Dancing Bruises.
Rollercoaster Life.
He called.
And Frankie's over the fucking moon. He's swimming with the stars and he's lost for words and he's everything else that he's never been. It's like someone shot him in the head during sex and it's just... an everlasting moment; a moment frozen in time like the climax of your last day to live or seeing a pretty face just before blacking out. He's seeing all these stars now, he can taste the glitter and the shine and every bit of light that took over his head; is it lust? Is it happiness? Is it a feeling known to mankind? He didn't know, only that it's a feeling he wanted to embrace to the very last moment in time.
Santa's gonna spread more joy now.
Pete didn't say much though; just that he wanted to see him and Frankie exploded after the tone.
It felt like... some kind of warped victory. Triumph in it's finest moment, but at the same time it wasn't. This was winning the battle; winning the war wasn't going to be as easy.
Frankie was already set to go; hips and bones reassembled and ready with his moves nonexistent.
So he's just lying there soaking in the moment; an orgasm on Pause; and he's thinking; something never really came in his favor because... he just figured out the same things and revelations over and over again.
He's leading an empty life and going nowhere. Just rising and falling, rising and falling like his bony chest is right now. He has nothing to do and nothing to live for. It was always music, love, music, love, music, love but love's shot itself dead, didn't it? And it fucking hurt when it did; more than scraping the skin off a third degree burn; skin grows back as scar tissue; hearts can't afford that kind of luxury.
It's always intact or broken, pulled out or shoved back in. No middle ground. No middle ground he could find at least. So he's just hanging around in mid-air; still in love with memories and writhing in his sleep when it comes to reality.
Truth is, he's a dreamer. Every bad thing that happens is just a nightmare that goes away with a blink of an eye; even if it still hung out in the background of everything. Blink and dance. That's how it went for him. Frankie has his little shell to hide in like everyone else. Surprise, surprise.
He has little boxes where he stashes his secrets and truths just like a normal human being. He just knows how to hide them away like a good boy should. Don't speak of the past and it won't chase you down.
Except in his case it did chase him down; he just learned to live with ghosts, invisible blood stains and the shadows that crawl up his room and his arms tracing every move he makes. He ignores the eyes watching him; they watched him in his sleep, in his wake, they drove him to tears and to the edge night after night. Until he couldn't take it. Instead of two eyes setting him aflame, why not a hundred? He's already a goner.
That was on the ninth night. And he's been dancing ever since. He still feels those eyes pulling and flaying at the back of his head, but it's less painful with crowds and crowds blocking him out and ripping him apart. He's a pretty little boy dancing his heart out to them, a moral-free treat for the eyes and the hands. He didn't mind.
"Going out again?" A deadpan plead creeps into his head. Dead, jealous, pissed; he could never really tell.
"Yeah..." he replies, still lying down, splayed and pinned by his own thoughts; an animal, a corpse, a numb girl waiting for dissection.
"When?" The questions are always the same.
"When the time's right." And the answers never change.
Hazel Eyes glares at him, standing in the middle of the living room, opposite the boy with the distant face who lied there with nothing but infinity on his mind.
"Do you like this, Frankie? Being useless?"
"Do you?"
"Seriously, Frankie... do you?"
The same questions.
"I'm not useless. I just have a different way of helping."
The answers never change.
"You need to live a real life at some point."
"Life is real as you want it to be." What's not real about floating around icy waters avoiding the ice bergs?
"Stop fucking around." Interesting choice of words. "Get your balls back and be a person again."
Footsteps, footsteps and insults walked out of the door and Frankie doesn't care.
How can you be a person again? He's flesh and blood, he has a soul, he moves and breaks like every person. Be a person again? Hazel Eyes doesn't understand a word he's saying.
People don't be; they're born. And if you stop being a person, there's no way back.
Unless you get reborn of course.
Maybe that's what this special day and that call was. God's way of a rebirth. It took two people to bring him to life and it will take one to revive him.
