He used to have Nikkie, but she wouldn’t even recognize him anymore.
Shaking from adrenaline Frank ran, blurry streetlights and the noise of honking cars seemed background information. There wasn’t enough room in his head to comprehend his surroundings and the euphoric high he’d felt minutes ago was completely gone. Shattered and now there was a black hole throwing up thoughts and memories.
He’d lost track of time the moment he ran out of Tamika’s home, neither destination nor location mattered. All he could was run, get away, get away.
Eventually he tripped over his own drunken legs and collapsed on the ground. Feeling how his raw palms burned he gritted his teeth as the stingy gravel scraped his cheek open.
It all hurt like a bitch, for a moment he aimlessly lay on the ground, kind of waiting for lightning to strike and get it all over with. Oh if someone just had the pity to rob and murder him now.
But of course, no lightning and no hopeless fuck around when you need them.
So he got up, got on his knees and pulled himself together. His shirt was drenched with sweat and the night air was cold, shivering it struck him: He’d forgotten his bag when he stormed out. So no jacket, no clean clothes, no cigarettes, no nothing.
He ended up at a park, staggering aimlessly around. It felt like he was going in circles and in a way it was true. A vicious circle, all his own fault. Because if he simply sat, or rather lay back he’d be having sex right now. Frankie getting laid, that hadn’t happened in a long time.
So why didn’t he? Deep down he knew the answer but he was too stubborn to realize.
With a head filled with thoughts Frank walked into a playground. For a moment he debated to sit down on the swing, but that would make him a swinger and that thought pissed him off. So he crawled underneath on of the big playthings, nudged his head at the underside of the slid and parked his drunken ass onto the clammy wood mulch ground.
Sitting there an overwhelming feeling of loneliness overtook him. If, for whatever kind of reason, he’d die this instant nobody would miss him. Nobody in the world would really bother. His own mother wouldn’t even understand the concept of his ‘death’. She’d think he went back to hell and maybe, just maybe she would feel bad about the fact that she hadn’t been able to save his soul. But a demon child, how could she blame herself for that. Her little boy, her little creature, hellspawn. No, she wouldn’t miss him. Besides he hadn’t seen her in about four years. Maybe five? Five and a half?
Friends, short and crude: he didn’t have any.
Family, as far as he knew: none of them gave a fuck about him and he wasn’t entirely sure they knew he existed. There was a vague six year old memory of a broad tinted man, who gave him a toy car, but that guy could also be one of his first social workers and besides he’d been too traumatized to imprint any clear memories for the moment they kind of hijacked him from his mom.
He used to have Nikkie, but she wouldn’t even recognize him anymore.
'Nikkie,’ miserably Frank wished he had a bottle of cheap Vodka. Something to drain the agonizing feeling of being all alone. Mostly he could suppress that feeling, ignore it and shut it off.
But the truth hunted him down eventually; a foster fuck doesn’t have someone around that loves him unconditionally. You give that right up the moment they bust down your door and take you to ‘a better home’. More suitable, too bad you had to give up love and hope and respect and safety.
And of course you think differently at first. That first friendly smile of your ‘new mom’, you get your hopes back up. But that hope shatters, sure it takes a while. But eventually she smacks you’re in the face long enough to break down every last bit.
That’ll teach you, little chicken-shit!
Safety? Third foster home, you can’t even feel safe in your own little bed because every once in a while your supposable foster dad will come up the stairs to ‘feel you up’.
Our little secret, buddy.
Love, heck by the time you’re through your sixth foster home you can’t even remember the last time someone used that word, or acted towards it.
You think I care about you, retard? You’re just an easy way to money.
Respect, you’ll give that up to by the time you swore off foster care for good and have to get fucked by random strangers to keep your head high as a kite. Because dealing with the lack of love, respect, safely and hope in your life, makes it damn hard to live it sober and clear.
He remembered teachers telling him his head was too high in the clouds, damn had they been right.
Basically he was nothing, a nobody and if he didn’t keep himself alive… Well, nobody would and he didn’t expect anyone too. He didn’t expect anything from anyone else, because that way he wouldn’t get hurt in the end.
The amount of empty promises, the sweet lullabies to keep him craving and vulnerable grooming him into the perfect play toy, he was done with that. For too long strangers had cheated him, lied to him and used him. He was done with that, he didn’t want to feel that pain anymore. Because it hurts so much to hope, it hurts so much to realize it’s all lies. That it wasn’t because of him, but just about the money. That he didn’t matter at all, that he was nothing special. Just a crush, a thing or a way of entertainment.
He didn’t want to fall in love again because he didn’t think he’d survive one more heartache.
He missed her, every god damn day. Even after all the nasty shit she pulled on him, he missed Nikkie.
He’d met her when he was thirteen in a youth centre. Back then his foster home wasn’t… let’s say ‘suitable’ so most of his time he wondered on the streets or in and around a local youth centre.
She’d been sixteen when they met and she was everything he was not, besides their living conditions. Wrapped in skin tight jeans and a leather jacket, Frank felt immediately drawn to her. And she knew that, oh she knew that. Girls like her must have a radar for boys like him. She thought he was hilarious. Fuck, she found him a loser, pathetic, she’d always thought he was a loser. Because he had a weak spot, because he always came back to her like a sickly wounded pup craving for her attention, her approval.
