Before The Sun Goes Down

Frank's POV
Looking at my face, my hand slowly comes up and traces the injuries gently. Even that simple touch makes my face hurt even more. My eyes, puffy, bruised, still half-closed and completely dull. There are deep, dark bruises around them and on my eyelids from my broken nose.
Some of the blood vessels in my eyeballs have burst, making my eyes tinge even more red. There's a cut underneath my right eye, shallow but long and very red.
My left cheek has a purple and blue bruise running along it, and my right is cut around half way up the bone. Cuts litter my lips, which are swollen, and one of them is bleeding from when I sneezed a minute ago.
My nose is now crooked, but it isn't that noticeable right now because of the swelling. Blood poured out of it when Miles first broke it, and every now and then little spurts of blood will still dribble out. A bruise runs over my nose like a spotting of freckles.
My torso is much the same, but with less cuts and more bruising. The bruises look quite pretty, actually, with all of the different color and shades. Purple, blue, green, faded yellow, and red in places. They don't hurt as much as the ones on my face do.
His name marked on my skin and the cuts up my arms are the only things that really bother me. His name, engraved on my skin, forever.
Multum in parvo.
It will haunt me for the rest of my life, even more so than the memories.
I will only have to look at my stomach to see that he's always with me; that I can't escape him; that he's won. Red, harsh, deep letters carved into my skin. He used a red-hot needle. He dug right into my skin, not even seeming to hear my screams.
Oh, how I begged him to stop. I begged him, and I begged him. I even offered sex in return for him to stop. He just completely ignored me and carried on marking his territory. At the end, he looked at me as if I should thank him. But I didn't, and I couldn't. All I could say was stop, and that was all I could say for a long time after he did stop.
In my confusion and horror, after he stopped hurting me altogether, I managed to stutter out that Lucifer had called and he just left. I passed out for a while after that, and I woke up in a puddle of my own blood.
Instantly, I just called the first number that popped into my head. Which was Gerard's. I don't know, but I had to talk to someone, and I could barely speak. I was hysterical, I could barely contain myself.
My own blood was all over me, on my clothes, dried on my skin, and all around me on the floor and walls. I could still taste it in my mouth. I can still taste it in my mouth, even though I've brushed my teeth dozens of times since then.
It seemed to stick to my tongue, and no amount of brushing or drinking or anything will get it off.
I can hardly remember any of my conversation with Gerard, but I remember him asking me to stitch my cuts up, and I remember that it hurt.
I also remember debating on whether or not to take all of the painkillers I found, which were a lot, but I took enough to fall asleep. Or, the most likely option, to pass out. I remember everything from when I woke up perfectly, like Miles finding me on the floor.
He was so mad. He screamed at me, he kicked me a few times to get me up.
Get that shit cleaned up off the floor or I will fucking kill you, Frank!
He asked me to clean up the blood and everything, and I had to. I wasn't about to say no, he'd already broke my nose. So I cleaned it all up, even the blood splattered up the white walls, and I cleaned it good. My nose was dripping blood and throbbing again before I'd even started, so I had to clean up fresh spots of blood as well as the dried, maroon stains.
After, he told me to get out of his sight.
Get the fuck away from me, you disgusting little prick, before I make your nose even more fucking crooked!
So I did, and I was damn happy about it, too. Not happy enough to smile, though.
I locked myself in the bathroom with spare clothes and took a shower. The water ran down the drain a red color for a while, and it hurt really badly to wash my hair, but I managed it. My arms hurt when the water hit them, but I gritted my teeth and washed to blood off them carefully.
I tried to sing during my shower, to see if it would lift my spirits or anything, but I could barely croak out a word. I noticed then that my throat hurt, too, probably from the screaming I'd done. It was freezing when I stepped out of the water, the air making my hairs stand up on end.
That made me get dressed quickly, but I stayed in the bathroom. I couldn't make myself even touch the door handle. Miles was talking to someone, probably on the phone, and I think I heard Gerard's name. Miles sounded smug, anyway.
