Don't Blink, They Won't Even Miss You At All
Chapter One
His face was splattered with mud from where he’d been shoved into the dirt and stamped on, their cruel laughter echoing coldly through the freezing air. His clothes were mere shreds, hanging by a thread to his bruised body. His hair was matted with blood, falling limply into his dulled hazel eyes. His hands were tied roughly behind his back with a harsh cord, in a position so awkward it was painful after two minutes. He was shoved, stumbling forwards towards the ground where he was to be executed.
“Hurry the fuck up,” one of them said, kicking Frank from behind, causing him to trip over, falling flat on his face in the mud. He heard their laughter, and felt a few more kicks to his side, before he was hauled upwards by his arm. He said nothing – he’d said nothing to them at all. For three years, he hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Come on,” someone spat, and Frank walked on, trying to keep his head held high, keep the shreds of his dignity intact. He was shoved roughly against the wall, eyes staring forwards, refusing to look them in the eye. They laughed at him, kicking him a few more times for good measure, before he was left, the audience cheering and jeering at him.
He had witnesses to the injustice that was being done to him. Not that they’d see it that way.
Suddenly, the crowd hushed, everyone cutting their speech at the same time.
The firing squad was out.
Five men. All wearing the same uniform. They all looked exactly the same, save one person. Only one stood out to him. One person.
Gerard.
“Aim!” The squad cocked their pistols at Frank, barrels gaping at him, black and forbidding.
“I’m so sorry,” Gerard mouthed, finger trembling on the trigger.
Frank said nothing.
“Fire!”
The last thing Frank saw was Gerard, the Gerard he’d once loved. The Gerard he’d lived for.
The Gerard he’d died for.
He stayed silent. He never cried out once.
“Hurry the fuck up,” one of them said, kicking Frank from behind, causing him to trip over, falling flat on his face in the mud. He heard their laughter, and felt a few more kicks to his side, before he was hauled upwards by his arm. He said nothing – he’d said nothing to them at all. For three years, he hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Come on,” someone spat, and Frank walked on, trying to keep his head held high, keep the shreds of his dignity intact. He was shoved roughly against the wall, eyes staring forwards, refusing to look them in the eye. They laughed at him, kicking him a few more times for good measure, before he was left, the audience cheering and jeering at him.
He had witnesses to the injustice that was being done to him. Not that they’d see it that way.
Suddenly, the crowd hushed, everyone cutting their speech at the same time.
The firing squad was out.
Five men. All wearing the same uniform. They all looked exactly the same, save one person. Only one stood out to him. One person.
Gerard.
“Aim!” The squad cocked their pistols at Frank, barrels gaping at him, black and forbidding.
“I’m so sorry,” Gerard mouthed, finger trembling on the trigger.
Frank said nothing.
“Fire!”
The last thing Frank saw was Gerard, the Gerard he’d once loved. The Gerard he’d lived for.
The Gerard he’d died for.
He stayed silent. He never cried out once.