Before The Sun Goes Down

Frank's POV.
They offer vague answers as to why they have to go, my stomach periodically tensing and un-tensing at the prospect of being alone.
They don't leave until tomorrow, but I spend no more time with them and go to bed, not falling asleep until some hours later, the worry keeping me awake. They're not here when I wake up, all of their things gone and the place spotless. Two separate notes are on the table, one for each of them. They both basically say that they'll see me soon, that they love me, and that I should call them at around dinner time. Gerard's also adds that I need to eat, and he's drew a little cartoon Gerard pointing at me with an eyebrow raised.
The notes make me smile, but only for a minute. The room seems to be darker and more ominous, and it closes in on me. I open a few windows around the place, hoping the air will help me breathe easier. Then, I make a coffee and smoke. I drink coffee and smoke until three in the afternoon, then I decide to eat something. I make a sandwich, but unlike yesterday, I can only eat half, and that's a push.
I decide that, considering I've eaten, I can drink something. I'm going to drink responsibly, I'm not going to get completely wankered. I'm just going to drink enough to feel less alone, and less... unsettled.
My aims of not going all the way and drinking so much that I forget my own name fail, and I end up throwing up several times, and by midnight, I've barely got any alcohol left in the apartment. In my drunken stupor, I've gone through every single emotion that there is, from laughing hysterically to wailing, to scared, to tired. Now, I'm wide awake. And bored.
I lie around for a while, drinking a glass of something slowly and contemplating about life. I think I hear a knock at the door, but I pass it off as my imagination, then I hear it again.
“M'comin'. Hold on..” I heave myself up and drag myself to the door, seeing triple. I grab the 'wrong' imaginary door handle, making myself erupt into laughter, again. The knocker knocks again, making me sigh loudly and exaggeratedly.
I open the door, swaying and trying to focus on the person.
“'Ello?” The person is stood in the shadows, making a distant, slight panic bubble in my chest.
“Hi, Frankie.” The voice makes my blood run cold and freeze in my veins. I take a step back, moving as fast as I'm able to, and slamming the door shut.
A foot stops it, though, and the person behind the door shoves it and it opens, my resistance having no effect.
“No..” I can barely whisper.
“Oh, yes, Frank.” The voice comes from behind me, in my ear, and I hoarsely scream and jump forward, banging my head. My sight wavers, and I fall on the floor.
“No.” I say it louder this time, thinking that this is a stupid, drunk dream.
“Open your eyes, Frank. Look at me. You thought I was dead, didn't you?” I screw my eyes shut tighter, shaking my head.
“You are dead.” A hand grips my chin, yanking my face up. In surprise, I open my eyes, looking into the cold, dead ones that are staring back at me with hatred in them. I flinch, but the grip on my chin barely lets me move.
“I'm more alive now than I have ever been, Frank. You're the one that's dead, I can feel it emanating from you,” I stare at him, tears of disbelief in my eyes. “Dead, dead, dead,” He pauses , leaning in closer. I can't feel any breath coming from him, there's nothing. “Dead.” He draws a line across his throat, smiling at me.
“No. You're dead,” I put a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse. “No pulse. You're dead, and this is my imagination.” He smiles at me, the smile bordering sympathy. He shakes his head, the grip on my face getting tighter.
“I don't think figments of your imagination can leave bruises, Frank.” He slaps me, so hard that I fall to one said and my lips splits. “I don't think it can make you bleed, either.” I touch my lip, slowly propping myself up with my other hand. Blood covers my bandages, the white of them contrasting with the dark red of the blood.
I look up at him, hair covering my eyes. “What do you want?” My voice is hushed, but it surprisingly doesn't shake and I sound calm.
“I'm not quite sure yet. Revenge, I think.” He stands up straight, shrugging. He has a fucking black cloak on, what a pretentious prick.
“Revenge for what?” He smiles again, a thin, chilly smile.
“My murder, Frank. Why did you tell? We had fun, didn't we?” He crouches down again, frowning.
“Fun? What part of any of that was fucking fun?” I struggle to stand up, to get away from him, and I end up staggering away and falling over an empty bottle. I throw the bottle at him, but he dodges it and it smashes against the wall.
His face turns thunderous, and he's standing by me in no more than a second. He hauls me up by my throat, my feet dangling in the air. The grip slowly constricts until I can't breathe, then he throws me into the wall.
