Leaving.
o1/o1.
“I s’pose it’s better now. Now that I’m going.”
The fucking truth that is.
I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to say what was on my mind. I would stay quiet; say nothing until he’d gone. Or at least, I hoped to. I was succeeding, until Frankie gave me that look of ‘are you going to say something, shithead, or are you dumber than I thought?’ with raised brows and a twitch of the lips.
Ah, Christ.
“Yeah. I agree.” Mother fucker, I added mentally, resisting the urge to break the violin that sat across my lap. The delicate piece of craftsman’s ship, the beautiful instrument to which I’d practiced my hand in the lonely hours of my life. Frankie turned away from me, snapping the locks on his case closed.
“We had good times though, right?” He called over his shoulder as he picked up the teal green suitcase crafted from shitty old plastic. “A lot of them.”
Good times for you, maybe.
“More than enough,” I replied shortly, my fingers wandering along the strings. They would need replacing soon; I could feel them fraying under the delicate touch of my fingers. Out with the old, in with the new. That saying applied to more than just my violin strings. I couldn’t wait to get that old piece of shit I called my man out of my life, and get me a real father for my two girls. They deserved better than this pathetic fucking monster.
“Are you okay?” Frankie asked, arching one brow at me. “You seem a little distant.”
Okay? Am I fucking okay? Of course I’m not fucking okay! “I’m completely and utterly fine, Frankie. Why wouldn’t I be fine? It’s not like I even like you that much, anyway.”
And yet I’ve spent the past four years with you. Strange ways in which the world works, huh?
“Sure you don’t, Mo.”
How many fucking times have I asked him not to call me ‘Mo’? How many god damn times?
I took a deep, cleansing breath, fighting the words that struggled to be let out. The angry words, the inappropriate words. The mad ones, the upset ones, the tearful ones, the frightened ones. In the end, I settled for the relatively calm ones.
“I didn’t like you when I met you -,” Okay, that was a lie. “- And I don’t like you now. Because of how you mess with people’s heads.” He looked at me, his expression a mixture of amusement and sadness.
“Have I messed with your head, Mona?” He questioned, taking a step towards me. Stupid fucking pig. Of course he messed with my head, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Where ever this place you’re going is, you’ll be okay there, won’t you?” I asked. His boys were taking him somewhere secret; keep him safe from the mob. They had promised me and my girls would be safe, that Tony wouldn’t use us to get to him. I wasn’t sure I was safe, nor was I sure that Frankie would live to see his birthday.
“I 'spose. I don’t honestly know.” He answered, shrugging his blazer clad shoulders. And I honestly don’t care. I tried to tell myself that, tell myself that he meant nothing to me. That he was no more than a pimple on the ass that was my life. Yet, I couldn’t quite convince myself.
“And they won’t be able to get to you anymore?” Or me, I wanted to add. I wanted Rose and Celia to be safe. I didn’t want them to be pawns in the sick game of chess their father struggled to play. I didn’t want Frankie to use them the way he used me. He’d always said he cared about me, but that was a lie. His lies had gotten me shot, which is definitely not the way someone shows they care.
“No one will. No one I don’t want.” He answered shortly, breaking me away from my thoughts. He looked ready to go, his jacket on, his suitcase in hand. I saw the outline of his glock in the black silk of his shirt, threatening and frightening. That gun had nearly killed me.
“Will I be able to?” I asked softly, looking down at the instrument in my lap. I don’t know why I asked. I wouldn’t go crawling to him. I didn’t need him, neither did my daughters. He looked at me appraisingly, as though he was searching for the small particle of me that actually cared about him.
“Would you want to?” Frankie responded, his voice softened. I went to reply, but the door was opened to reveal a slim man, dressed in a suit and carrying a hand gun.
“Yo Frankie, it’s time to go. Say good bye to your bird.” This man’s words carried the accents of an Italian, though this one could never have been to his home country. He was one of those stereotypical Italian American gangsters, like someone from the Sopranos. I didn’t even react when he called me a bird; why waste energy telling an idiot something? The man gave a meaningful look to Frankie, then backed out of the room, closing the door with a quiet click. He left us in silence. I waited for a few moments before speaking.
“Just because I don’t like you, doesn’t mean I hate you. It’s two different things, Frankie.”
He looked at me, his eyes dancing slightly. His sea green eyes, the ones that had torn at my heart strings.
“And you say I mess with people’s heads.” Didn’t he sound like an asshole?
“I won’t miss you,” I growled, glaring up at him. He sighed and bent down to my level, putting a hand on my shoulder. He brushed his lips against my cheek, millimetres from the corner of my mouth. I sat stock still, not even twitching. He sighed again and pulled away.
“I know,” Frankie said as he pulled something out of his pocket. He weighed it in his hand. “And I don’t suppose you’ll want this, either?”
I refused to answer his question, watching him with unblinking eyes. He sighed once more, then turned and walked towards the door. He opened it, and then paused for a moment. He turned his head to look at me, his mouth twitching as though he wanted to say something more, something that would change this. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the sadness painted across his face, the regret in his soft green eyes. I didn’t want to let those tears spill; I didn’t want him to see me cry. I heard the muted thud of something being put down, then the click of my bedroom door being closed. I heard muted voices, then the slamming of another door. A car started somewhere in the distance, then faded as it drove off.
I opened my eyes and stood, taking a deep, wavering breath before I walked to the dresser. A small smile spread across my lips as I saw what he had left there.
“No, this I want.”
The fucking truth that is.
