Before The Sun Goes Down

Gerard's POV
I look in front of me, at the oak table. A small pile of wavy, red strands of hair are upon it. I hadn't even realized that I'd been pulling my hair out, let alone placing it in a pile. Shaking my head, I scoop up the hairs and put them in the trash can.
I run a hand through my hair, which is noticeably thinner, and think again about the phone call I had with Frank.
He sounded so desperate, so terrified. I shook for hours after it. He talked about someone coming back soon, and I think the person was Miles. Miles.
But, underneath the shaking and terror in his voice, I heard an undertone of love. The sort of love that you can't help but let feed into your voice, even when the person you're talking about hates you and you haven't spoken in twenty years.
This is why I'm having doubts about the phone call, about Frank, about everything. If Frank can have that sort of love in his voice when he's speaking about him, what's happened to him? What has happened to him that has changed his opinion on Miles so much that he doesn't have the tremor of disgust; of anger; of the hatred I heard when he used to talk about him?
When he lived in his apartment, he talked in his sleep. Especially after he got drunk and fell asleep. He said things about Miles with such a desperate hatred that it made me slightly scared. But there was also the panic-stricken, absolute terror in his voice sometimes, and it made me feel the ghost of the tears I wanted to cry for him.
Those months were awful. Frank with his drinking, his permanent shaking, and the hungry look in his eyes. He was never there. He was in the room with you, and you could hold a conversation with him, but he was never there. His eyes would glaze over and you could say something absolutely ridiculous, and he wouldn't even blink.
He's totally blanked out some of the days. In his reality, the drunkenness probably didn't last too long, but it was probably still totally awful. I've heard his thoughts, and sometimes he asked himself how it got so bad, so quickly.
It was because he can't remember the worst of it. I found him a few times choking on his own vomit, and if I told him that, he'd accuse me of lying. He drank more alcohol in that time than I've ever seen anyone drink. It still didn't stop the glazed over look, or the constant turning down of the corners of his mouth.
He thought, a few times, that Mikey and I only visited mom for a few days. The truth is that we were gone for almost a week. But he can't remember that, and I don't want to tell him.
I was scared stiff that he might take it upon himself to try and jump out of the window again, but this time we wouldn't be able to stop him. I would just smell his blood and feel the emptiness in my head where his consciousness is, and I would know. He'd finally done it.
He hasn't yet, but there were a few times while he was in hospital that it waned. The light almost went out, it flickered and danced, but it didn't stop shining. Mom's went out, and Mikey's did, too. But it got relit, and some of the worst hours of my life were over. I could just kiss the doctors that saved Mikey. Even if they didn't manage to save some of his skin.
From when Frank passed out at the party, and I left, I've been in darker places than I ever want to admit. I've been visiting the Council non-stop, trying to find answers out about everything. They’ve trained me up, and I'm so strong and powerful now that I scare even The Gray Ones.
They have almost no clue of what Miles is, or who made him. They know only that he seems to have all the skills we have, they just aren't as good. He can read minds, he can use telekinesis, he can shape-shift. The big one is mind control. I think that this is how he changed Frank, but Frank is so strong against things like that.
The Council are helping me with Frank because I've promised that, if I get him back, I'll change him. This is the only reason why they haven't tracked him and they haven't let something rip out his throat. I have to turn him, I have to, or they will. And I know that they won't turn him, but instead kill him and say it was an accident.
A few hours ago, I felt stabs of pain. They happened everywhere, like I was being punched. It didn't hurt too bad, but the mental pain I got it hurt worse than any physical pain I'd ever endured. It was like flood gates had suddenly opened from Frank's mind to mine, and I got a torrent of all the grief he's feeling. I didn't get anything else, just crippling pain. It was intensified for me, though, because of the heightened senses I have, I think.
I couldn't do anything but sit and grip my chair while clenching my jaw. The chair broke, and I fell to the floor, but I didn't change position, apart from my hands formed fists, and my legs bent up. When it dulled, I was released from my paralysis. I uncurled my fists and straightened my legs and readied myself for another torrent, but it didn't come, and hasn't come yet.
I think he's unconscious.