“I thought it was fun.” I'm picked up again, and thrown. “You're just boring, I guess. Perhaps you should live a little, Frank.” He stands over me, the thin smile on his face.
“I was trying. Then you came and fucked everything up!” I spit at him, my bloody saliva landing halfway up his leg.
“What the fuck did you just do?” His voice is eerily calm, and I shiver involuntarily.
“I spat at you, Miles. I spat at you because you're fucking disgusting, and you-”
Then, with a swoop of his fist, I'm unconscious for several hours.
I wake up, in the same position, everything hurting. The sun's up, and something has dried on my face, probably blood. I slowly sit, my torso screaming in protest. I look around, ignoring the pounding in my head. Flakes of dried blood fall off my face and onto my t-shirt, making me cringe. My apartment is pretty neat, only the smashed glass from the bottle I threw on the floor.
I stand up, groaning and wincing and crying at the pain, and I strip off on my way to the bathroom. I feel calm, I feel nothing, but as soon as I look in the mirror, that changes.
My face is barely recognisable, bruises, swelling, and blood changing it to the extreme. Tears make tracks in the streaks of blood on my cheeks, tinting the once-clear liquid pink. Tentatively, I touch my face, crying harder.
I turn away, because I'm awful to look at, and start the shower, turning it as cold as it will go to help with the swelling, and step in, hissing at the temperature. I stand under the spray with my face turned up, so the blood washes away, and then I wash myself, touching the sore places gently. Turning off the shower, I wrap a towel around myself and step out, going into my bedroom. I get dressed, walk out, and clear up the glass, numbly.
The bandages that I have wrapped around my hands are sodden messes, so I take them off and leave my hands open to the air. My phone is ringing, but I barely notice it, lighting a cigarette and staring into space.
Did that even really happen?
The ringing tops, so I pick up my phone, seeing that I have twenty missed calls and ten unread text messages. Sighing, I call back the top of the missed calls list, getting Gerard answering in one ring.
“Frank, thank God.”
“Hello.” My voice is monotonous, and Gerard's silent for a minute.
“Hey.”
“Hello.” I inhale some more smoke, letting it out slowly.
“Why didn't you answer you phone? Last night and this morning?”
“I was asleep.” I can practically feel him roll his eyes at me.
“Bullshit. You don't go to bed at five in the evening, Frank.”
“I took sleeping pills.” Inhale, exhale.
“I flushed them when you tried jumping out the window, Frank.” Did he? Okay...
“I had some hidden.”
“Why are you lying to me? Don't lie to me.” I let out a frustrated sigh, inhaling and exhaling smoke.
“Why would I lie to you?” My voice is still the same dead, monotonous drone from when the phone call started, why hasn't he picked up on it?
“You've done it before. Why wouldn't you lie to me?” Inhale, exhale.
“I don't know.” He sighs, tutting.
“I just wanted to see if you're okay, Frank.”
“I'm okay.”
“You're a liar, I don't know about 'okay'.” I roll my eyes, more out of reflex than anything else. I stub out my cigarette, seeing as it was a stub itself.
“I'm okay. I'm also busy, so goodbye.” I hang up, turning my phone off and dropping it into a draw.
Looking through the cupboards and finding no alcohol, I sigh and look in the lounge. None in there, either.
“Shall I, or shan't I?” I loo at the door, debating on whether I should go out and buy more. And possibly some more cigarettes...
For some Dutch courage, I swallow what's left in the bottom of the gin bottle, the liquid warming me up. I drop the bottle on the floor, grabbing my shoes and keys and walking out, my head down.
Outside, the weather is bitter, but I can't really feel it. I keep my head down as I walk through the streets to the off-licence, grabbing a couple bottle of whatever and asking for three packets of cigarettes, my heart thudding in my chest and ears, and my hands and voice shaking.
I grab the bag and throw the money at the cashier, not stopping to wait for my change and practically run home, getting through the door just as I start getting black spots covering my vision. Once inside, though, I calm down pretty quickly, with the aid of a cigarette. I force myself to eat a sandwich, then I crack open the bottle of fucking whiskey that I picked up.
I don't even like whiskey, but I manage half a bottle before I'm seeing double and decide to stop before I throw up again. I forget everything, the whiskey making me feel warm and light. My hands are still shaking, but it doesn't particularly alarm me, but then I remember that they've been shaking almost all day. That does alarm me somewhat, but I'm too warm inside to worry for long and I forget about it almost instantly.
