Paint It Black

When I went in the studio later, I was dressed down again. My emotions weren't haywire, and I wasn't anxious or nervous. There was only day and a half separating me from Frank, and 2 days from seeing Butcher.

I walked in, keeping my head up, drawing zero attention to myself. I said my hellos to Ray, Gee and Mikey, and a reluctant wave to Frank. No one said a thing, but you could feel the tension between Frank and myself. He looked normal, no angry glares or stares, just a blank.

Time went by slowly, I was being to feel the pressure, and I hated it. Gee recorded some vocals, then left, Mikey and Ray went in the booth to tweak some of the bass parts on SING, so it left Frank, me and Wendell alone for a bit.

"I'm going to hit the head," Wendell said standing.

Frank and I just nodded him off, sitting quietly. I hummed, crossing my legs. The few photos I took were uploaded, and I prayed for an early leave. The tension was growing.

"I'm sorry about what I said yesterday," Frank broke our short silence.

I looked over at him, giving a shrug, "Okay," I answered quietly.

"That's it? You aren't going to give me a smart ass remark?" he chewed at his lip.

"No," shook my head, "it doesn't bother me. I've been called worse, I went to high school."

He gave a soft chuckle, "I really am though, Sunny...I didn't mean it. I was mad about you and the Tyler thing."

"Your apology has been accepted, Frank."

He sighed heavily, "Can you stop talking like a robot for a second?" he gave frustrated groan after.

"Sorry," I mumbled above a whisper.

"Can we talk outside for a second?" he asked standing.

"Alright," I stood with him, unsure of what he wanted to talk about. I knew, at that moment, my medication was controlling my monotone emotions.

He took my hand and led me out the studio, and further towards the left, away from the lobby. He walked quickly, I followed, my shoes plopping behind his. We stopped at a little corner, where there were cushion chairs, and he sat me on the arm of a black, leather armchair. 

"I really, really felt shitty for saying those things I did yesterday. I didn't mean a word, I hope you didn't believe them."

I shook my head, "I did, for a minute, but I rolled it off."

He coursed his dark, stringy hair, it looked as if it hadn't been washed in days; "I hate myself for the way I acted."

I shrugged, "Yeah, well, it's whatever now."

Frank looked at me, unsure of what to say next. He exasperated, looking down at his feet, "You aren't mad?"

I shook my head, "I already told you no."

"So...where does that leave us?"

That question came longer than I expected, and I did what I knew what was right, again, "Friends...I guess."

By the look on his face, I knew that answer didn't satisfy him, "That's it?"

I raise my brow, "What did you expect?"

"Me and you...we're great together."

"No, we aren't. I'm not great with anyone, and I don't want to be with anyone."

He furrowed his brows, "Tyler--"

I cut him off, exasperating angrily, "Ok, listen, you and he must be fucking deaf when I speak to you," I stood, "I don't want to be with either of you! I don't want anyone, I don't need anyone!" He just stared at me, again, speechless. I rung his hair again, leaning away, "I want to finish my job here, go back to Chicago, and hopefully, hopefully never come back to this fucking town. You can be all mad if you want, you can yell, threaten, ignore and pressure me, I don't want to be with you, Frank!"

He bit at the inside of his lip, still silent. I sighed and started back to the studio.
---

The tension had been thicker than the last, and then it was time for me to go home. I didn't really care, though, I was so checked out, that I barely made it home. I felt so exhausted, I just wanted to lie down for the next year or so.
I didn't speak to mom when I got back. I just went down to the basement, I needed to package up my paintings to send them to Chicago; a sign that I wasn't coming back for a long time. They didn't seem to notice as I moved my massive paintings to the living room and boxed them.

I was on auto-pilot again. Nothing seem to run through my mind as I packaged up the paintings. I was numb again, that lovely, familiar feelings.