I got a new chair after around half an hour of no activity, and that was when I started pulling my hair out. My scalp still stings, and when I run a hand through my hair, strands still fall out from where I pulled them out but didn't methodically put them on the table.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I check for any calls, only to slide it back in when I see there isn't any. Frank said he'd leave me alone if he got my name, so why am I hoping for another call? Is it because I can't access his mind as of yet, and I want to know if he's okay?
I don't think so. I know he's isn't okay. I know he's had something really bad happen to him over the last few days, and I know he's with Miles. I think that I want to hear his voice, whether it's trembling or not, I think that now I've heard his voice, his real voice, I won't be satisfied until I hear him again. Or until I see him again, or until I can touch his skin again.
I don't want to think about what his skin might be like when he's out of Miles' reach. It could be purple and blue and green and black. It could be scarred, it could be cut. He might be pale, even paler than before, and his veins might not be blue any more.
I have no idea of what Miles is capable of. He could have vampire characteristics, so he might have enough of Frank one day and drain his blood. I might be able to touch his skin again, but it might be pale and cold. The bruises and cuts on it would never heal, and he'd never know that life could be happy again. He'd die in misery and torture.
But what if I get him back and he's dead? Not physically dead, but mentally and emotionally dead? What if he can't love any more? What if he never looks at me with the same love as I would look at him with? What if his only laughter is bitter and broken? What if his eyes always have the hungry, glazed look in them for the rest of time?
I think I'd be able to handle holding his dead body in my arms better than have to see him like that, every day, all day.
Something clicks in my mind, and the sound of something echoes back and forth. I freeze, tensing my whole body. The pain is going to come any second now- and there it is. It's weaker this time, but it's full of more deep, dark pain.
I react differently this time, though, and I pull my phone out of my pocket and I re-dial the number he called me from. Nobody answers, so I keep trying until he picks up. All I hear is gasping, breathless crying for a few seconds before he seems to pull himself together and try to talk down the phone.
“Yuh-yuh... Yes?” The word comes out rushed and quiet.
“Frank? What's happened?” I'm shaking again.
“He... He...” He gets interrupted by frantic tears again. I can hear water running.
“Frank?” I speak more urgently now, and my voice has rose to an almost-shout.
“Oh, God, Gerard. It's everywhere, everywhere! Huh-how do I fuh-fucking stop it?” I can almost hear his body shaking. I shoot up of my chair, and I pull my hand away from my head. My fist has a clump of hair in it.
“What is, Frank?” My voice is on the verge of being hysterical, thoughts are running through my mind of what could be everywhere, everywhere! “God dammit, Frank! Answer me!”
“How could he?” Low sobbing follows this. “He... How? Why?” His voice breaks on the last word, his voice sounding so raw that it hurts my un-beating heart. “Oh, God. Why?” He screams the last word, and I have to take the phone away from my ear. He isn't even talking into the receiver.
“Why what, Frank? Please, tell me what he's done...” I bite my lip, my eyes flitting around the room anxiously.
“He... carved his... his fuh-fucking name! In my stomach! In my stomach! With something so hot, so, so, so hot... His name! It's in my stomach, it's part of me! He's part of me... And he knows it! I'll never be able to move on, I'll never be able to even look at my stomach! He carved his fucking name...” My stomach twists violently, and I gag. Nothing comes from it, considering I don't eat. He phone drops from my hand and onto the floor, and so do I. Covering my mouth, I start to feel my legs shaking.
“No... Oh, God, Frankie. Oh my God,” I gag again, my chest heaving up and down even though I don't need air. I'm having a panic attack and I don't even breathe. “Fuck. Fuck... Shit,” I pick the phone back up, and drop it again because of the tremors going through my hands.
The phone is gripped harder than before and I hold it to my ear with both hands. He's still crying, but angry, agonized screams fill the silence when his sobs don't.
“Oh, Frankie... What else? What else has he done? What else has that... that, monster done?” I can't bring myself to talk over a whisper.
“He cut me... Huh-he said, con-considering I already have scars, I... I might as.. as wuh-well have muh-more,” He's silent for a minute. “What am I going to do? Tell me, juh-Gerard. I don't know what to do and I can't take it any more! I don't know what to fucking duh-do!” The only sound after that for a while is his crying, then he stops. “Help me... Get me a-away!”
“I'm trying. I'm really, really trying. I'm so fucking sorry, this is all my fault. Oh, fuck, I'm sorry,” I stop, biting my lip. “Are the cuts still bleeding?”
