The Lights Of The City Were Too Heavy
Chapter 1
Las Vegas was perhaps not a town commonly associated with boredom and dullness, quite the contrary really. But when you’d grown up there, among the sparkly neon signs and luxurious buildings, you didn’t really see it the same way as a visitor would. Frank had seen the same glittering lights outside his window for soon nineteen years, and he didn’t really think of them anymore. Living an odd few blocks off the Strip, in a fairly large one-story, two-bedroom house with his parents and little sister, he’d come to lead a life that to some might seem ever so dreary. With only two designated bedrooms in the house, Frank had gotten the cellar to call his room. It wasn’t by any means a bad catch; it was warm and cosy, spacey enough without feeling empty and the windows let in enough sunlight for Frank to be completely satisfied with the set-up. The only drawback was that it was wall-to-wall with the laundry room, but the laundry was usually taken care of mid-day, so it didn’t really present a problem. All in all, Frank was doing just fine with his cellar room.
Lying on his bed, hands behind his head and looking up in the ceiling, Frank gave a mild start when his cell phone went off. Stretching his arm out, he blindly groped on the floor for the device, finding it half pushed in under the bed and picking it up, dulling the vibration. Flipping the top up, he pressed the green button and answered. “Frank.”
...
“No, I haven’t.”
...
“Why would I do that?”
...
“Yeah, right.”
...
“Fuck off, you’ve got no idea what it’s all about.”
...
“No, seriously. It’s nothing. We’ll have it fixed in time.”
...
“Yeah, bye.”
Cancelling the call, he dropped the phone on the floor again with a clattering sound. Maybe he should go out running. He wasn’t the sporty type, but sometimes he’d go running for the hell of it. Not bothering to change from his jeans and t-shirt, he made his way upstairs and out the door, as usual without announcing his departure to his parents. Not like he imagined they’d care much, anyway.
Away from the Strip, Vegas was just like any other town, basically. Houses and malls and gas stations, people driving family sedans and walking their dogs at ten AM, gossiping neighbours and a fairly high crime rate (to be honest). But it wasn’t bad, only it could be boring when you’d grown up there and the main street had lost some of its attraction. That’s when you went out running in your Leathermouth t-shirt and skin-tight jeans, like Frank. Sweat was plastering the shirt to his body, and the black Converse weren’t really made for running. He ran as fast as he could, for as long as he could manage, ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and then a little further. He ran until his body was protesting loudly, muscles screaming and his stomach turning. Suddenly he had to stop dead, collapsing onto his knees with wheezing breath, leaning forward and throwing up, twice. Then he dry-heaved for a few moments, until his stomach calmed down and Frank could concentrate on regaining his breath.
As soon as he was able to stand up, he started walking home. His body was battered and sweaty, the taste of vomit still fresh in his mouth, but he felt good. In some odd way, this whole insane display made him feel good. He never asked why, he just did it and revelled in the afterglow. He’d gained good knowledge of the surrounding area too, when trying to find his way home after running in all random directions without any plans whatsoever. When finally reaching his own front door, he snuck down to his room again and into the laundry room, snaking out of his soaking wet clothes and dumping them in the laundry basket before he turned the tap in the sink, sticking his head under the streaming cold water. Running like he’d just done in the middle of summer, without drinking – not a very good idea. His head was spinning, and the leaning into the sink, cold water rushing over him didn’t do as much good as it just made the feeling worse.
“Frank?” It was his mother calling from the top of the stairs. “Are you decent?”
She always asked if he was decent. Just because he was a nineteen-year-old boy, she assumed he spent half of his time naked and masturbating. God knows what she thought he did the rest of the time.
“No, I’m in my boxers,” he replied, coming out from the laundry room with his hair soaking wet, dripping all over the place. He walked over to the bed, lying down on it and stretching out once before allowing his fatigued body some well-deserved rest. “But feel free.” His head on the pillow would leave a wet impression, but he really couldn’t care less right now. He should probably shower, but that would require getting upstairs to turn on the hot water for the basement shower, and he’d rather just be taking it easy for a few moments now.
Footsteps descending, then his mother came into view. “Oh Frank, don’t wet your pillow like that, it’ll mould. Have you taken a shower? The hot water wasn’t turned on.” She picked up his Rock Sound magazine from the floor and put it on his desk. “Your father and I are having dinner guests tonight, will you be home? Oh, look at that plate, how long has it been standing there? It’ll attract flies, you know.” She picked the old plate from three days ago up off the floor, the knife falling off so she had to lean down again to retrieve it. “You really should clean your room, Frank. It’s a mess. You’d sleep much better if there was less dust and more order in here.” She glanced at the My Chemical Romance poster tacked to the ceiling above the bed. “You won’t be playing loud music tonight, will you? Or are you going out?”
