Flea Bite

"Frank?" I'm groggy, the clock reads 3:22 am. He's stumbling over himself, a bright red mark across his left cheek. He reeks of booze and the only thing on my mind is to pull him inside before the neighbors see him.

"I'm i-in trouble," he burps, looking around my house in awe. I'm worried, wondering what happened to his cheek and why he decided to stumble over to my house this late at night completely wasted.

"What's wrong?" I reach for his hand slowly, unnerved. His hair is disheveled and his shirt is torn slightly down the side. "What happened to you, Frank? You look like a mess."

He frowns at me, offended. He slumps down onto the sofa, and for a brief, selfish moment I worry about his dirty clothes staining the tan couch.

"My d-dad," he mumbles, almost incoherently. "He's a real asshole sometimes, ya'know? And I suppose me drinking didn't help him calm down any." Frank turns to me swiftly, gripping my arm. "Do I have a problem?" He sounds nearly hysterical. "God, Row. Why am I always drinking? Fucking up my liver? What am I accomplishing..." He leans forward, forehead resting against my shoulder. He rambles on, words rushed and slurred so much I cannot understand most of what he's saying.

I rub small soothing circles on his back, butterflies erupting in my stomach by the way he leans into my touch, as if he's yearning for it. Gingerly, I push him upwards and ask the million dollar question.

"What happened to your face, Frank?" I look at him with a soft express, almost motherly. His eyes are a foggy red, and I can't decipher if it's from all the alcohol he's drank or if he's about to cry. I lean forward, ready to touch his face when he shoves me away, a dark expression ghosting his face.

"Who do you think you are?" He's yelling, stumbling over himself in a furious frenzy. I'm overwhelmed with hurt but I push the feeling away, recollecting myself and standing up, only wanting to help him.

"You came to my house, Frank." I remind him, wanting to lean forward and grab his hand but too scared to move a muscle. His nostrils are flared and his lips are pursed tightly, all distinct observations that he's furious. "I just want to help, Frank. That's all. Why won't you let me help you?" I'm becoming frustrated, wondering why in the Hell he came to my house in the middle of the night if he refuses to let me help him.

"It was a mistake," he hisses, sneering. Frank's steps are wobbly, and despite the overwhelming feeling I have to cry, to kick him out and forget him, I still rush over to him, steadying him.

"My parent's aren't home," I blurt out, forgetting his lashing out. For a moment he doesn't look completely wasted, doesn't look completely torn apart. He looks like Frank Iero, the boy I first met in second grade, the boy with kind eyes and a big heart. The look quickly washes away.

"I'm staying with my friend," he spits out, turning away from me. He leaves, leaving me with a wave of worry and guilt. I shouldn't have pushed so much, shouldn't have made him feel like he needed to tell me so much about himself.

The next morning at school Frank completely ignores me, taking a different hall to get to class, not showing up at lunch, and even disappearing in the car lot among all the other bobbing teenage heads that are ready to go home.

I don't hear from Frank for two weeks, not until he's buzzed and horny and wants an easy route that leads to him getting off and me feeling useless for hours. He barely acknowledges that I'm there, using my body to fulfill his own needs and desires.

I sit up in bed, shaking the repulsive feeling off. Looking down at the note in my hand, I reread it.






I crumple the note up in my hand, discarding it. The memory of him coming over to my house completely wasted flashes through my head again, only fueling my anger.

What Frank has done will take longer than five days to fix, will take more than a lousy note to fix. Considering all the things Frank has done, all the things he has accused me of, it'll take a lifetime to forgive him.