Ghost of Mine
Discover
Frank’s POV
He’s drawing again – the pencil moving in quick, long strokes over the raw paper. I never understood why he enjoys drawing with pencils on paper that’s obviously meant for charcoal. But that’s the way he is, I know.
I’m lying on my stomach – my chin digging into the armrest of the couch. My neck is bending a lot – my Adam’s apple almost touching the armrest – but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing ever does anymore.
He stops suddenly. He brings the pencil into his mouth and bites down hard.
Not again…
I get up quickly and get over to him, standing next to his drawing table. I look down at the half-finished drawing. Even though it’s only half a face, I still recognize it as my own.
He places a hand over the drawing, before he slides his fingers over it, dragging the paper along. He crumbles it up and throws it away.
I never know why he does it – why he keeps throwing me away. He grabs a tight hold of the pencil – his knuckles turning white for a second or two – before he bows his head down further and focuses on his new drawing.
I already know what’s gonna happen in a little while, so I try to stop him – try to lure him away from what keeps frustrating him.
He looks up. The frustration is still obvious in his eyes.
I hate it when he’s frustrated.
If he gets too frustrated, he always drinks.
I don’t like to see him drink.
He gets up from his chair.
I smile. I drag him out of the room and down the long hallway.
We live in a huge house – 20 feet to the ceiling. The windows are just as tall, but there are no windows in the hallway.
I drag him into our bedroom and get him to sit on the bed.
He looks towards the doorway, as if he wants to go back to his drawing; his frustration.
I won’t allow it. I grab the sides of his face and get him to look straight forward.
He looks scared.
I let go.
He keeps staring forward – his shoulders not tense anymore – and finally, it’s like he spots something. Something behind me catches his eye. He gets up from the bed, walks right past me and over to the wall. He places a hand on the painted bricks and lets it slide over each crack.
I hold my breath.
His hand stops abruptly. He frowns and tilts his head to the side. He presses his fingers against the mortar and one of them slips through – into the wall.
I suck in a quick breath.
He shivers. He then moves his finger. The mortar falls out and a brick comes loose. Once his finger has traced around the entire brick, he easily pulls it out.
I look over his shoulder as he sticks his hand into the darkness. My breathing is heavy. My chest is moving slowly up and down.
He pulls out an old book – cobweb covered in dust sticking to it. He dusts it off.
It reveals a name on the cover.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
He’s drawing again – the pencil moving in quick, long strokes over the raw paper. I never understood why he enjoys drawing with pencils on paper that’s obviously meant for charcoal. But that’s the way he is, I know.
I’m lying on my stomach – my chin digging into the armrest of the couch. My neck is bending a lot – my Adam’s apple almost touching the armrest – but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing ever does anymore.
He stops suddenly. He brings the pencil into his mouth and bites down hard.
Not again…
I get up quickly and get over to him, standing next to his drawing table. I look down at the half-finished drawing. Even though it’s only half a face, I still recognize it as my own.
He places a hand over the drawing, before he slides his fingers over it, dragging the paper along. He crumbles it up and throws it away.
I never know why he does it – why he keeps throwing me away. He grabs a tight hold of the pencil – his knuckles turning white for a second or two – before he bows his head down further and focuses on his new drawing.
I already know what’s gonna happen in a little while, so I try to stop him – try to lure him away from what keeps frustrating him.
He looks up. The frustration is still obvious in his eyes.
I hate it when he’s frustrated.
If he gets too frustrated, he always drinks.
I don’t like to see him drink.
He gets up from his chair.
I smile. I drag him out of the room and down the long hallway.
We live in a huge house – 20 feet to the ceiling. The windows are just as tall, but there are no windows in the hallway.
I drag him into our bedroom and get him to sit on the bed.
He looks towards the doorway, as if he wants to go back to his drawing; his frustration.
I won’t allow it. I grab the sides of his face and get him to look straight forward.
He looks scared.
I let go.
He keeps staring forward – his shoulders not tense anymore – and finally, it’s like he spots something. Something behind me catches his eye. He gets up from the bed, walks right past me and over to the wall. He places a hand on the painted bricks and lets it slide over each crack.
I hold my breath.
His hand stops abruptly. He frowns and tilts his head to the side. He presses his fingers against the mortar and one of them slips through – into the wall.
I suck in a quick breath.
He shivers. He then moves his finger. The mortar falls out and a brick comes loose. Once his finger has traced around the entire brick, he easily pulls it out.
I look over his shoulder as he sticks his hand into the darkness. My breathing is heavy. My chest is moving slowly up and down.
He pulls out an old book – cobweb covered in dust sticking to it. He dusts it off.
It reveals a name on the cover.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
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