Frank never attempted to interrupt his mother, or speak at all before she went quiet. He’d learnt rather early that it was to no use. “No, I haven’t currently got any plans on going out.”
“Oh, would you want to join us at dinner, then? It’s the Goldbergs that are coming over, you know Holden and Martha? They’ll be taking their daughter along, you know, that nice brown-haired girl, what’s her name...”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny, yes. She’s in town for Spring break, she goes to school in Los Angeles, and they thought it could be nice for her to meet people. Your sister is coming here too, I really think you should join us, it could be nice.” She came up to the bed, still holding that old plate, her free hand coming down to rearrange his hair. “You ought to get a haircut, Frank, and get that green out of your fringe. The neighbours are giving you funny looks.”
They really weren’t, but Frank’s mother just didn’t fully agree with her son’s choice of appearance, only she wouldn’t lay it flat out. She wasn’t the kind of person who said thing straight to your face. She’d beat around the bush to a fault. But Frank was used to that too. And he liked his hair, with the green fringe, black on top and blond underneath.
“Yeah, I’ll join.”
“That’s great, Frank, maybe you’ll make a new friend. Dinner’s at seven, don’t be late – and please, dress decently.”
With ‘decently’, Frank’s mother meant something other than band shirts and worn jeans, only Frank didn’t have much else. She knew it, too. It was just a vain attempt at getting her son to buy some new ‘normal’ clothes.
“Can you turn the hot water on when you go up?” Frank asked as his mother as she made her way back up the stairs.
“Of course, Frank.” That was another odd trait of hers – she’d never call her son ‘darling’ or ‘honey’ like other mothers might do with their sons. It was always ‘that’s nice, Frank’ or ‘good night, Frank’ or ‘could you go down to the store and buy some milk, Frank?’ After nineteen years around her, it didn’t really faze Frank all that much.
After another ten minutes of lying on the bed and staring up at the face of Gerard Way, Frank decided that maybe he should take that shower. Even if his fringe was green and one half of his wardrobe consisted of band merch and the other half of worn jeans and faded t-shirts, at least he could have the courtesy not to smell like a dead dog at dinner. Making a mental note to dig out a packet of chewing gum in one of his desk drawers (to try and rid his mouth of the taste of vomit) he went into the laundry room again, grabbing a towel and hanging it over the side of the shower cabin, discarding his boxers in the laundry basket and stepping into the cabin, closing the door. The hot water always took ages, but he quite appreciated the icy water streaming over him now, for a while numbing out the pain in his legs and chest.
Anything to break the monotony.
Lying on his bed, hands behind his head and looking up in the ceiling, Frank gave a mild start when his cell phone went off. Stretching his arm out, he blindly groped on the floor for the device, finding it half pushed in under the bed and picking it up, dulling the vibration. Flipping the top up, he pressed the green button and answered. “Frank.”
...
“No, I haven’t.”
...
“Why would I do that?”
...
“Yeah, right.”
...
“Fuck off, you’ve got no idea what it’s all about.”
...
“No, seriously. It’s nothing. We’ll have it fixed in time.”
...
“Yeah, bye.”
Cancelling the call, he dropped the phone on the floor again with a clattering sound. Maybe he should go out running. He wasn’t the sporty type, but sometimes he’d go running for the hell of it. Not bothering to change from his jeans and t-shirt, he made his way upstairs and out the door, as usual without announcing his departure to his parents. Not like he imagined they’d care much, anyway.
Away from the Strip, Vegas was just like any other town, basically. Houses and malls and gas stations, people driving family sedans and walking their dogs at ten AM, gossiping neighbours and a fairly high crime rate (to be honest). But it wasn’t bad, only it could be boring when you’d grown up there and the main street had lost some of its attraction. That’s when you went out running in your Leathermouth t-shirt and skin-tight jeans, like Frank. Sweat was plastering the shirt to his body, and the black Converse weren’t really made for running. He ran as fast as he could, for as long as he could manage, ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and then a little further. He ran until his body was protesting loudly, muscles screaming and his stomach turning. Suddenly he had to stop dead, collapsing onto his knees with wheezing breath, leaning forward and throwing up, twice. Then he dry-heaved for a few moments, until his stomach calmed down and Frank could concentrate on regaining his breath.