I sat down on the toilet seat, and cried. I cried until my eyes were more closed than before. Then, I got up and looked at my reflection.
I sat back down after I inspected myself, my hands still tracing my bruises. There are bruises around my wrists, in the shape of hands. They're an angry red, and they still feel hot. I'm quite surprised that he didn't break my wrists, with the amount of pressure he was putting on them.
And my hair. My hair is thinner, and I think I found a few small bald patches from where he pulled the strands out. Feeling around my scalp, I wince. My scalp is tender, and probably bruised.
“Frank? Come the fuck out from wherever you fucking are!” Instantly, I tense up. My hands freeze on my head, and my eyes widen. “Frank fucking Iero!” Slowly, my hands come from my head and into my lap, where I knit my fingers together to stop the shaking.
His footsteps make their way up the stairs, heavy and loud.
“Frank! Come out, come out wherever you are!” I can see him smiling, his eyes dancing with delight at the prospect of hurting me or whatever he's going to do to me. “Frankie! Someone wants to see you...” He pauses, so does his footsteps. “Or, rather, feel you,” His stomps start again, closer this time. “I can smell your fear, I know where you are,” They stop in front of the door, and the lock slides open.
The door slowly creaks open, until it hits the wall and bounces back a little. He stands in the doorway, a looming, dark shadow. I can see his white teeth, and I can see his mouth smiling at me. A grim, dark smile.
I shiver involuntarily at the sight of him, making his grin stretch and widen even more.
“Frankie, dear, don't hide from me. It... upsets me,” He whispers his lasts words, but it sounds perfectly clear in my ear. “And you wouldn't like me when I'm upset...” He takes a few steps forward, his right hand casually in his pocket. He looks me over once, still smiling. “I see you've showered. That's good,” He pauses, his smile turning into something less sinister. It still chills me to the bone, though. “A friend is coming round here for some supper. I mean, we won't be eating, but we'll sit at the table with you while you do, so you aren't lonely.” He stops talking, and just watches me. Distaste grows on his face as he watches me, until it clicks that I'm supposed to thank him.
“Th-thank you..” I can hardly croak the words out.
“It's okay, my dear. I expect you to be quiet when we leave the dinner table, because I have some important matters to attend to. If we hear you from my study, there will be trouble.” I gulp, nodding slowly.
Miles leaves after staring at me with narrowed eyes for a while, and I continue to sit on the toilet seat, my hands once again shaking. I hear a knock on the door some time later, and Miles greeting his guest.
“Frank, come here!”He has a slight edge to his voice, I scamper down the stairs quickly, my breath caught in my throat. “Ah, good. Now, Lucifer, this is my Frankie,” Lucifer smiles at me, his eyes glinting in a way that makes me feel like prey, and he sticks his hand out. I shake it, letting go as quickly as possible. “And, Frankie, this is Lucifer,” He pauses, his eyes flicking between the two of us. He nudges me, his smile strained. “Say hello, then, Frank. Don't be rude.” His last words have an edge to them, like there's a hidden warning underneath them.
“He-llo.” My voice is still croaky, but Lucifer says it back.
“Lovely to meet you, Frank. I believe we talked on the phone earlier, yes?” I nod, not meeting his stare. “Indeed we did.” He nods once, curtly, and then turns to Miles, dismissing me with a casual wave of his hand.
“If you would come this way, Lucifer, we're going to accompany Frank to dinner.”
We walk into the dining room, where a place is already set for me. A woman walks through, carrying my plate in her hands and sets it down, her movements stiff and tense. Her eyes seem to call out for help when they reach mine, as I'm sure mine mirrors.
I sit, letting Miles push my chair in, and try to eat. It hurts going down my throat, like I'm swallowing glass. I'm not even sure what I'm eating, it's totally smothered in gravy. I just push the food around my plate, hoping he won't notice that I haven't really ate anything.
“Why aren't you eating, dear?” Cringing, I turn to face them. I point to my throat. “Your throat? What's wrong with it?” I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Sipping some water, it feels slightly better, and I managed to croak a few words out.
