So Long, Not Goodnight

Chapter Twenty-Six

It felt like years had passed when it had only been hours as Frank found a small amount of strength to get to his feet, retrieve his backpack, and light a cigarette as he made his way back to his house. The sleeping streets were a ghost town all around, everything felt as vacant as he did. Finally reaching his front door, he unzipped his keys from his pack and almost fell through the door as it opened. Linda sat in the living room in her bathrobe, her eyes leaking and her hands clasping the gold cross around her neck. As soon as the sound of keys hit the lock, she rose from her perch and ran over to the door, catching Frank in her arms. "Oh, honey!" She held him so tight. "I was so worried! I called Jamia and she said that you were out with a friend and not to worry, but you're never this late!"

"I'm fine, Ma," Frank's voice was monotone. "Just lost track of time, that's all."

"You look like death! Do you need some soup or some tea?" Linda's worrying eyes flicked all over Frank.

"No... No... I'm..." Frank exhaled loudly, letting his backpack fall from lack of grip to the floor. "I'm just tired, Ma."

Frank removed himself and padded towards the steps, grabbing the banister. She followed him to the stairs, watching his shoulders slump as he pulled himself up each step. "Oh, sweetie," Linda clucked her tongue. "Is something wrong?"

Biting back his hurt, his lip began to bleed. "Not a thing, Ma." He lied. "Just trying to get to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay," Linda's voice faltered. "Well, goodnight. I love you."

Frank heard her hesitant steps down the hall towards her room. "I love you," he whispered back, finally at the top of the staircase. 

Automatically, he found his way to his room, clicking the door closed as softly as he could, and tucked himself into a ball on top of his bed, crying himself to sleep.

The whole weekend he stayed in his room, barely leaving his bed. Jamia called several times to talk to him, but he pretended to be sleeping. As Linda brought him some lunch on Sunday, she sat herself down beside her son after depositing the food onto his dresser. "Are you and Jamia breaking up, honey?" She rubbed her hand up and down Frank's back. 

He wanted to scream about how that was a lie and shake his mother back and forth with frustration. "No, Ma," Frank tried not to shout. "I told you... I think I'm sick, that's all. I'm completely fine..."

Linda felt her hand against his forehead before rising up and making her way out of the room. Frank was still wearing his clothes, including his shoes, from Friday, his hair still muddied and dirty from the ground. This was a mistake. Those words were on repeat inside of his head, no matter how hard he tried to drown them out. The few times that he was able to sit himself up, Frank dug his razor down and across his wrists overtop existing scars. At first he pulled as he normally would, but then the pain and those words and the look in Bobby's eyes made the normal self loathing nothing in comparison to this new awakening. Dragging the blade down and inside, he hacked himself open, moving from his arms to his hips and bringing the blade to his neck, just as it fell from his grip onto his lap. Those self inflicted wounds burned in silence as the pain of loss forced itself all over him; no matter where he bled, it couldn't distract him. There was blood everywhere, but Frank felt nothing. He finally shrugged his clothes off and made his way to the shower, switching the tap to as hot as it would go and stood beneath it's flames. His skin darkened and the water turned rust and he just wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but he couldn't. It was trapped, just like he was. 

The days passed as Frank continued to feign illness, Linda worrying away trying to figure out what was wrong. As Thursday's sun set, there was a knock on the front door. Linda answered finding Jamia standing, rubbing her shoes over the doormat. "Jamia!" Linda almost shrieked. "Oh thank God you're here."