As soon as he was able to stand up, he started walking home. His body was battered and sweaty, the taste of vomit still fresh in his mouth, but he felt good. In some odd way, this whole insane display made him feel good. He never asked why, he just did it and revelled in the afterglow. He’d gained good knowledge of the surrounding area too, when trying to find his way home after running in all random directions without any plans whatsoever. When finally reaching his own front door, he snuck down to his room again and into the laundry room, snaking out of his soaking wet clothes and dumping them in the laundry basket before he turned the tap in the sink, sticking his head under the streaming cold water. Running like he’d just done in the middle of summer, without drinking – not a very good idea. His head was spinning, and the leaning into the sink, cold water rushing over him didn’t do as much good as it just made the feeling worse.
“Frank?” It was his mother calling from the top of the stairs. “Are you decent?”
She always asked if he was decent. Just because he was a nineteen-year-old boy, she assumed he spent half of his time naked and masturbating. God knows what she thought he did the rest of the time.
“No, I’m in my boxers,” he replied, coming out from the laundry room with his hair soaking wet, dripping all over the place. He walked over to the bed, lying down on it and stretching out once before allowing his fatigued body some well-deserved rest. “But feel free.” His head on the pillow would leave a wet impression, but he really couldn’t care less right now. He should probably shower, but that would require getting upstairs to turn on the hot water for the basement shower, and he’d rather just be taking it easy for a few moments now.
Footsteps descending, then his mother came into view. “Oh Frank, don’t wet your pillow like that, it’ll mould. Have you taken a shower? The hot water wasn’t turned on.” She picked up his Rock Sound magazine from the floor and put it on his desk. “Your father and I are having dinner guests tonight, will you be home? Oh, look at that plate, how long has it been standing there? It’ll attract flies, you know.” She picked the old plate from three days ago up off the floor, the knife falling off so she had to lean down again to retrieve it. “You really should clean your room, Frank. It’s a mess. You’d sleep much better if there was less dust and more order in here.” She glanced at the My Chemical Romance poster tacked to the ceiling above the bed. “You won’t be playing loud music tonight, will you? Or are you going out?”
Frank never attempted to interrupt his mother, or speak at all before she went quiet. He’d learnt rather early that it was to no use. “No, I haven’t currently got any plans on going out.”
“Oh, would you want to join us at dinner, then? It’s the Goldbergs that are coming over, you know Holden and Martha? They’ll be taking their daughter along, you know, that nice brown-haired girl, what’s her name...”
“Jenny.”
“Jenny, yes. She’s in town for Spring break, she goes to school in Los Angeles, and they thought it could be nice for her to meet people. Your sister is coming here too, I really think you should join us, it could be nice.” She came up to the bed, still holding that old plate, her free hand coming down to rearrange his hair. “You ought to get a haircut, Frank, and get that green out of your fringe. The neighbours are giving you funny looks.”
They really weren’t, but Frank’s mother just didn’t fully agree with her son’s choice of appearance, only she wouldn’t lay it flat out. She wasn’t the kind of person who said thing straight to your face. She’d beat around the bush to a fault. But Frank was used to that too. And he liked his hair, with the green fringe, black on top and blond underneath.
“Yeah, I’ll join.”
“That’s great, Frank, maybe you’ll make a new friend. Dinner’s at seven, don’t be late – and please, dress decently.”
With ‘decently’, Frank’s mother meant something other than band shirts and worn jeans, only Frank didn’t have much else. She knew it, too. It was just a vain attempt at getting her son to buy some new ‘normal’ clothes.
“Can you turn the hot water on when you go up?” Frank asked as his mother as she made her way back up the stairs.
“Of course, Frank.” That was another odd trait of hers – she’d never call her son ‘darling’ or ‘honey’ like other mothers might do with their sons. It was always ‘that’s nice, Frank’ or ‘good night, Frank’ or ‘could you go down to the store and buy some milk, Frank?’ After nineteen years around her, it didn’t really faze Frank all that much.
After another ten minutes of lying on the bed and staring up at the face of Gerard Way, Frank decided that maybe he should take that shower. Even if his fringe was green and one half of his wardrobe consisted of band merch and the other half of worn jeans and faded t-shirts, at least he could have the courtesy not to smell like a dead dog at dinner. Making a mental note to dig out a packet of chewing gum in one of his desk drawers (to try and rid his mouth of the taste of vomit) he went into the laundry room again, grabbing a towel and hanging it over the side of the shower cabin, discarding his boxers in the laundry basket and stepping into the cabin, closing the door. The hot water always took ages, but he quite appreciated the icy water streaming over him now, for a while numbing out the pain in his legs and chest.
Anything to break the monotony.
♠ ♠ ♠
Frank is one of those characters that just presented himself to me, and demanded I write about him. He can occur in different settings, but is basically the same boy each time. Here he's feeling misplaced in Vegas.