Nikkie had her problems and Frank wasn’t sure he even knew half. Nikkie had always been restless and reckless, always letting him feel he was the underdog. And he didn’t care because he loved her. Oh, he fucking loved her. Because she was the only one who knew and who he could talk to. It didn’t matter to him that she made fun of his fears and would mock him with something he told her confidential. He didn’t even care she would drag his mother in every fight they used to have.
He lost his virginity to her, underneath a similar plaything.
She’d taunted him he couldn’t ‘get it up’, he told her could get it up. Wearing a very short little skirt she then dared him a bit further and eventually they had sex. Awkward, clumsy and it was ‘done’ in about four minutes. And of course she’d thought he was hilarious when he was done and tried to zip his jeans back up with a flushed face. Fuck, he’d been so embarrassed and he thought that she never wanted to see him ever again after that. Because Nikkie fucked with a lot of guys back then. With guys, not thirteen year old boys who barely had grown any pubes.
But she must have seen something in him, because she kept coming back and sometimes share cigarettes and booze. And sometimes, when she was really wasted they would make out and in a way she restored some innocence, something he thought he’d lost.
He loved her, even though he wasn’t sure she loved him. But she must have cared because she always came back. He loved her because she’d made him feel wanted and eventually needed as time passed and their ‘relationship’ developed.
She needed him but not in the way he needed her. She wanted him around because he made her feel good about herself, made her feel content and important.
He needed her around because she made his life bearable. And because he needed someone to love, he needed someone important; he needed that special someone even though she wasn’t. She was an egocentric bitch who didn’t care if he was dead or alive, he knew that now. Because when he’d been taken to the hospital, more dead than alive, she’d never bothered to show up at his hospital bed. And the day he was going to be brought to the re-education centre he heard the news that she jumped off a three storey apartment building.
Yet he still missed her, he missed her so fucking much. Because she made it worth it, she made everything worth it. She’d made him feel worthy.
Maybe he would be better off dead. Raped and killed, rotting in a ditch and nearly unable to ID once cops found his body. A simple funeral, provided by government money. Poor government, even dead he cost them their beloved money.
On days like this dead or alive didn’t seem like such a big deal, or different. Mostly he filled up the big gaping black hole of craving with whatever got handed, drugs, booze, sex you name it. On days -or rather nights- like these that safe haven was gone and he had to face it, he was a shell. Hollow, outlived and worn down. Just like his clothes and shoes, he felt second handed and damaged goods. He wasn’t stupid he knew he was nothing more than that. Used and used and abused and used, circle after circle and right now he was back at the start.
‘I miss you’, he through blinking through blurry eyes and realized it wasn’t just because of the rush of booze and pot, as a wet trail ran down his cheeks. ‘I miss you,’ wrapping his arms around his knees he stared up to the rotting underside of the wooden structure. By now his thoughts were playing tug-o-war between the two women in his life that both abandoned him. His mom and Nikkie, both times he’d been dangling, trying to keep his head above the waves and their wrath. Eventually he’d lost and ironically lost both of them to the state. His mom remained in a psyched ward and Nikkie?
After her big jump of the edge she ended up paralyzed from the waist down with the mental capacity for a two year old. Vicious nasty Nikkie was gone, all gone. And he’d wanted to smack that blank doo-eyed gaze off her face as he came to visit her in a house that smelled of human shit and antiseptics.
But all he did was pet through her hair, wipe the drool off her face and told the lady at the desk he wouldn’t be coming back. Because the Nikkie he’d known was dead, but better off. Because for the first time in her life she seemed happy. Fucking retarded, but happy. That troubled wronged shattered expression was gone, replaced by a glassy gaze of ignorance. Although he’d been sure (or kept telling himself) that there was some recognition when he stepped into that bright yellow room, because she’d made a high pitched screeched that sounded a bit like her drunken giggle.
Nikkie, blessed with no memory at all and all the colorful toys she wanted. Nikkie didn’t need him anymore, all he would do was make her remember and if he’d had the choice he wouldn’t want any of those memories at all.
He’d said his goodbye’s to her in silent, while brushing tangles of hair behind her ear. Halfhearted he had the hope that they could run away together. By then he’d only heard the rumors of Nikkie living in a house for the disabled and he’d set his hope on getting her out of that place. He figured he could take care of her if she was in a wheelchair. Hell, she would bitch him around and drive him insane, but he would have her back even after she left him for dead in the hospital and hadn’t bothered.
That was just Nikkie and Nikkie didn’t care about anyone but her own best interests, but he did.
‘I miss you’, Frank thought and closed his eyes, remembering his first time underneath a wooded play thing. ‘I miss you.’
I’ve been the worst updater in the world. I know, please don’t send me hate mail, my fragile ego can’t handle that. Well it can, it’ll morph into a bitch and then there will be hell and pain. I’m ranting right now. Jup, I’ve abandoned this story, reason? I started writing about three other stories, one being online here, Pyromania, if anyone wants to know. And another one about feral children but I’m still to chicken to post that because it’s a little personal.
Anyway, back to this story, this chapter. Normally I’m a Gerard Way fan, but in this story I don’t find him half as interesting as the tricks I’ve pulled with this Frankie. I like how Frank is turning out and more important, why he’s turning out like he does. I mean I like freaks and fuck ups, it’s my ‘thing’. It’s either a mental illness, or another psychological aspect that keeps me interested to write. And this Frank, the gigantic wall he’s build, the way he keeps completely shielded off, yet I’m –and you as reader- are on the front row, getting all kinds of hints and clues. While Gerard doesn’t, which will lead to very interesting things.
I’ll try to update faster, promise!