“It hurts,”
“Oh... Well, you can go hungry, then. Don't ask me to make you anything else.” Slamming his fist on the table, making my water tip over, he leaves the room.
Lucifer and I stare at each other, both shocked. Slowly a smirk spreads on his lips, and he leans forward.
“You know, I bet your throat wouldn't hurt half as much if you let me bite it, Frank,” My eyes grow larger as I shake my head and inch backwards. I look towards the door, willing Miles to walk back in. “Come one, I'd be gentle... It wouldn't hurt... much,” His smirk grows as he chuckles, standing up. Slowly, step by step, he makes his way over to me. I'm frozen to my chair, I can't move. “That's it, stay still. Good boy,” He edges closer to me, his eyes dancing with delight.
My breath sticks in my throat, my lungs seemingly useless. The closer he gets, the less my heart beats. Well, the less I can hear it beat. I can hear him faintly whispering things in my ear, and I feel one of his teeth pierce my skin shallowly.
“Lucifer, what are you-” Miles gets cut short, and Lucifer jumps back.
Miles' eyes jump accusingly from Lucifer to I, until he spots the blood trailing down my neck lazily. I can hear my heart thudding in my ears again, and I can finally breathe. My breaths come in fast, shallow pants as I feel my heart skip a few beats and then start up again.
Slumping over, I feel someone standing over me. Roughly, someone grabs my face, making me look upwards. They push my face to the side, exposing my neck. I panic, my hands instantly reaching up to those on my face, pushing against them, trying desperately to get them off.
Looking upwards, I see the person with a hold on me is Miles, and his mouth is moving.
“Frank, calm the actual fuck down!” His words finally get through to me, making me still my movements and look at him. “I just want to see how bad he's hurt you! I wouldn't hurt you...” He trails off as if he's realizing the mess on my face, my arms, my everywhere is down to him, and he looks away. “I'm sorry, okay? Just let me see your neck.” I shake my head, pulling on his wrist once more.
Defeated, drops his hand.
“I'll do it. I've had worse, anyway.” The words don't have quite as an effect as I wanted them to, because of my broken words and croaky voice, but he stands back and lets me pass.
Looking around, I can't see Lucifer anywhere.
“I kicked him out. I'll have words with him tomorrow, I just wanted to see if you were okay and to get him out before he does anything else.”
His voice, for once, is quiet and resigned. It makes me suspicious, and I walk out of the room with even acknowledging his words. Once upstairs, in the bathroom, I lock the door.
Blood has soaked through my t-shirt a little, but there wasn't much blood anyway. It's stopped bleeding now, but a thumping pain is there now. My neck aches, but I can't decide on whether it was from Lucifer, or my beating.
There isn't much to do apart from wipe the blood away and swill water around the cut, so I sit in the bathroom for a while longer. Miles' nice behaviour has me suspicious. He doesn't care if I'm hurt, he's probably just angry because he wasn't the one who hurt me. That still doesn't stop the hope that keeps trailing back into my thoughts and my heart.
After a while, I walk back down the stairs. No sign of Miles, and I start to relax a little. He might've gone out. He might not come back.
No, he's here. I can hear him in the kitchen. Braving myself, I silently walk into the kitchen and stand in the doorway. Miles hears me, because he spins around.
“Frankie. Are you okay?” I nod, sitting on a chair. “That's good. I'm sorry that happened, he was never meant to be left alone with you. I knew what he was like, so for that I'm sorry.” A surge of courage runs through me, and I look him right in the eyes.
“You're just sorry that it wasn't you that hurt me.” He jumps backwards like he's just been shot. His eyes change color slowly as he looks at me, from an apologetic green to a threatening grey.
“Don't cheek me, Frank. As I said, you won't like me when I'm upset. Things could turn very ugly, very quickly.” I shrug, making his eyes narrow.