“Yuh-yes.”
“You need to staunch the bleeding, okay? Put pressure on them. And check if any are too deep.” I hear his slow footsteps walk away from the phone, and I hear tissue ripping. He's sniffling now, but I can tell he's still crying.
“I think a few are. I-I th-think I nuh-need stitches. They wuh-won't stop!” His voice starts rising again, but I shush him.
“Keep calm. You have to. Wrap the ones that you think are shallow in something better than tissue. Get cloth or something. Tie it around your arm.” I hear ripping of fabric, and then the rustling of it as he ties it.
“Oh-okay. Duh-done that.” He's calmer now, but his voice is hollow.
“Wait, are they clean? What did he cut them with?”
“A.. a buh-butcher's knife.” I jump slightly, wincing. I start to talk again but I end up choking on my words.
“Oh-okay. Okay,” I pause, closing my eyes and shaking my head slightly. “Okay,” I pause again, hating myself slightly for what I'm about to ask him to do. “I need you to stitch up the cuts. Get a needle and thread. Preferably something like nylon. It can't be cotton or anything, okay? While your looking, put pressure on the deep ones.” When I said the word stitch, he inhaled sharply, like he'd just been hit in the stomach.
“No, I... I kuh-can't do that! Stuh-stitch them uh-up?”
“Yes, Frank. Have you got any alcohol? Soak the needle in it before you do, to sterilize it. Preferable something like vodka.” He takes a shaky breath in and releases it. He is silent for a while, then he sighs.
“I have blood all over my clothes. I want to burn them and everything in the house, but instead I'm about to stitch up my own wounds inflicted by someone that has raped me, cut me, burnt me, engraved his fucking name in me? Great.” He sounds defeated now, resigned.
“The house?” He laughs, and it's the laugh that I hate the most. The laugh is bitter and full of nothing. It scares me.
“Oh, yeah. He really got me there. He.. he got a house? Our home,” He laughs again, the same laugh. “Home, yeah, okay. A home is supposed to be happy?” His voice rises like he's asking a question, but I don't know how to answer. “A home isn't supposed to have blood splattered up the walls and screams echoing in the rooms.” He sighs again, and even his sigh is bitter.
“Frank, you'll bleed out. The blood won't just be on the walls, it will be on the floor, too.” I really don't know what to say, what to do.
“I'm sitting in a small puddle of blood, Gerard. I think it's already on the floor,” I open my mouth to talk, but he carries on. “But, okay, I'll do it. Applying pressure now,” Rustling of fabric. “And I'm going to find needle and thread. If I'm not back in ten minutes, hang up. I'll probably be dead.” My stomach drops at this, and my hands start shaking really bad again.
“Can't you take the phone with you? I can't even come and find you... Oh, God, this is so fucking fucked up!” I punch the floor, but it's a weak punch and it means absolutely nothing.
“It's attached to the wall, I can't. Anyway, I feel fine, I'm just a little dizzy.”
“Just... Be careful. Walk up the stairs slowly and sit down if you need to. Don't tell yourself it's nothing, because it's something, okay?” I get a grunt for a reply, and the line is almost silent. I can hear him move around, mutter things to himself, walk. I think I hear him fall or something, and I say his name, but he doesn't answer.
“Back.” His voice startles me, but I have a smile on my face from the relief.
“Okay. Needle and thread?”
“Check.”
“Alcohol?”
“Check. And I found vodka.”
“Something to bite down on?”
“Um? Why?”
“I don't know, it seems to help with containing screams or whatever.”
“I won't scream. My throat hurts too much from doing that already.” I can see him in my mind shrugging. His lack of emotion is worse than when he was crying.
“Why aren't you crying, Frank? Why are you so closed off?” He stutters for a second, then goes silent.
“I am crying. Just because my eyes aren't dripping with tears, doesn't mean I'm not fucking crying.” He basically snarls this at me, and I have to gulp a few times before I can speak again.
“Okay. I'm sorry,” I pause to see if he'll answer me, but he doesn't. “Do you know how to stitch?”
“No.”
“Okay. That's fine. Just listen to what I say and you'll be good.”
“Miles tells me to be good.” I have to gulp again, but my words falter. I sit, opening and closing my mouth over and over. I just can't think of what to say.
