F*ck and Run

It took Frank a few moments of nauseous agony to figure out why he’d woken up on Jamia’s couch rather than in his own bed. The early morning sunlight streamed in through her living room windows which felt like hot daggers being shoved into the back of his skull through his eye sockets. His head was still swimming with alcohol. Nothing felt real. He tried to take a deep breath and his lungs protested painfully, cruelly reminding Frank that they were still unhappy about the amount of chain-smoking they’d endured the night before.
It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d woken up on Jamia’s couch in such a state, but he fucking hoped it would be the last. As he laid there with the thin blanket thrown over his face to block out the sharp, bright light, he tried to work back through the night before to figure out what the fuck he had drank. They’d started with beers. He remembered those. He remembered talking about Gerard way too much. And then Jamia was freaking out over the moon. And then Frank was freaking out over Gerard and the moon. After that Frank had suggested shots of tequila.
And now he was paying for it: Everything hurt.
Frank knew the nausea would hit harder the second he stood up. He tried to calculate if he could make it to the bathroom without puking on Jamia’s carpet on the way. The more he thought about it, the more nauseous he felt and he was soon ripping the blanket off and running for the bathroom. He thought of Gerard as he leaned over the cold toilet seat and dry-heaved. He wanted to be somewhere warm and dark and quiet until he didn’t feel so awful anymore and the warmest, darkest, quietest place he could think of was Gerard’s bed.
After he’d rinsed his mouth out thoroughly with Jamia’s mouthwash, which had led to a second round of dry heaves, he crept back to the couch and curled up in a little ball under the blanket again. His throat burned from the combination of cigarette smoke and stomach acid, adding to the pain of breathing. He swore to himself he’d never drink so much again in his life. He was getting too old to wake up so miserably hungover. Then again, it wasn’t like he had gotten so drunk without reason… Frank’s mind was soon back to reeling over Gerard and the endless number of possible explanations for his strange affections.
Frank ranked his explanations by plausibility. He decided it was most likely that Gerard was a satanist of some kind. It might’ve been the years in Catholic school, but Frank had always sort of bought satanism. It seemed natural that a satanist would go to the woods on a full moon to execute their rituals. He couldn’t figure out where Mikey factored into that theory. It also didn’t do much to explain the secrecy, magical healing, or the growling in the middle of the night. It was possible, Frank supposed, he had just dreamed about the growling.
It seemed too fantastic to even suggest, but in Frank’s brain the second-most logical explanation was that Gerard was a werewolf. He catalogued what he knew of werewolves from his repertoire of horror films. There was The Curse of the Werewolf, American Werewolf in London, Teen Wolf… It would explain the woods, the growling, the moon, Gerard’s generally wild appearance, the need for Mikey’s assistance. It explained almost everything. The inner-teenager in of Frank went giddy at the idea he’d been fucking a werewolf for the past month and giddy was too much for him, given his miserable, hungover state.
The idea of werewolves existing was farfetched, he thought as he made another trip to the bathroom to dry heave. He felt stupid for even thinking it. It had to be satanism.