A slapping sound cuts the silence, and I flinch like he's just slapped me. The table rocks slightly from his hit, and I dare not look up. He does it again, but still, I don't look up. I will not give him the rise he wants. I can't let him see me shake, or for him to see any tears, ever again.
“Frank, look at me. Look me in the eyes and say that again. I bet you can't.” I feel compelled, for some reason, to look up.
I know even as I lift my head that he's going to trick me again, that I'm going to fall under his spell and I won't remember anything. I'll let this cycle carry on, until I'm dead from it or someone comes and rescues me.
There's no escape, it's this or death. Death looks like the better option right now, but I can't seem to stop myself from looking at his... beautiful eyes.
This isn't so bad. It isn't, surely?
How did I ever not trust his eyes. The rest of him, fine, I could see why I don't trust him, but his eyes. They're so pure, so good. They tell me that they want nothing to harm me. They show me love and compassion and kindness. Things that I'm craving. Things that I forgot even existed.
My mouth is ajar, like I was about to say something. I can't remember what I was about to say, so I close my mouth, but I continue to look in his eyes.
“So, Frankie, what do you want to do for Easter?” Surprise mildly mixes with my other thoughts, and I break eye contact briefly and look at the calender. To my surprise, it's April second.
“What? Surely it isn't April yet? It's only February?” Miles gently shakes his head, his eyes concerned.
“No, Frankie. You got out of the hospital not that long ago. It was only March when you got out,” He pauses, looking over me. “Have you been taking your medication?” Confusion sweeps over me, as does frustration.
“Of course I...” I stop talking, trying to remember things. “I have... I think I have? I have, haven't I?” Miles says nothing, just stares at me with concern. “Miles? I have, haven't I?”
“No, Frankie, I don't think you have been. I mean, I you have been, you wouldn't have done all that to yourself...” Sighing, he slumps. “Oh, Frankie, oh, Frankie.” Sadness and guilt and confusion runs rampage through me, making my hands shake.
I see the stitched cuts and bruises up my arms, and I only just now feel the thumping and pain from it.
“What? But? I haven't done any of this? I haven't? Have I?” I seem unable to speak without asking a question. “Miles? Tell me I haven't...” He looks at me, his eyes crinkled.
He nods, confirming my fears.
“I tried to stop you from destroying yourself, you were completely hacked up, that's why you have bruises around your wrists. I had to throw you in the shower and run it cold so you'd stop. I was... terrified.” Running my fingers up and down my arms, feeling the bumps, I shake my head.
“Surely... that wasn't me? I didn't do that? To myself?”
“I think you need a good sleep, Frankie. It'll be clearer in the morning.” I shake my head, or maybe I hadn't stopped shaking it.
“No, no. I didn't do this? I wouldn't do this to myself,” Doubt comes creeping in as I look into Miles' eyes, as I feel the stitches. “Would I?” Miles looks away, and I can feel tears gather in my eyes. “No...”
“Come on, let's get you into bed, darling.”
I meekly go with him, too lost in the confusion and turmoil of my mind to argue or do anything but do as Miles says. He helps me into some bed clothes, and into the bed, and he helps me swallow two sleeping pills, because I can't stop shaking and saying things like, 'surely I didn't?', and, 'I couldn't have done that to myself, surely?'.
He stays with me and holds my hand as I fall asleep, whispering soft, sweet things to me. But it feels forced, like someone else should be there instead of him. But I don't argue, I just hold his hand tighter.
I wake up when the sun hits my face. Everything from last night comes back to me as I lie stiff on my back. Slowly, I reach my hand out, to feel if Miles is lay next to me. He isn't, so I turn on my side. I look at my outstretched arm, taking in the stitches and bruises.
I place my other one next to it, and study them both. I can feel my pulse thudding in my fingers, letting me know how fast my heart is beating.
I can hear Miles moving around downstairs, whistling, and the clanking of pots and pans. He seems happy, and for some reason, I relax. I stand up, heading to the bathroom. I miss the mirror on my way in there, but when I've done and go to wash my hands, I see my face.