“ Soak the needle in the alcohol for a minute,” The line is silent while he does as I say, but I continue after a minute. “Thread the needle,” I wait for a second before telling him the next step. “You need two hands for this bit. Put the phone on speaker or something, and put it on your lap, or on the floor. Squeeze the sides of the cut together,” I hear the phone being placed away and onto the floor, and he grunts. He's probably squeezing the cut together. “Done that?”
“Uh-huh...” I bite my lip, he sounds in such pain.
“Okay. Okay,” I close my eyes, squeezing them tight. “Okay. I need you to put the needle through the skin in one side and out the other.” He makes a pained noise, the sound full of apprehension.
“I can't do this. My hands are shaking so much, I can't do this.” His voice breaks half way through.
“You can, Frank.” He groans.
“I can't. I can't do this, no way.” I sit up straight, and when I speak my voice is full of determination.
“Frank, you can. You've been raped, you got through that. Your parents are dead, you got through that. You've just been maliciously attacked by a fucking demon hybrid, you got through that.”
“Fine, Gerard. Fine.”
It's all silent, I can't even hear him breathe. That's why the scream he makes shocks me so much.
It isn't a proper scream, he sounds like he's choking on it more than anything.
“Frank, it's fine. It'll be fine. Just talk to me while doing it or sing... or something.”
“I still have like six to do, Gerard!” He pants slightly in between his words.
“Six? Six that are deep enough to merit fucking stitches? Holy fuck. That fucking bastard!”
“Gerard, it's okay. I'll be fine. I won't let him do this to me again, okay? Not this bad.” The last part is said quietly, like he doesn't want me to hear him.
“But how will you stop him? Frank, none of us have any idea on what he is. He could be anything. If he wants to cut you again, he will. You won't be able to stop him.” I hear him gulp, and another muffled choked-scream comes from him.
“I know.” He pants it out. The sentence is punctuated with a groan in the middle of it.
“I know you know, Frankie. I know.” It's silence for a while apart from pained gasps and groans the Frank makes while he stitches up his arm.
“I... I think I'm... done.”
“Okay, good. How bad does it hurt?”
“It hurts pretty fucking bad Gerard! You try having needles puncturing your arm!” I wince at the thought, and I shake my head at him. Then I remember that he can't see me.
“Yeah, no, thanks. I hate needles,” I wince again, then carry on. “Anyway, what I was saying, was that you should take some pain medication. Now that no more blood can get out, you can. Pills make the blood-”
“Thinner, yeah, I know.” He interrupts me, and I instinctively tut at him.
“Well, go find some then, Frankie.” He breathes out heavily.
“Okay,” The phone is placed back down on the floor, and I hear him rooting around in the cupboards for the pills. “What's stopping me from taking them all, Gerard?” I inhale sharply, but it catches in my throat and I sit upright.
“I... um... You tell me.” I try to keep my voice calm, but it shakes on the last two words. I just have to keep him talking.
“I can't. There isn't anything,” He pauses like he's thinking about it. “No, nothing. I really can't think of anything.” My eyes close tightly, and I bring my knees up and place my forehead on them.
“Not even me?” My voice is barely even a whisper, but I sound heartbroken.
There's only the sound of Frank breathing for ages after that.
“I can't say that you could keep me here, Gerard. It wouldn't be fair to lie to you. Not after what he's done, not any more.” I choke out a sob, but my eyes stay dry. It's strange.
“So, what? Is this it? Is this your suicide message to me or something, then?” He sighs, and I can imagine him blinking a few times to get the tears away.
“I don't know, Gee.” And he hangs up.
I bring the phone away from my ear and stare at it, my mouth open. My head starts shaking, and I redial the number. He doesn't pick up, so I try it again. Again, he doesn't answer. My head is still shaking, and now my hands are, too.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I try the number again, and get the same. “Fuck, no. You can't do this to me, Frankie. You can't fucking do this,”
I ring the number over one hundred times after that, and he still doesn't pick up. I curse twice as much as I call him, and I drop the phone because of the shakes around two dozen times. His mind seems to be blocked from me or something, too, because I can't connect to him. This makes me more fucking worried, because that generally means he's unconscious.
Standing up, I put my phone back into my pocket and walk out of my room, and walk down to where the Council should be.