Once he’d returned to the couch, he pulled out his phone to check for evidence of drunken phone usage, and was relieved when he didn’t find anything. Mikey’s name came up in his phone and he wished he could just call the guy and sort everything out. He was tired of living in this confused limbo. He snorted as Jamia’s speech about ‘communication in relationships’ started playing in his head. He was going to feel like such an asshole if Gerard got back into town and it immediately became evident the guy had been skiing all weekend or something.
He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, milling over his miserable circular thoughts, but eventually he heard Jamia making the same run for the bathroom. He tried not to listen as she made the same purge he had, but he found himself smirking. He wasn’t alone in his hungover misery.
Jamia floated into the room and dropped into a worn old chair across from the couch, considering Frank was a miserable, pleading look.
“You too, huh?” Frank laughed hoarsely.
“Frank,” She groaned, “Oh my God, Frank. Just kill me.”
Her face was pale and puffy, eyes sunken in and glassy. Frank hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror but he imagined he didn’t look too much better.
“I don’t remember getting back here last night.” Frank admitted. “Sorry if I was an asshole.”
“You weren’t worse than usual.” She shrugged, “I don’t really remember getting back here either. I think we took a cab.”
They stared at each other in silence, wordlessly commiserating like old partners-in-crime. In some ways, that was exactly what they were. Eventually, she lifted herself out of the chair and curled up on the couch beside Frank, digging out the TV remote and flipping the TV on. They watched Saturday morning cartoons while Jamia rolled up a joint.
Frank wasn’t a stoner. He hadn’t been one for years. And even in his formative stoner days, he’d never smoked as much as Jamia did. He thought it was funny that someone in the legal profession smoked so much. Not that Frank was one for good morals, he just had no idea how she could remember everything about laws and legal regulations when she was always high. It was sort of impressive, really.
Frank always took a few puffs when Jamia offered, especially when they had spent a night drinking out like they had the night before. It took the edge off of things, removed the sting of nausea, and helped to mellow him out, which he certainly needed.
He’d never been so grateful for Jamia’s friendship. He was going through the worst hangover in forever, but he was also stoned and warm and not alone. She was an angel in disguise as far as Frank was concerned.
When they were both sufficiently keyed, Jamia made coffee. He was too nauseous to drink it but the smell and the feeling of the cup in his hands made him feel more human. Jamia didn’t drink hers either.
Eventually they ordered pizza. Jamia ordered a pie with double pepperoni for herself and begrudgingly ordered a vegan pie for Frank. She spent the entire time they were waiting for the delivery guy trying to explain why pepperoni was the best hangover cure ever and how Frank was severely denying himself some serious pleasure in life. Frank knew. But pepperoni and all other animal products were a low priority on the list of things Frank had been denying himself.