And Frankie's over the fucking moon. He's swimming with the stars and he's lost for words and he's everything else that he's never been. It's like someone shot him in the head during sex and it's just... an everlasting moment; a moment frozen in time like the climax of your last day to live or seeing a pretty face just before blacking out. He's seeing all these stars now, he can taste the glitter and the shine and every bit of light that took over his head; is it lust? Is it happiness? Is it a feeling known to mankind? He didn't know, only that it's a feeling he wanted to embrace to the very last moment in time.
Santa's gonna spread more joy now.
Pete didn't say much though; just that he wanted to see him and Frankie exploded after the tone.
It felt like... some kind of warped victory. Triumph in it's finest moment, but at the same time it wasn't. This was winning the battle; winning the war wasn't going to be as easy.
Frankie was already set to go; hips and bones reassembled and ready with his moves nonexistent.
So he's just lying there soaking in the moment; an orgasm on Pause; and he's thinking; something never really came in his favor because... he just figured out the same things and revelations over and over again.
He's leading an empty life and going nowhere. Just rising and falling, rising and falling like his bony chest is right now. He has nothing to do and nothing to live for. It was always music, love, music, love, music, love but love's shot itself dead, didn't it? And it fucking hurt when it did; more than scraping the skin off a third degree burn; skin grows back as scar tissue; hearts can't afford that kind of luxury.
It's always intact or broken, pulled out or shoved back in. No middle ground. No middle ground he could find at least. So he's just hanging around in mid-air; still in love with memories and writhing in his sleep when it comes to reality.
Truth is, he's a dreamer. Every bad thing that happens is just a nightmare that goes away with a blink of an eye; even if it still hung out in the background of everything. Blink and dance. That's how it went for him. Frankie has his little shell to hide in like everyone else. Surprise, surprise.
He has little boxes where he stashes his secrets and truths just like a normal human being. He just knows how to hide them away like a good boy should. Don't speak of the past and it won't chase you down.
Except in his case it did chase him down; he just learned to live with ghosts, invisible blood stains and the shadows that crawl up his room and his arms tracing every move he makes. He ignores the eyes watching him; they watched him in his sleep, in his wake, they drove him to tears and to the edge night after night. Until he couldn't take it. Instead of two eyes setting him aflame, why not a hundred? He's already a goner.
That was on the ninth night. And he's been dancing ever since. He still feels those eyes pulling and flaying at the back of his head, but it's less painful with crowds and crowds blocking him out and ripping him apart. He's a pretty little boy dancing his heart out to them, a moral-free treat for the eyes and the hands. He didn't mind.
"Going out again?" A deadpan plead creeps into his head. Dead, jealous, pissed; he could never really tell.
"Yeah..." he replies, still lying down, splayed and pinned by his own thoughts; an animal, a corpse, a numb girl waiting for dissection.
"When?" The questions are always the same.
"When the time's right." And the answers never change.
Hazel Eyes glares at him, standing in the middle of the living room, opposite the boy with the distant face who lied there with nothing but infinity on his mind.
"Do you like this, Frankie? Being useless?"
"Do you?"
"Seriously, Frankie... do you?"
The same questions.
"I'm not useless. I just have a different way of helping."
The answers never change.
"You need to live a real life at some point."
"Life is real as you want it to be." What's not real about floating around icy waters avoiding the ice bergs?
"Stop fucking around." Interesting choice of words. "Get your balls back and be a person again."
Footsteps, footsteps and insults walked out of the door and Frankie doesn't care.
How can you be a person again? He's flesh and blood, he has a soul, he moves and breaks like every person. Be a person again? Hazel Eyes doesn't understand a word he's saying.
People don't be; they're born. And if you stop being a person, there's no way back.
Unless you get reborn of course.
Maybe that's what this special day and that call was. God's way of a rebirth. It took two people to bring him to life and it will take one to revive him.