Something I Could Hold Onto

Frank stepped sullenly into the dark apartment, his head heavy with unspent tears and too many regrets.

Going to New York in the first place.

Giving Gerard his cell phone number.

Spending the day with him.

Allowing himself to enjoy it.

Being stupid enough to trust a near stranger.

Missing him, nonetheless.

A sigh of combined exhaustion and exasperation escaped his trembling lips, the lump in his throat warning him of another series of sobs on the way. Angrily, he grabbed handfuls of his tear-matted hair and pulled. Don't cry over that bastard again, he urged himself, closing his eyes and breathing deeply to avoid the sorrowful convulsions begging to spill out.

Frank stood there for several seconds, reveling in the quiet atmosphere of his apartment and the solitude that came with it. He allowed himself to fall backwards into a nearby chair, tilting his head back in an effort to relax. His senses soon began to fade, allowing him to drift into a calm dreamless sleep.

It was something he was extremely grateful for.

… "Who the fuck 'er you?" the gruff voice boomed, shaking Frank from his much needed rest.

His eyelids fluttered open against the rainy light, attempting to accustom themselves to the bluish glow. After several hard blinks, his sight came into focus; although his vision may have been centered, his mind was in a mass state of confusion.

Before him stood a tall, scruffy, heavyset man dressed in less-than-impressive attire. The salt and pepper beard adorning his chin accentuated the greasy gray strands dangling in his face and the wrinkles scribbled across his skin. A blue-flannel shirt hung open on his torso, a once-white wife beater shining through the opening. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows; the needle tracks on his forearms told Frank more about this man than any introduction could. His jeans, even, reeked of addiction: burn marks, rips, and crudely drawn pipes decorated the worn denim – the result of years of wear.

Frank's jaw went slack as he took in this stranger, his eyes glazing over and mind going blank.

"I said, who the fuck are you!" the man shouted again, stepping dangerously close to the quivering boy.

"I-I-I'm F-Frank," he stuttered quickly, "I-I live h-here." His mouth felt dry as he uttered the words, and the lump in his throat made a sudden reappearance.

The stranger grunted, before stepping back and wiping his nose. "So you're Linda's son, then?" he said casually, acting as if he previous outburst had never occurred.

Words escaped the anxious boy; he could only find energy to nod.

"I'm your mama's friend, Rick," he explained, the hoarseness of his voice causing Frank more worry than relief. "She was supposed to tell you I was stayin' here for a while."

Frank nodded again. "N-nice to meet you," he lied, shaking voice giving away his nerves.

A disconcerting chuckle spilled from Rick's lips, making Frank's skin crawl.

"You sure are a damn pansy, aren't you?" he joked, stepping back towards the young man.

His chubby fingers found their way to Frank's chin, pulling his head upwards so their eyes would meet. Seconds passed by in uncomfortable silence, the only sounds in the room the heavy tick tock of the clock and Rick's wheezy breaths.

"Well, well," he said finally, releasing the boy's face with more force than necessary. "Your mama said you were a looker, but I guess she exaggerated." He snorted loudly, scowling slightly as he observed the boy once more. "I don't see anything but an ugly fag."