Frank had made a discovery that night, before his parents came in to kiss him on the crown of his head (his mother) and on space above his ear (his father). Little Suzie Clark was wrong; he didn’t like Stephanie or Beatrix. It wasn’t because of cooties either, he knew those weren’t real. He did like Stephanie’s smile, missing two teeth in the front and the way her laughs sounded after he had cracked a smooth witticism. He also liked Beatrix’s voice, soft and cool like a river and the brown freckles that scattered across the bridge of her nose.

He liked those things. He just didn’t like girls.

So before his mom stood up to shut off the lights and return to her room, he grasped the cuff of her shirt, tugging twice to bring her back. His dad had already left and he couldn’t figure out why he found that comforting. He waited for his mother to sit back down on the starry print of his sheets, waited for her to ask him what was wrong. He didn’t hesitate to tell her, he was too sure of this. Frank doesn’t remember ever being sure of anything.

He barely breathed when he let the statement loose, “I don’t like, like-like girls, Mommy,” he said.

Linda Iero was a hard woman. She worked her bones to an aching grind to get where she was, and knew she would have to keep working herself to death for the better part of her life. She intended on doing so if it meant she would give her children the best she could give. As long as she could do that, her husband could come home smelling of perfume that was not hers as much as he wanted. It was alright if he kept being Frankie’s dad and being there for him, and supporting her. Not being in love with you. She sighed, knowing the annoying little tick of the fact would almost always plague her.

While she kept her thoughts slow and figuring, Frankie had the biggest eyes she had ever seen on his face, scared and looking as if the slightest hint of rejection might crush his heart into a billion pieces. She hadn’t seen this coming, not for at least a few more years. She wouldn’t have expected Frankie to know at age six, for god’s sake. He did have the most earnest expression on. And she just knew no little boy could have told a lie staring straight into his mother’s eyes like this–moreover lie about something like this.

“Like how, Frankie?” She kept her voice even, reaching out to rest her hand on her son’s foot.

Frank lowered his head as if he were about to pray, rebellious licks curling over his cheeks and ears; she momentarily fussed over the topic that he was due for a haircut. Frank had this wrinkle in between his eyebrows he was thinking at such lengths, and Linda was now entirely sure of his answer. Nonetheless, she waited patiently for Frankie to speak his mind. This situation was too sensitive to be jumping to conclusions.

“Like you and Daddy, Mommy. I don’t like them like that.” His voice rang clear and Linda was quiet. She wasn’t at all opposed to the idea of her son being gay; she would love him ceaselessly, irrefutably, no matter his predilections. Linda did not agree with the church’s stance on homosexuality. As faithful a Catholic she was, she never thought two people of the same sex in love would ever be wrong or disgusting. Love was love, and everyone had a right to get their happiness. There would be some things up in the air about her husband’s thoughts on the matter but right now she was here for her son. She smiled and squeezed his ankle.

“Okay. Is there a particular little boy you do like?”

“Mommy!” Frank slapped her hand, not enough to hurt, but more an embarrassed reflex. She knew he was blushing, even in the dark. Linda grinned, seizing up to place the second kiss of the night on Frank’s nose. He yelped and fell back on his pillows, smiling up at his mother as she leaned over him.

“I love you Frankie.” There were never any truer words in the world. Not from her.

“I love you too.” He sounded diffident, distant.

“Honey?” She prodded, not wanting her child to be unsure of anything.

“Am I weird?” His question made her snort, though not in a cruel way.

“No, not weird. You’re different, Frankie. Everyone’s different in one way or another, and it just so happens you’re different in this way. Don’t let anyone say you’re weird or anything bad because of this, okay? They’re wrong.”

“Okay Mommy.” Linda could hear the smile on his lips. She took a quick step up to smack on last kiss on his head, heading towards the door and shutting off the light with a resounding click.

Sleep washed over Frank like a tide would the shore.

That night Frankie dreamed of flashing lights, perceived through a red wash. There was music playing, loud and angry, and Frank didn’t know if liked it or not. He could feel the bare soles of his feet dragging aimlessly. He couldn't see past the blinding luminosities, couldn’t hear over the noise. The song began as something feasible to be music, but the second wore on and the sound morphed into a blaring noise that reminded the boy of when he cut too roughly into his meal at dinner, scratching the porcelain plate and setting his teeth on edge.

He wanted to get away from it. The noise hurt more than he had ever thought he could bear.

