Moon Hanger

Frank’s not sure when it all really started, or when he began to have trouble discerning the beginning from the end. When his whirlwind of a life came to a screeching halt, when breathing felt less natural and more calculated- an algebraic problem on a test he never studied for, talking began to seem more like stalling, his days started to feel more numbered and the hours longer, and at other times, time seemed to be on fast-forward and he was clawing desperately on the tail of it watching it slip through his fingers like sand, when he started feeling desperate for something he couldn't really pinpoint, when looking in the mirror was the worst part of his day. When Frank started music, he never wanted all this fame and fortune; he just wanted to play music. He was lucky he met Mikey, a dorky 19 year old sitting in a rickety 24-hour diner booth with his friend Ray, steaming coffee in hand. He’s lucky Mikey introduced him to his loser, basement dwelling, comic-artist brother who seemingly never saw the sunlight. But Frank doesn't feel lucky. That's the thing he wants to tell these kids, the secret, that the people whose lives you envy are nothing but a stew pot of pills and make up and glamour gossip lies- you are in love with a fabricated, photoshop edited presentation of your idols, if you really knew us, you wouldn't love us at all. He should be happy lying in his soft, tempurpedic bed (that is supposed to help his back but really he just got it for Jamia when she was pregnant with Cherry and Lilly), sleeping next to his amazing wife, in a nice house in New Jersey, his favorite place in the entire world, alive and awake in his living-breathing dream-life.

It had been roughly a year since the break-up. Music stopped flowing all the sudden, every word was treading on thin ice and finally, a fatal phone call shattered it like glass. Frank could go an entire day without thinking of the band or Gerard, but as soon as his head hit the pillow, it was like a stake was driven into his chest. His hands became heavy as if he had two bowling balls resting on them, his body became weak and he is sure sleeping with himself at night would be like sleeping with the dead. An hour later, when Miles has been put to bed, and he is sure Jamia’s asleep, he lets a tear or two slip, writing a story on his cheeks, tumbling down to rest on the pillowcase. A few times Cherry came in from a bad dream or Miles woke Jamia and him up, and Jamia had fiercely attempted to figure out why Frank was crying for days. He always had an excuse. The truth is, the only person that knew was on the other side of the country, running away from New Jersey like the plague.

Here he was like clockwork, lying on his soft-sponge bed in the middle of the night, wrapped in his favorite mint green comforter he bought two years ago for Jamia’s birthday, the moonlight elegantly peeking through the blinds, making a fluorescent white striped pattern on the carpet. Just like every night, his hands were heavy and his body was weak as memories played like a graduation slideshow through his mind, committing nostalgia murder of the third degree, stealing his breath like a switchblade to the ribs. His shoulders started to tremble. He watched his Iphone screen light up, just like every night. Frank knew exactly who it was, but he stared at the name in wonderment like always, as if it this didn't happen at one or two in the morning like routine. And he sat there, and just watched it vibrate vigorously. He wondered what Gerard looked like right now. His hair sandy and natural for the first time, hunched up in a kitchen chair, phone pressed against his ear, the darkness swallowing everything around him, but the skylight in his kitchen would let in just enough of the moon to illuminate his face eerily. He imagined what Gerard would say, his voice probably almost inaudible in the night, trying not to wake Lindsay or Bandit. The violent vibrations stopped, replaced by the “1 Missed Call” icon, telling him what he had already known. A distant snore from Jamia erupted through the room, but the blood roaring in his ears made it hard for him to hear. Right now, Gerard was probably making a cup of coffee, his feet pattering softly on cold tile that he remembers Gerard asking if Frank liked about two years ago. He knew in the past, he would have answered the phone in a heartbeat. Listening to Gerard and forgiving and forgetting, but it’s been 12 years of forgetting and forgiving and Frank has grown weary of listening to Gerard plead to him. He has become frustrated with all of Gerard’s impulsive decisions, him calling Frank up at 4 AM telling Frank he wants to end the band was the last straw. Maybe in a few years, when Frank has healed and he has moved on and Gerard has stopped calling, Frank will listen to those voice mails, and read the letters and on some crazy night, when the planets are aligned, as he watches the sunset alone is his backyard, or with the assistance of a few shots of fiery whiskey burning his throat, someday, maybe Frank will call him back.

Notes

For frankenweenie who messaged me and told me she missed my stories, I didn't know anyone even remembered me. (: For you, dear. Merry Christmas. Sorry it's sad.