I must fall asleep at some point, drunk and laughing, because the next thing I remember is hearing people talking and a thudding from my head. I open my eyes, wincing a little from my headache, but I've become used to them so I can ignore it.
“Oh, good, you're awake,” I groan, rubbing my eyes and standing up with my eyes still half-closed. I pour a glass of water and take some Advil to get rid of my headache. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” I groan again, swallowing some more water and turning to face a pissed off Gerard.
“Oh, just fuck off, Gerard.” He almost growls, and steps forward. I take a step back, cringing.
“Grow up, Frank. Stop getting drunk and face your fucking problems! And, if you could have the decency to answer your fucking phone, for once, too, that would be nice!” He pushes my phone in my hands, stomping his foot.
I do the first thing that comes to mind and put it in the sink and run the tap. The screen goes dead, and the water gets into the phone and brakes it.
“I can't, sorry.” I smile at him, a fake empathetic smile that makes him angrier.
“Why is there blood and bottles on the carpet?” I shrug, blocking out thoughts of Miles and telling Gerard.
“I fell over.” He raises and eyebrow and snorts.
“And the fall bruised your face that badly? The fall split open several parts of your face? The fall made your lip swell up so badly you can barely talk?” He reaches for the hem of my t-shirt, lifting it up. “The fall caused all of this, too?” I nod, yanking my shirt out of his grip and pulling it down.
“I don't think so, Frank.”
“'Don't think' away, Gerard. That's what I'm saying happened, and you have no proof that anything else happened.” I'm shouting, my voice shaking.
“I'll just take a little look into your memories then, shall I?”
“Do that and you'll never fucking see me again. I have enough money for a plane ticket out of America, and don't think I won't use it.” I'm calmer now, my arms folded.
“So you'd just leave Mikey, Ray, Donna, Bob? You're family and friends? A home?” I nod, looking him in the eyes.
“I haven't spoken to Ray and Bob in months, Donna and Mikey can live without me. They're better off without me.” His gaze hardens, flaring with indignation.
“And me? You'd just leave me,” He snaps his fingers. “Like that?” I nod again, looking away so he doesn't see the lie in my eyes.
“Yes. Your better off without me, too.” He shakes his head.
“If you carry on down this road,” He gestures at the whiskey. “Then yes, we will be better off without you,” He pauses, softening his gaze. “But that doesn't mean we'll enjoy being without you. We all love you, Frank. It might be better for all of us to stop talking, but that doesn't mean we will, does it? We're a family.”
“Ray, Bob, and Donna think you're dead, though.” He winces, shaking his head.
“Not mom. She knows about me, that's why we went home.”
“Great. Good for you,” I turn around, hopefully closing the conversation. I light a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling while Gerard carries on talking about things that I can't hear. Or want to hear.
“Frank, are you even listening?” I turn around.
“Of course I'm... not.” He sighs, going silent as he drops into a chair.
“I can't keep doing this, Frank.” I cross my arms, inhaling and exhaling.
“Doing what?” He looks up, his eyes tired.
“Taking half a step forward and three dozen back.”
“A normal dozen or a Baker's dozen?” Okay, why did I just say that?
“A whatever-the-fuck-I-don't-fucking-care-dozen, Frank! Can you be fucking serious for a second?” I pretend to think, then shake my head.
“Probably not, although I swear to God that I didn't actually mean to say that.” His head drops, and he cradles it with his hands, sighing and hunched over.
“Fine. Don't expect me to be serious when you get taken into hospital fro an overdose or alcohol poisoning, then, okay?” I shrug, nodding, even though he can't see me.
“It'll probably be a bit of both, to be honest. Perhaps I'll drink myself to poisoning, then I'll overdose..?” No response from Gerard, no movement from Gerard.
“Have you died or something?” I pause, then laugh at myself. “Stupid question, really. You can't die if you're already dead.” I laugh at myself again, shaking my head at my own stupidity.
“Frank, just shut the fuck up and go take another fucking shower or something before I do something I regret.” I stop smiling and shut up, staring at him wide-eyed.
I huff, unable to stop myself, and grab the whiskey.
“Put the fucking bottle down, or so help me...” I pause, the bottle in-between me and the table.
“No.” He looks up, and his eyes remind me of Miles' from the other night. I drop the bottle and it smashes, then I take a few steps back, my hands in front of my face.
“Don't hit me. I'm sorry.” I'm panicking, my eyes closed.