He walked sightlessly, arms outstretched as if he would feel his way through the harsh dancing glares that cut his gaze into an impenetrable white blank. This method went on for what he thought was hours, until the imbalanced footing got to him, bring him to a crawl. He hadn’t crept like this since he was a toddler, but it felt safe. It was with one solid surface below him he regained a safety cloak, so warm and real he could cry. He didn’t dare reach up to touch his face, lest he remove one hand anchoring him to the only thing that made him feel okay.

It was only when the warmth of his tears rained down onto his fingertips, that he knew the taste this net left in his mouth with weak. He could sense the ground moving in tremors, his hands vibrating along with the smooth surface that reminded him of the kitchen floor. The quaking reached into his body, shaking his innards, shaking him to his core. The noise was piercing, too much, far too much than he had thought he could bear.

There was weight pressing in the back of Frank’s skull, but from the inside, as if, as if

blood was pooling there

someone had hit him very hard. In Frank’s innocent mind, he imagined a tiny man in his head that somehow gave him a strong kick to the cranium. That was the easiest explanation to why there was agonizing pressure, teeth-clenching pain convoying him. He was screaming, he knew from the tangy metallic pop in the pits of his throat. Frank didn’t know it yet, but this pain would be his new safety cloak, it would protect him from forgetting he was alive.

He was blind, he was hurt, and he was deaf, but he was alive, he had a voice, the screaming would go on until his screams would be heard, someone, anyone, just to hear him, notice him, help him, please, help him, help my baby, don’t leave him alone, he’s hurt, someone hear him, he’s not loud enough, help him, help him

“FRANK!” Frank choked on a ball of cotton shoved into his mouth. A beginning of a moan rose in his gut, but came out as a pathetic whimper. He felt as though he had spent his time eating sand.

Sophie, the older girl next door, was so close to him, eyes watery and face in anguish. The beginnings of confusion melted over his blank expression, as to why she looked so sad. The confusion deepened to the overwhelming heat that consumed the air and made each breath Frank take in a little harder. He blinked rapidly, eyeballs stinging.

“Shush, Frankie, Frankie, you’re okay, you’re okay,” she chanted. The girl was holding his head onto her shoulder, her voice wavering and waterlogged as she consoled him, even though he wasn’t the one quite in need of it. Frank felt the panic and heartbreak in the air as if Sophie had spread it from her to him, and he pushed his way out her embrace. He was scared and confused, upset why she hadn’t explained to him what was happening.

“What’s, what’s going on?!” He shouted, effectively making Sophie cover her mouth with her hands and finally cry; sincere sobs wretched out of her body. A siren cried loud in the inaudible neighborhood; the even hum of murmuring around him became noted. His anger softened, replaced by a flurry of more fear and in a burst, a sense of sobriety. His back was flashing red hot, yet the front half of his body was cold from the night air.

He spun. The world was too bright.

He wasn’t ready to see a sweltering monster devouring his home and everything he had come to know and hold close. There was a pang definite in his chest; and his question silenced the noise surrounding him. For a moment all he could hear was static.

“Mom?” One more burst, “Dad?”

A sob, clear and answering, shouted choruses of one final thought, something that left him struck stilled and numb; dazed, scintillating tear-filled eyes fixed and growing more and more distorted and indistinguishable on the mess of his childhood, direct and striking.

“Frankie, Frankie, no. No, no. No…”

The pace sped up too hastily for Frank to even register anything of them after that. He could hear the people talking to him in soft, soothing voices, about how this may be very confusing to him, how he was going to the able bodied hands of his relatives, how his parent would have been so proud of him for being so good. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t right either. He wasn’t confused. He knew enough to put two and two together, drawing one conclusion that he’d never see either his mom or his dad again.

The rest seemed irrelevant.

No, that wasn’t the word for it, not to Little Boy Frankie, not quite.

Perhaps what we meant to explain was the fact that without his mom, without the home he grew up in, without his dad teaching him about a new instrument or the both of them kissing him goodnight; Frank found himself unable to brighten up for anything, if it meant he couldn’t show what discoveries he had found to the two of them at the dinner table, listen to his dad praise him, his mom’s smile, his dad pat on the back. He went off like a light.

Frank thought whatever flames he once had burning inside him would never begin to compare to the one that changed his home and parents to nothing but ash in the air. Why not put it out?

Frank grew up.

What he didn’t know was that the fire never died out. It matured and outstretched like a fever inside of his body, quiet but sure, ready to consume the world when it was sure Frank would entirely able.