Dancing Bruises.
Melting Your Telephone Wires.
"Frankie?" Pete wonders listening to the ruins of a human being shouting over the phone like a murder-siren: shouting and shouting and shouting nonstop.
"You ruined everything," he's yelling and growling and dumping all his oxygen and carbon-dioxide rapid pants on Pete's eardrums.
"Frankie?" Pete's just dumbfounded that he's repeating what he thought never left his mouth. Was that really Frankie's softer-than-dreams voice?
"It's fucking gone! It's fucking gone! And it's your fucking fault, Wentz. Your fucking stupid fault..." Frankie couldn't even breathe at this point, he's just scrambling his words and insults. He felt his heart rattle, shake and pound inside his ribs like an electrocuted pulsing head.
"You're not making any sense, Frankie." The other end of the line is just puking swears and relentless hostility at him and he's thinking Frankie's out of his mind.
"Fuck... it's your fault your fault your fault," he repeats like an abandoned little boy and he sounds like an inflated ego kicking its last narcissistic breaths. He sounds so broken, so lost and so frustrated.
Frankie's head is boiling and erupting unheeded words and it's a one-track train crashing into a kindergarten class filled with kittens and deer and bright eyes, "you stole it."
"Stole what?" Pete didn't even dare to use Frankie's name. He's just swimming and choking on sour rancid chunks of his confusion.
Click. And the line bit and swallowed the dust.
Frankie just curls over himself and the inward bones of his chest after tossing the screeching cell phone; he just lost his head; a drug addict thrown in the naked ugly desert.
He's been using himself all along; this is where your cousin tells you that Santa's just a figment of your imagination and that you need to grow the hell up. It's this feeling of tears and salt burning your eyes and throat when your realize that your war hero is a murderer. This is shock in its purest; the kind where an extra surge of reality melts your fuses; where you malfunction like the toaster in the bath: you toast flesh instead of bread, right until it becomes frosted with a nice purple-blue tint, then you'll notice where you went wrong.
Frankie's hand shoots up to his mouth, either to kill the bile or the screams.
He's part human again; and he felt everything you could feel.
And his body fucking hurt.
He was in pain.
Everything about him hurts now; his body, his hair, his head and everything else. The world felt like an extension of him and he was throbbing all over as it stretched his skin and insides just enough to contain these unfamiliar feelings.
He felt like a living bruise, a beautiful one, that was corroded with broken arteries and damaged skin. He was the closed old wound with the trapped rotten blood that gushed toxin and scum everywhere it went.
He's a mess and he's a wreck and he doesn't have any pair of arms to run to; he's not any better than Nameless Girl.
He meant nothing to her; if she remembers him that is.
Santa meant the world to millions of seven year old boys and girls. He -Frankie Iero- meant nothing to the world.
And his eyes are flooding with diesel tears for the umpteenth time this night.
"You ruined everything," he's yelling and growling and dumping all his oxygen and carbon-dioxide rapid pants on Pete's eardrums.
"Frankie?" Pete's just dumbfounded that he's repeating what he thought never left his mouth. Was that really Frankie's softer-than-dreams voice?
"It's fucking gone! It's fucking gone! And it's your fucking fault, Wentz. Your fucking stupid fault..." Frankie couldn't even breathe at this point, he's just scrambling his words and insults. He felt his heart rattle, shake and pound inside his ribs like an electrocuted pulsing head.
"You're not making any sense, Frankie." The other end of the line is just puking swears and relentless hostility at him and he's thinking Frankie's out of his mind.
"Fuck... it's your fault your fault your fault," he repeats like an abandoned little boy and he sounds like an inflated ego kicking its last narcissistic breaths. He sounds so broken, so lost and so frustrated.
Frankie's head is boiling and erupting unheeded words and it's a one-track train crashing into a kindergarten class filled with kittens and deer and bright eyes, "you stole it."
"Stole what?" Pete didn't even dare to use Frankie's name. He's just swimming and choking on sour rancid chunks of his confusion.
Click. And the line bit and swallowed the dust.
Frankie just curls over himself and the inward bones of his chest after tossing the screeching cell phone; he just lost his head; a drug addict thrown in the naked ugly desert.
He's been using himself all along; this is where your cousin tells you that Santa's just a figment of your imagination and that you need to grow the hell up. It's this feeling of tears and salt burning your eyes and throat when your realize that your war hero is a murderer. This is shock in its purest; the kind where an extra surge of reality melts your fuses; where you malfunction like the toaster in the bath: you toast flesh instead of bread, right until it becomes frosted with a nice purple-blue tint, then you'll notice where you went wrong.
Frankie's hand shoots up to his mouth, either to kill the bile or the screams.
He's part human again; and he felt everything you could feel.
And his body fucking hurt.
He was in pain.
Everything about him hurts now; his body, his hair, his head and everything else. The world felt like an extension of him and he was throbbing all over as it stretched his skin and insides just enough to contain these unfamiliar feelings.
He felt like a living bruise, a beautiful one, that was corroded with broken arteries and damaged skin. He was the closed old wound with the trapped rotten blood that gushed toxin and scum everywhere it went.
He's a mess and he's a wreck and he doesn't have any pair of arms to run to; he's not any better than Nameless Girl.
He meant nothing to her; if she remembers him that is.
Santa meant the world to millions of seven year old boys and girls. He -Frankie Iero- meant nothing to the world.
And his eyes are flooding with diesel tears for the umpteenth time this night.
♠ ♠ ♠
A little offbeat, awkward chapter. Their interaction gets stranger and stranger.I know this is lower in quality than the previous chapter and I apologize, since this is prewritten stuff. Yeah, so...sorry for the long wait-a month-. I'm a douche-bag.
Douche-bag's an awesome word. >_>