A Stain That Never Comes Off
One and Only
No. No. This was not happening. Shit shit shit. Oh my fucking God.
“HEY! YOU!” the pedestrian yelled, running down the alleyway.
I dropped the bloodied knife and stuffed the handful of cash into my trench coat pocket. My muscles tensed up and I fucking ran. I ran faster than I ever have before, faster than when Matt Bilson was chasing me across the football field or when the rugby team wanted to kick my ass for checking out Jared White. I was practically soaring.
I flew through the empty Newark sidewalks, not sure if the man was still on my tail. My heart was thumping too loudly to hear the car horns or the fire engine. I needed to get home. To my Frankie.
Climbing up the fire escape (the doorman was asleep), I entered our one bedroom apartment through the window. Frank was sitting on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in between his legs as he flipped through the channels.
“Woah. Woah there Gerard, what's up?” He stood up and crossed the room, concern and a bit of anger on his features. “It's almost two in the morning. Where the fuck were you? I called Mikey two hours ago, and he said that you had left a bit past midnight. Jesus Christ, you haven't been drinking, have you? I was-”
“Frankie, baby, I've done something bad.” I clutched my boyfriend's shoulders and shook them. “Sugar, what am I gonna do?!”
“Woah there. What's going-”
“Breaking news: a man was murdered on 42nd Street, in between Carlos's Pizza and Newark Pawn Shop. This story is still developing-”
Silence roared in my ears. Frank stood there in shock, unable to move. My heart began to pump erratically.
“I wanted to get that guitar for your birthday, baby. I lost my job this morning and I wanted to make you happy. I wanted to see that smile, hear the giggle. Oh sugar, please don't be mad at me,” I rambled hysterically as I fell to my knees. “Tell me that you still love me.”
Frank sat on the floor in shock, head between his knees. “Oh my God Gerard. Out of all the shit you get yourself into...” he began rocking back and forth. “Someone saw you, didn't they? What the fuck are we going to do?” He stopped rocking and flung himself into my arms. “Baby, you can't go to jail. You don't know what they do to guys like us in prison, trust me. I've been there and back.”
“Do you still love me?” I found his hand and squeezed, kissing the top of his head. “I don't know what I would do without you.”
“Of course I still love you, you fucking idiot. But we need to go.” He grasped my head, forcing me to stare right at him. “You're my best fucking friend. I'd die for you.” Frank kissed me passionately, mashing his lips against mine.
“Remember when we – said we have to – go?” I gasped, rubbing my swollen mouth.
“We'd better hurry up,” he pulled me up and dragged me into the bedroom. He pulled out a suitcase and began stuffing random articles of clothing into the dirty bag. I took off my trench coat and blood stained shirt, throwing on an Iron Maiden sweatshirt. I tossed a clean pair of jeans and some deodorant into the bag.
Then, our worst fears came true.
There was a knock at the door.
“Shit shit shit,” Frank muttered, zipping the bag up. “I'll answer it. I'm in pajamas.” He pecked my lips. “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby,” I replied, sinking to the floor. Frank closed the bedroom door and I listened intently.
Footsteps, unlocking of the door. A sleepy greeting from my Frankie. An officer, asking if he's seen a man with dark hair and a trench coat. No officer, my partner and I have been sleeping. What's the trouble? The officer launches into the tale of my homicide. Wow that's terrible. I apologize that I can't be anymore help. That's okay son, have a good night. The door clicks shut. A soft patter of footsteps echoes through the silent apartment.
The bedroom door swings open. “Let's go.”
Leaving the bloodied jacket and shirt behind, the two of us climbed down the fire escape. Frank unlocked his van and threw the suitcase in the back seat.
“Let's blow a hole in this town.” I leaned across the arm rest and pecked my lover's lips, sealing our fate. Just the two of us, running.
“HEY! YOU!” the pedestrian yelled, running down the alleyway.
I dropped the bloodied knife and stuffed the handful of cash into my trench coat pocket. My muscles tensed up and I fucking ran. I ran faster than I ever have before, faster than when Matt Bilson was chasing me across the football field or when the rugby team wanted to kick my ass for checking out Jared White. I was practically soaring.
I flew through the empty Newark sidewalks, not sure if the man was still on my tail. My heart was thumping too loudly to hear the car horns or the fire engine. I needed to get home. To my Frankie.
Climbing up the fire escape (the doorman was asleep), I entered our one bedroom apartment through the window. Frank was sitting on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in between his legs as he flipped through the channels.
“Woah. Woah there Gerard, what's up?” He stood up and crossed the room, concern and a bit of anger on his features. “It's almost two in the morning. Where the fuck were you? I called Mikey two hours ago, and he said that you had left a bit past midnight. Jesus Christ, you haven't been drinking, have you? I was-”
“Frankie, baby, I've done something bad.” I clutched my boyfriend's shoulders and shook them. “Sugar, what am I gonna do?!”
“Woah there. What's going-”
“Breaking news: a man was murdered on 42nd Street, in between Carlos's Pizza and Newark Pawn Shop. This story is still developing-”
Silence roared in my ears. Frank stood there in shock, unable to move. My heart began to pump erratically.
“I wanted to get that guitar for your birthday, baby. I lost my job this morning and I wanted to make you happy. I wanted to see that smile, hear the giggle. Oh sugar, please don't be mad at me,” I rambled hysterically as I fell to my knees. “Tell me that you still love me.”
Frank sat on the floor in shock, head between his knees. “Oh my God Gerard. Out of all the shit you get yourself into...” he began rocking back and forth. “Someone saw you, didn't they? What the fuck are we going to do?” He stopped rocking and flung himself into my arms. “Baby, you can't go to jail. You don't know what they do to guys like us in prison, trust me. I've been there and back.”
“Do you still love me?” I found his hand and squeezed, kissing the top of his head. “I don't know what I would do without you.”
“Of course I still love you, you fucking idiot. But we need to go.” He grasped my head, forcing me to stare right at him. “You're my best fucking friend. I'd die for you.” Frank kissed me passionately, mashing his lips against mine.
“Remember when we – said we have to – go?” I gasped, rubbing my swollen mouth.
“We'd better hurry up,” he pulled me up and dragged me into the bedroom. He pulled out a suitcase and began stuffing random articles of clothing into the dirty bag. I took off my trench coat and blood stained shirt, throwing on an Iron Maiden sweatshirt. I tossed a clean pair of jeans and some deodorant into the bag.
Then, our worst fears came true.
There was a knock at the door.
“Shit shit shit,” Frank muttered, zipping the bag up. “I'll answer it. I'm in pajamas.” He pecked my lips. “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby,” I replied, sinking to the floor. Frank closed the bedroom door and I listened intently.
Footsteps, unlocking of the door. A sleepy greeting from my Frankie. An officer, asking if he's seen a man with dark hair and a trench coat. No officer, my partner and I have been sleeping. What's the trouble? The officer launches into the tale of my homicide. Wow that's terrible. I apologize that I can't be anymore help. That's okay son, have a good night. The door clicks shut. A soft patter of footsteps echoes through the silent apartment.
The bedroom door swings open. “Let's go.”
Leaving the bloodied jacket and shirt behind, the two of us climbed down the fire escape. Frank unlocked his van and threw the suitcase in the back seat.
“Let's blow a hole in this town.” I leaned across the arm rest and pecked my lover's lips, sealing our fate. Just the two of us, running.
♠ ♠ ♠
:)