“I'm not going to hurt you.” I slowly open my eyes, looking at him. His eyes are back to normal, the crazed, evil look gone. I put a hand on my chest, leaning backwards onto the counter.
“Sorry.” I say to him after I calm down, and he looks at me guiltily.
“No, I'm sorry.” We say nothing for a minute or so, then I start to clean the glass and whiskey away. Gerard bends down to help, and he accidentally touches me, making me jump and tense up. I feel him stop and stare at me for a second, then he almost inaudibly sighs and picks up the rest of the glass.
“Where's Mikey?” I glance at him, watching him shrug.
“I don't know, actually. He should be back any minute now..” He glances at the clock, then nods. “Any minute.” He repeats, staring at the wall. I stand up, sighing. Gerard snaps out of his trance and stands up, too, and takes the mop off me and cleans up the whiskey.
Five minutes later, Mikey walks in, his face stormy. He walks right up to me and shoves me, his jaw clenched. “You little fucker! I thought something really fucking bad had happened when you didn't answer your fucking phone! Don't ever do that again!” He shoves me again, but I let him, knowing deep down that I deserve it.
“I'm sorry, Mikey.” He shakes his head, getting a glass of water and drinking it in four gulps.
“It's okay,” He smiles at me, then turns serious. “I'm not joking, though. Answer your fucking phone, okay?” I nod, looking away and blushing out of shame.
“I can't, it's broken...” I crack a smile, but Mikey looks confused, and Gerard... Well, Gerard just looks pissed off.
“Frank, what the fuck happened to your face?” I touch my face, not realizing what he's talking about.
“Oh... I fell.”
“Sure you did.” Doubt is laced through his voice, but he doesn't question me and further.
I glance at Gerard, who has a troubled look on his face. He looks at me, his eyes unreadable, then at Mikey.
“Mikey, can you give Frank and I a minute, please?” Mikey looks at Gerard, confused, but he must look at Gerard's expression, because he doesn't question it and nods, then walks out.
Gerard shuts the door and then turns to me. He stares at me for a second, his face becoming more troubled by the second.
“Frank. Who has been here?” The question startles me, and my mouth drops open.
“How can you tell?” I immediately clap my hand over my mouth, regretting the question.
“Who has been here?” I look at the door, the table, out the window; anywhere apart from Gerard.
“Someone.” He sighs, running a hand down his face.
“Frank, I can smell someone- or something, familiar. They don't smell wholesome, more... malevolent. I need to know,” I purse my lips, not saying anything. “Frank! Please.” He sounds desperate, he sounds fucking terrified.
I take one glance at him and crack, having to close my eyes tightly to stop the tears escaping.
“He was supposed to be dead. He wasn't supposed to be here, Gerard, but he was. He's strong and dark and.... and.. terrifying. His eyes are evil, Gerard. Evil.” It comes tumbling out, all in He's and not his name; my mouth won't form it. Gerard's in front of me in a blur, his fingers digging into my shoulders and his eyes big and crazed.
“Who?” He shakes me a little, his fingers digging in more.
“Him! Him, him; Miles! He was here! I told you, didn't I? He was here, he did this to me,” I gesture at my face, my voice high and hysterical. Gerard stumble back, as if he's been hit. “He's like you, except he's terrifying and bitter and dark. He could the same to me again and so much worse, and he wouldn't have to put any effort into it.”
With a hand held to his mouth, Gerard sits down, his eyes shut.
“He... He was here?” He opens his eyes and looks at me, his pupils dilated. I nod, sagging against the counter. I carry on nodding, and my body seems to crumple into itself. I end up sat on the floor, my knees pulled into my chest and my fingers laced together to stop the shaking.
“How did he get in?” Gerard is suddenly crouched before me, lifting up my face.
“I let him in. I was drunk and I heard a knock, so I let him in. Like last time. Just like last time,” I rest my forehead on my knees, cringing at myself. “God, I'm so stupid.” Gerard shushes me, lifting up my head again.
“And he what? He did this to you and left?”
“I can't really remember, it's all blurred. I remember waking up with dried blood on my face and memories of him throwing me around. He said that he was more alive now than he ever has been. He didn't have a pulse! I felt for it, Gerard! He's dead... But he isn't is he? How can he be dead?” Gerard doesn't say anything, he just watches as I start to cry and breathe funnily.
“He's not a vampire, Frank. He's not a lycanthrope, either.” Gerard throws a cigarette packet at me, with a lighter. I light one, hungrily, with shaking hands.