Entering the room, I catch sight of someone that makes me see red. Miles is here, and he's talking to Lucifer. Laughing, joking, looking more comfortable in this room than I ever will. I stop dead when I see him and the room falls silent.
“Gerard, Gerard,” The Gray Ones come over to me, their voices worried. “Don't do anything,” Their voices hiss the words in a warning to me.
“What will happen if I do? He deserves everything bad that will ever happened to him.” I start walking towards Miles, who's smirking at me, but I'm stopped by The Gray Ones.
“Don't.” I look over my shoulder at them, and pretend to back down. Their grips slacken, so I pull my arm out and move faster towards Miles then I've ever moved. I'm in front of him within half a second. His smirk fades a little, and his eyes start to look worried.
“What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck have you done to my Frankie?” He shakes his head at me, his smirk growing as he chuckles.
“Your Frankie? Gerard, I hate to break it to you, but he doesn't even remember you. He said he loves me.” He laughs again, louder this time.
“Like fuck does he love you! He freaking hates you, Miles. You may have been able to bewitch him or whatever the fuck you've done, but that doesn't mean he actually loves you!” His face drops for a second, anger replacing amusement, and he lunges for me.
I dodge out of the way, but I grab his wrist as he stumbles past me and pull him to the floor. I'm easily stronger than him, so he goes down without me having to put much effort in. I place my foot on his cheek and press down, so he can't move his head.
I bring my foot up and then smash it down onto his face, and I feel bone crack. Smiling, I do it again. He manages to pull my foot forward and makes me stumble after I do it a second time, but his cheek is oozing black liquid and there's a tear in his flesh.
“Fuck you!” He lunges for me again, and manages to punch my shoulder before I dodge out of the way. Pain flares up in my shoulder, and I stumble. Gripping my shoulder, I pull it back into place. I groan as I do, and Miles laughs at me.
“I'm not the one with black shit running down my face, Miles.” I shrug, but wince because it hurts my shoulder.
He lunges again, and punches my nose. It cracks and I feel it move to the side, but I don't show any pain, and click it back into place. I grab his hair and pull him backwards. He stumbles and falls to his knees. As I pull, his back arches and he looks at me with crimson red eyes.
Miles' face starts flickering, and he changes into several different things. It's supposed to scare me, but I grip down harder on his hair and he looses his balance and falls backwards. As he hits the ground, his head bounces off it, and the back part almost splits open. Black oozes out of the split, a horrible, rancid smell wafting out with it.
Before he can stand up, I stomp on his abdomen, and his eyes close. They re-open, but they stay half-lidded and they seem to spin in his sockets slightly. I do it again, making him cough and jump upwards before falling back down and banging his head on the floor again.
Bending down, I seize his hair at the front and pull his head closer to mine.
“Where the fuck is he?” I hiss in his face, making his eyes snap open and look at me without any focus. They roll backwards into his head, so I snap his head back and forth a few times, making him more alert. “Where is he?” He blinks a few times, his eyes trailing around the room before landing on me.
“Who?” His voice is groggy, slow, and slurred.
“Who the fuck do you think, you bastard?” A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips, showing his teeth.
“Oh, Frankie.” Instantly, my eyes narrow at the use of Frank's nickname. I yank his head back and forth again, making him groan and the smile slips away.
“Don't fucking call him that. Don't even say his name, you don't fucking deserve it,” Gripping his hair tighter, I pull his head closer to mine. “Where is he?” I spit this in his face, making him wince.
“Why the fuck do you think I'm going to tell you that?” His eyes open, and his irises dance with amusement.
“You don't really have much choice, Miles. Tell me, or I'll tear off your fucking head.” He rolls his eyes at me, a grin slipping back onto his face.
“Only if you can catch me, Gerard.” He flashes me a grin, his teeth showing, and he disappears. I stumble forward and fall onto my knees, my hand still gripping onto the air where his hair was.
I look around, jumping up. Everyone is watching me, and Lucifer is grinning.
Something wraps around my wrist, and it tugs me backwards. I have to move backwards with it, the grip is tight and almost inescapable. Looking backwards, I see the black cloaks of The Gray Ones. My face twists as I look back to Lucifer, and I flip him off. Childish, I know.
They drag me down some corridors until we're away from the room. When they stop, I stumble backwards.
“Why did you do that?” They sound angry.
