converse-clad feet hit the ground, his father burst through the bedroom door and yelled threats out of the open window.
“Fuck you, and goodbye.” Frankie whispered, the soft underside of his hood brushing gently against his cheek. A cool breeze whipped past him, and he pulled the hoodie tighter around him.
The streets of Berkeley, CA are not a safe place to be at night. No streets are a safe place to be at night, as a matter of fact, and Frankie knew this. His pierced lip, Adeline hoodie and middle-class air about him screamed roll me. In addition, the earring in his right ear got him regularly bashed. Frankie needed to go somewhere, and home was not an option. His only other option was a place he never wanted to go again, but at this time, it was safer than walking the streets. Brendan’s house was a few blocks down the road, and Frankie dreaded what awkward conversation awaited him there. He had said to himself a month ago that he would never set foot in his ex-boyfriend’s house again, but his situation said he had to. So it was do or die.
“Frankie! What are you doing here?” Brendan spoke in a loud whisper from his bedroom window.
“Can I stay come in?”
“Uh…” Brendan shot a concerned look behind him. With a sigh, Frankie ran a hand through his hair.
“Who’ve you got up there?”
“No one…my friend…”
“Okay, I don’t care who it is; I cant stay out on the streets Bren,”
“Ok ok. Climb through the window, but for god’s sake don’t make any noise.”
Frankie pulled himself through the window, and shot a greasy look at the guy who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with his fingerless glove and looking awkward.
“Jay, this is Frankie. Brendan didn’t look at either of them as he spoke.
“I can sleep on the couch. It’s cool,” Frankie looked Brendan in the eye and saw a glimmer of something, something he wasn’t sure of the meaning of. Something that said “I’m sorry,”
“Ok,” said Brendan, “just don’t make any noise down there. And could you be gone by the time my parents get up?”
“Sure. Goodnight, bren,”
The clock in Brendan’s living room struck twelve, the loud ringing pulled him from the dream Frankie had been having. Images of blood, the noose and ghostly trees haunted his dreams, his mother’s last words constantly burning themselves into his brain in that shaky handwriting.
“I’m sorrier than you can know…”