“Then what is he?” Gerard shrugs, lighting one himself, but not quite as desperately as me.
“He's... I don't know, a demon or something. Something worse than a demon, probably. He's probably been possessed,” He sighs, shaking his head. “I don't know, Frank. I don't know enough to say, but it's bad, really bad. We need Ernest or something.” His voice is shaking, and his hands are, too.
“Get him then.” He shakes his head, looking at me.
“I'm with the Council now, them and Ernest are huge rivals, enemies. As long as I'm in the Council, he won't help me.” I groan, the sound desperate.
“What are we going to do?” I lower my voice, leaning forward slightly. “I'm terrified, Gerard. I can't take much more, I can't.” He nods his head, an understanding look in his eyes.
“I'll work something out. I swear, Frank, he isn't going to hurt you. Not again...” He places a hand on my knee, but I flinch and he drops it off, sighing.
“I'm sorry, Gerard.” He looks at me.
“What for?”
“I can't do the affection. We can't do it any more. I'm sorry that I kissed you, and I'm sorry that it almost lead to something more. Most of all, I'm sorry that I lead you on.” He bites his lip, looking away. He's silent for a while, then he looks back at me.
“Please, Frank. I love you, I need you. I'm sorry, okay? I'm really fucking sorry, and I'll do anything to make up for everything I've done.” His voice is raw, his eyes pleading and big.
“You can't. You don't need to, I forgave you a while ago. You don't need me, okay? The last thing anybody needs is me, Gerard. You need someone better than me, you need someone with less problems and better reasoning on why they shouldn't go and jump off a cliff, okay?” He shakes his head, opening his mouth, but I shush him. “No, Gerard. Can you honestly look me in the eyes and say that you've enjoyed being with me over these past few weeks? Can you say that you don't mind not being able to touch me? Can you say that you can live for the rest of your life like this, with me?” I speak gently, calmly. He looks at for a minute, his lip trembling.
“Yes.” He looks down even as he says it, then he guiltily looks up.
“See. You can't do it, and I don't want you to. You can't lie to yourself to make me happy, it's not right. If you're with me for any longer, I'm afraid that I'm going to ruin you.” He shakes his head, grabbing my hand. I flinch, pulling out of his grip and he sighs.
“You're right, Frank. I can't say that I've enjoyed these past few weeks, but that's because you're so unhappy. I can't say that I don't mind that I can't touch you, only because you're irresistible. I have an aching craving to touch you, to protect you, to love you. And I can't say that I can live the rest of my life like this because it's killing me everyday to see you like this, but if you'll let me, we can get you better. Just don't do this, please don't do this.” His voice breaks my heart, but my resolve is steadfast.
“I have to, for both of us. After a few years, when I'm better, when this is all over, we can try again, maybe.” He shakes his head, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Please.” His voice breaks in the middle, making it into two words.
“No, Gerard. I'm sorry.” I stand up, stubbing out my cigarette and putting it in the trash, and I leave him on the floor, his shoulders shaking.
Mikey stands up as soon as I walk out of the kitchen, his eyes on the verge of terrified.
“Miles?” His voice is low and hoarse, and I nod, making his shoulders slump.
“We're going home. I'm not leaving you here, not with him around.” I nod my head, too tired of everything to argue.
“You might want to talk to your brother.” I walk off, going into my bedroom to pack.
After a few phone calls, a few pillow-punches, tears and hours of packing, I'm ready to leave. The landlord is coming in the morning to collect the keys and the month's rent, my college understands my circumstances and wish me luck, and I think my eye's are as red-rimmed as a pot smoker's.
There's a knock on my door, but they come in anyway.
“Frank...” My name comes out as a sigh from Mikey, who sits down next to me.
“I know.” He sighs again, looking at me.
“He's not Gerard any more. He has the same look in his eyes from when you went missing. His eyes are... broken.” I bite my lip, looking away.
“I'm sorry.” My voice is little more than a croak, and another sigh comes from Mikey.
“I understand why you've done it, and I'm not mad. I'm just upset, I guess. It's upsetting, seeing you both like this.” I nod, my face still turned away. We sit in silence for a minute before I sigh and look at him.
“I'm all packed and ready to go. When do you want to go?” Mikey's eyes widen as he looks around the room, then he shrugs.
“I didn't notice. And, I don't know. Now?” I eagerly nod, ready to leave here and go home.
“Sure.” I nod.

Notes