“Why the Hell shouldn’t I've done that? That man is a fucking monster!” They are silent for a while, and although I can't see their faces, I can tell that they're beyond pissed at me.
“You shouldn’t have done that. You disobeyed direct orders from us. You hurt one of our own, Gerard, and that isn't okay. So what if he's hurt the puny, pathetic human?” It takes all the willpower I have to not leap at them. My stomach churns with anger and my hands shake worse than they have before.
“Fuck you! He hasn't just fucking hurt him! He's scarred him for fucking life, okay? Miles fucking deserved it,” I falter my words, stopping completely and looking at them. “What do you mean, 'one of our own'?” My voice is quiet now, subdued.
“Miles is one of us, Gerard. He's a Council member. He has been for a while. We're sorry we didn't tell you, but it just is. He's powerful, and we need that.” They take a step towards me, but I take a step back, shaking my head.
“No? What? One of us? No...” I pause, staring at them. My eyes accusing. “So, you knew all this while what he is? You know his powers, his strengths, his weaknesses? You know? You didn't tell me? What the fuck?” I keep taking steps back until my back hits the wall.
“Yes, Gerard. Again, we're sorry we didn't tell you.” My eyebrows draw together as I continue shaking my head.
“No. This isn't fair. What the fuck?” I close my eyes tightly shut, hoping that when I open them this will be a dream or something. Betrayal is heavy in my chest, and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Gerard, calm down. You can't change anything, he's part of the Council and that's final.”
“No!” I stamp my foot, feeling childish.
“Yes. And he's a member that you've hurt and disrespected. That merits a punishment,” They pause and I can almost hear them thinking of a suitable punishment for me. “We aren't going to help you any more, Gerard. You're on your own, and if you find him and don't change him within two days, he's dead.” My mouth drops open simultaneously with my eyes widening.
“That isn't fair! I don't even know he was-”
“Life isn't fair, Gerard. Get over it, and if you can, get over the human. Humans are toxic, all they do is cause problems.”
“The only thing causing me problems right now are 'my own kind'.” I make ditto marks around my words, and turn around and walk off while flipping them off.
I walk outside and wander aimlessly. Once I stop, I pull my phone out and ring Frank's number. He answers on the second ring.
“Frank, thank God, are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Hello, Gerard. Frank is sleeping right now, but I'm sure I could leave a message for you.”
“Miles,” I pause, loosening my grip on the phone. “Where the fuck is Frank?”
“He's sleeping. He's exhausted, bless him.” A hundred different scenarios run through my head, each one making my stomach twist.
“Why is he exhausted?” I snap each word out, pronouncing each syllable.
“Why all the questions, Gerard?”
“Don't fucking play around, Miles.”
“Look, Gerard, can I take a message or not?” His voice remains calm, even somewhat pleasant, while mine gets more and more snappier.
“Fuck you, Miles! No, you can't take a fucking message. I want to speak to Frank. Not you,” I sigh sharply. “Frank. Now wake him up or whatever, and let me fucking talk to him or I'll hunt you down and fucking kill you again!”
“Now, now, Gerard,” He pauses, and I can picture him smirking. “I simply can't wake him up. It's like he's... dead... to the world.” He chuckles at this and I freeze. I open my mouth and close it several times, my eyes wide open.
“What?” I try to stammer out more words, but they're nonsense.
“Relax, Gerard.”
“No. What do you mean? What have you done to him? If you've hurt him, I will fucking rip you limb from fucking limb!” I hear laughter, and then the line goes dead. I look down at my phone, the sides buckling inwards from the pressure of my fist.
I barely contain a scream as I throw it. It hits a tree and shatters. The tree has a dent in it where the phone hit it. All of a sudden, it seems like all of my energy drains, and I have to sit down. A zephyr makes the leaves on the trees and my hair lift up slightly and dance along with it.
The breeze on my face calms me down a little, but my insides are still red-hot and burning. I feel like murdering something, Miles preferably. Perhaps hunting would calm me down a little. But, I really don't think I can get up. My legs feel like jelly, and I've pulled out more of my hair by accident.
Sighing, I brush the hairs off of me and bend my legs inwards. I straighten them and bend them several times before they get some solidity back in them. I can stand up after I do that. I look back to the house with a sneer, and then turn my back on it and keep walking.

Notes

Again, sorry it took so long to update. I'll try to make it quicker next time.