Unholyverse

~Part 6~

"I still don't understand why the fuck you aren't pressing charges," Ray said when he was giving Frank a ride back to his place from Mikey's the next morning. "They could have killed you."

"But they didn't," Frank said, looking out of the window. He could see his own pale face in the wing mirror, distorted by the angle and the glass. The marks on his forehead stood out, red and stark - he pushed his hair forward to cover them. "Besides, I think Brian would have a fucking heart attack."

Ray thumped the steering wheel, making Frank jump. "This is so fucked up. You get jumped by three crazy ball-harvesting assholes and you have to let it go because, what, it won't look good in court if you complain about it? No jury on earth is gonna blame you for not being okay with that, dude."

Frank laughed under his breath. "Probably not."

"So then why wouldn't you let the club call the police?" Ray flicked his wipers. "You're just gonna let them get away with it? That's not like you."

"I'm pretty sure Bob broke that guy's arm," Frank reminded him. "And I was drunk, and the whole club saw me on that fucking podium, wasted out of my mind - ah, fuck." Frank's head throbbed suddenly and painfully, his hangover and the cuts in his skin really working together as a team of horrible pain.

"Are you gonna hurl?" Ray leaned over and started winding the window down, his elbow jabbing Frank right in the ribs. "I love you, man, but I just had these seats re-upholstered."

"I'm not gonna hurl on your fucking seats," Frank bit out, pressing both of his hands flat over his forehead. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw red. "Fuck, I should have saved some fucking Vicodin for this."

Ray made a sympathetic noise. "You didn't think to keep one back in case of forehead-abuse?"

Frank laughed and then moaned when that made it worse. "I always did lack foresight."

Ray pulled over outside Frank's building and waited for Frank to get his stuff from the back seat. "Hey, any news on Ella?"

"What?" Frank was distracted trying to persuade all his crap to not fall out of his unzipped backpack as he levered it over the headrest.

"Ella," Ray repeated. He looked at Frank like he was crazy. "Your dog? The one who went missing? You put fliers up all over town?"

"Oh." Frank blinked at the windscreen. "You know what - I'd forgotten."

"What? You were crazy about that stupid dog, Frank."

"I know." Frank's stomach felt weird, cold and upset somehow, the creeping dreadful feeling sliding out slowly into his limbs, like when you realize you forgot your homework, or someone overheard you talking shit about them. "Fuck. I don't know, man, I guess there's been a lot going on."

"Hmm." Ray looked at him doubtfully, then reached out suddenly and pushed Frank's hair off his forehead, touching his fingertips to Frank's skin. "You know, these don't look like they were made with a knife."

Frank stayed as still as he could, staring down at his bag in his lap. The cuts stung and he felt like if he concentrated enough he'd be able to feel it again, the sharp points driving in, the sick drag of them in his skin and against his skull. He'd pushed his fingers into his own hair in Mikey's bathroom that morning and felt the raised lines scoring his scalp in a jagged, broken circle, all the way around.

Ray sighed and took his hand away. "You need me to come up?"

Frank got a sudden flash of the scene in his apartment, blood everywhere, and swallowed. "No, man. Thanks for the ride."