I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to say what was on my mind. I would stay quiet; say nothing until he’d gone. Or at least, I hoped to. I was succeeding, until Frankie gave me that look of ‘are you going to say something, shithead, or are you dumber than I thought?’ with raised brows and a twitch of the lips.
Ah, Christ.
“Yeah. I agree.” Mother fucker, I added mentally, resisting the urge to break the violin that sat across my lap. The delicate piece of craftsman’s ship, the beautiful instrument to which I’d practiced my hand in the lonely hours of my life. Frankie turned away from me, snapping the locks on his case closed.
“We had good times though, right?” He called over his shoulder as he picked up the teal green suitcase crafted from shitty old plastic. “A lot of them.”
Good times for you, maybe.
“More than enough,” I replied shortly, my fingers wandering along the strings. They would need replacing soon; I could feel them fraying under the delicate touch of my fingers. Out with the old, in with the new. That saying applied to more than just my violin strings. I couldn’t wait to get that old piece of shit I called my man out of my life, and get me a real father for my two girls. They deserved better than this pathetic fucking monster.
“Are you okay?” Frankie asked, arching one brow at me. “You seem a little distant.”
Okay? Am I fucking okay? Of course I’m not fucking okay! “I’m completely and utterly fine, Frankie. Why wouldn’t I be fine? It’s not like I even like you that much, anyway.”
And yet I’ve spent the past four years with you. Strange ways in which the world works, huh?
“Sure you don’t, Mo.”
How many fucking times have I asked him not to call me ‘Mo’? How many god damn times?
I took a deep, cleansing breath, fighting the words that struggled to be let out. The angry words, the inappropriate words. The mad ones, the upset ones, the tearful ones, the frightened ones. In the end, I settled for the relatively calm ones.
“I didn’t like you when I met you -,” Okay, that was a lie. “- And I don’t like you now. Because of how you mess with people’s heads.” He looked at me, his expression a mixture of amusement and sadness.
“Have I messed with your head, Mona?” He questioned, taking a step towards me. Stupid fucking pig. Of course he messed with my head, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Where ever this place you’re going is, you’ll be okay there, won’t you?” I asked. His boys were taking him somewhere secret; keep him safe from the mob. They had promised me and my girls would be safe, that Tony wouldn’t use us to get to him. I wasn’t sure I was safe, nor was I sure that Frankie would live to see his birthday.
“I 'spose. I don’t honestly know.” He answered, shrugging his blazer clad shoulders. And I honestly don’t care. I tried to tell myself that, tell myself that he meant nothing to me. That he was no more than a pimple on the ass that was my life. Yet, I couldn’t quite convince myself.
“And they won’t be able to get to you anymore?” Or me, I wanted to add. I wanted Rose and Celia to be safe. I didn’t want them to be pawns in the sick game of chess their father struggled to play. I didn’t want Frankie to use them the way he used me. He’d always said he cared about me, but that was a lie. His lies had gotten me shot, which is definitely not the way someone shows they care.
“No one will. No one I don’t want.” He answered shortly, breaking me away from my thoughts. He looked ready to go, his jacket on, his suitcase in hand. I saw the outline of his glock in the black silk of his shirt, threatening and frightening. That gun had nearly killed me.
“Will I be able to?” I asked softly, looking down at the instrument in my lap. I don’t know why I asked. I wouldn’t go crawling to him. I didn’t need him, neither did my daughters. He looked at me appraisingly, as though he was searching for the small particle of me that actually cared about him.
“Would you want to?” Frankie responded, his voice softened. I went to reply, but the door was opened to reveal a slim man, dressed in a suit and carrying a hand gun.
“Yo Frankie, it’s time to go. Say good bye to your bird.” This man’s words carried the accents of an Italian, though this one could never have been to his home country. He was one of those stereotypical Italian American gangsters, like someone from the Sopranos. I didn’t even react when he called me a bird; why waste energy telling an idiot something? The man gave a meaningful look to Frankie, then backed out of the room, closing the door with a quiet click. He left us in silence. I waited for a few moments before speaking.
“Just because I don’t like you, doesn’t mean I hate you. It’s two different things, Frankie.”
He looked at me, his eyes dancing slightly. His sea green eyes, the ones that had torn at my heart strings.
“And you say I mess with people’s heads.” Didn’t he sound like an asshole?
“I won’t miss you,” I growled, glaring up at him. He sighed and bent down to my level, putting a hand on my shoulder. He brushed his lips against my cheek, millimetres from the corner of my mouth. I sat stock still, not even twitching. He sighed again and pulled away.
“I know,” Frankie said as he pulled something out of his pocket. He weighed it in his hand. “And I don’t suppose you’ll want this, either?”
I refused to answer his question, watching him with unblinking eyes. He sighed once more, then turned and walked towards the door. He opened it, and then paused for a moment. He turned his head to look at me, his mouth twitching as though he wanted to say something more, something that would change this. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the sadness painted across his face, the regret in his soft green eyes. I didn’t want to let those tears spill; I didn’t want him to see me cry. I heard the muted thud of something being put down, then the click of my bedroom door being closed. I heard muted voices, then the slamming of another door. A car started somewhere in the distance, then faded as it drove off.
I opened my eyes and stood, taking a deep, wavering breath before I walked to the dresser. A small smile spread across my lips as I saw what he had left there.
“No, this I want.”
♠ ♠ ♠
Eh.I wrote this a few years ago, for some writing competition, where you had to form a story around the dialogue you were given.
I think I was runner up?
Haha.