“So what’s wrong with Gerard?” Jamia asked, voice muffled around a mouth-full of pizza.
They were sitting on the floor with their backs to the sofa. Pizza boxes, cheap scratchy napkins and packets of chilli flakes were littering the coffee table in front of them.
“What’s… wrong with him?” Frank asked, feeling a nervous blip in his heart rate.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with him?” Jamia repeated, chewing softly, “Last night, you kept asking me what kind of things I would consider dealbreakers in a relationship. So I wanna know what the dealbreaker is.”
“I think he might be a werewolf.” Frank said evenly, trying the words out loud. They came easier than he thought they would, but it could’ve been the pot, or the hangover, or Jamia. She was just easy to talk to.
Jamia nearly choked on her pizza as she laughed at Frank.
“No seriously,” She said, clearing her throat. “Is it just that he’s slept around a lot? Is he a drug addict? I can’t figure it out. What’s the hangup? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Okay… so I think he might be a satanist.” Frank said, allowing himself to say try that theory out loud, “Would you still wanna date someone if they snuck off to the woods once a month to perform blood rituals under the moon?”
“What the fuck is a blood ritual?” Jamia snorted, but she froze up and looked at Frank with wide eyes, “Did he tell you that’s where he goes? Oh my god. Is that where Mikey goes every month?”
“I don’t know. This is all speculation.” Frank sighed.
“Oh…” She said, looking disappointed. “Jerk. You got me all excited.”
“Sorry.” Frank chuckled, grabbing another slice of pizza.
“Do you know where Mikey goes every month?” She asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“No idea.” Frank shrugged, “Gerard goes with him. I don’t know what they do. All I know is that they go to the woods. It’s always around the full moon. Gerard said they go stargazing but... There’s this sense of urgency to it? I don’t know. It doesn’t add up.”
“Have you asked about it?” Jamia asked, raising an eyebrow, “Or is this another thing you’re too afraid to ask about.”
“I don’t know… Gerard said I could go with him next month but… I just feel like there’s something he’s intentionally leaving out.” Frank explained, “And I’m not just being paranoid. Don’t look at me like that. This is different, J.”
“Secrecy this early in a relationship is definitely a bad sign,” Jamia continued, “Especially if you already have trust issues with him.”
“I do not have trust issues.” Frank scoffed. “Fuck off!”
“You absolutely do.” She said, “You always say he sleeps around like it’s a bad thing.”
“I do not!” Frank defended.
“It’s okay if you’re not cool with that, Frank.” Jamia said soothingly. “Some people aren’t. You just need to be honest with yourself about that. Don’t pretend it’s okay with you if it isn’t.”
Frank felt like Jamia had just slapped him.
“Don’t get mad.” She scolded gently.
“I’m not mad.” Frank said quickly, “Not at you, anyways...”
He let out a deep sigh. There was no amount of weed in New York City to subdue the terrible feeling curling in Frank’s stomach. He’d been acting like Gerard was supposed to be the better person between them because Gerard had wronged him in the first place.
Only Gerard hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d simply done what he’d always done. He hadn’t made Frank any promises their first night together all that time ago. And he couldn’t break promises if he didn’t make them.
“I’m mad at myself... I’m such a fucking asshole.” Frank whispered, hanging his head.
“No.” Jamia cooed, “Well… actually yes. But you’re a good asshole. I think you mean well but you’re just… so fucking stupid.”
Frank groaned pathetically in agreement.
“Gerard hurt you. It’s okay to lose your cool a little.” Jamia offered, gently putting her hand on Frank’s shoulder. “But it’s gotta stop somewhere.You’re not gonna punish him for the rest of his life, are you?”
When Frank lifted his head up, Jamia was smiling at him sympathetically.
“No. I guess I probably shouldn’t.” Frank said weakly.
“You should fix things with him when he comes back.” Jamia said, “Just… fucking talk to him. And be honest about what you want from him.”
“But what I want is so fucking selfish.” Frank groaned.
“Selfishness can be romantic.” Jamia countered.
Frank had to turn that idea over in his mind for a minute. He rested his head against the couch cushions behind him and stared up at Jamia’s ceiling.
“I want him to only want me.” Frank said slowly, “I wish being with me was enough for him. And I just don’t see that happening. I don’t want him to have to change who he is for my sake.”
“That’s why you need to talk to him, Frank.” Jamia sighed, “You shouldn’t be chasing after a relationship that isn’t gonna happen. If you guys don’t want the same things you shouldn’t be wasting your time on him.”
“You’re right.” Frank agreed morosely.
“I don’t give a shit about being right. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t think I can handle another bender like the one we pulled last night.” Jamia laughed, reaching for the baggie of weed and the rolling papers, “And if he breaks your fucking heart that’s what we’re going to have to do.”
“Yeah.” Frank sighed, feeling a morbid smile pull at his lips.

They had just finished smoking another joint when Frank’s phone rang. He banged his knee against the edge of the coffee table as he scrambled to answer it. But it wasn’t Gerard, it was Frank’s landlord. He had just gotten off the phone with an inspector and he said he was sorry, but that he had some bad news. The remains of the previous upstairs tenant had not been completely removed following the “incident.” A significant amount of human remains and bathwater had remained in one of the walls for months. The extent of the damage and contamination was unknown to Frank’s landlord, but he said an inspector would be by to determine the status of Frank’s apartment. Frank’s landlord said that things didn’t look good and that for Frank’s safety, he should evacuate immediately. He feared the place would be deemed “unlivable.”
Frank was too high to process half of what the guy said. What he gathered was that it would be best if he left his apartment immediately. The building management company would pay for him to stay in a hotel until the status of his apartment could be properly determined. If it was unlivable, he would get his deposit back in full and they would pay for a hotel until he could find another place. The guy said something about compensating Frank for his personal belongings, but Frank’s brain was already locked into dizzying circular thoughts of living in an apartment full of dead-person-mold for the last month. Frank wasn’t much of a germophobe, but the idea that there had been vague ‘human remains’ in his walls while he was living there sucked the air out of his lungs. When the guy suggested Frank come by to take a look an available unit on a different floor in the same building, Frank hung up on him.
He dropped onto Jamia’s couch and heaved a long, distressed sigh.
“Everything okay?” Jamia asked, pointing the remote towards the TV and muting it.
“No.” Frank said, “Actually, I don’t think my life could possibly get any fucking worse.”

Notes

hi. i swear this was a necessary plot twist. i swear it. sweat it. swear it.

-m