It's worse than my arms and hands. There's bruises and cuts and everything. Everything is swollen and a different color to my pale skin. It shocks me that much that I have to hold onto the sink to stop myself from falling down. I stare at my reflection for a minute longer, a pit of self-disgust forming in my stomach. When I hear footsteps on the stairs, I hurriedly go back into the bedroom and get back onto the bed. I pretend to be asleep, an inner warning alarm going off.
“Frankie, wake up, darling.” I 'wake up'; sitting up and looking at him. He smiles at me, so I smile back. He's holding a black tray, with, what I presume to be, my breakfast on it.
“Good morning, Miles.” His smile widens and he walks to my side and places the tray onto my lap.
“I, uh, made you breakfast,” He flashes me a brilliant smile before looking down.
“That's nice of you.” I hadn't noticed it yesterday, because of all of the everything, but my throat really hurts and I can barely get my words out.
He looks back up, nodding, and walks back round to his side and sits down next to me. I look at the food, and it stares back at me. Sausage, bacon, eggs, and fried tomatoes. It looks slightly disgusting, and it looks increasingly so and I stare at it.
“Don't you like it?”
I look up at him, thankful to tear my vision away from the fried, greasy food, and shake my head at him.
“No, it's not that... it's just, I'm not all too hungry. It looks lovely, though, Miles, thank you.” Beaming at me, he nods his head.
“No, thank you.” I smile back at him, then look back down to my breakfast.
I cut up a sausage, and eat it slowly. I wish I could just eat it all at once, to get it over with, but I'm afraid I'll throw up if I do that. Piece by piece, the food slowly disappears. Once I eat as much as I possibly could, I place my knife and fork down and drink some of the orange juice to get rid of the flavor.
“Thank you, Miles, that was nice,”
“You done? I'll take it down for you.” I grab the orange juice, not wanting that to be took away, and then Miles takes it down the stairs.
I sit still, with my eyes closed in an effort to keep the food in my stomach, and it seems to work. My stomach slowly stops spinning, and I feel better and better the longer I do it.
“You never said what you want to do for Easter...” Miles' voice makes me jump,and the orange juice falls from my hands. An orange stain spreads across the sheets, making me blush with embarrassment.
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I'll wash them,” Panicking, I jump up. I look at Miles, who's fists are clenched. I stop my movements, terror slowly growing. “Muh-Miles? I'm sorry?” He looks at me, his eyes dark and menacing. I flinch at them, making him loosen up. “Muh-Miles?” His eyes become lighter, apologetic.
“It's okay. I'm sorry, for scaring you,” He must see doubt up something in my eyes, because he starts to look slightly defeated. “Oh, Frankie, I'm really fucking sorry. I wasn't- I'd never hurt you. I'd never hurt you, I'm sorry.”
“It's fine. No big deal,” I sound stiff, and I can't meet his eyes. “I have to wash these, before the stain sets.” He moves round to me as I start to strip the bed, making me flinch and back away.
“I'm sorry, Frankie,” His voice is desperate, but I still can't quite forgive and forget.
“Just... Just go, Miles. Please,” Now, instead of the air of desperation around him, he radiates anger. He huffs, and I look at him from the corner of my eye.
He reaches out a hand, quite abruptly, but stops mid-way. Flinching, again, I turn away from him. Continuing with stripping the bed, I ignore him. He huffs again and then walks out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
Instantly, when he walks out, it's like the room breathes a sigh of relief. I actually do, and the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach vanishes.
His behaviour confuses me, one minute he's absolutely lovely, the next he's on edge and I feel like he'd just backhand me across the face for just blinking in the wrong way. And, I have a feeling that it isn't just because he's having a 'off day'. There's something wrong with whatever 'this' is, but I'm not sure what's wrong with it.
For the rest of the day, I tiptoe around him, not knowing what to say, do, how to act. He stays silent for most of the day, but anger continues to radiate off of him. A few times, I go to ask him what's wrong, but he walks out of the room, or closes the door in my face.
Finally, it gets to a passable time for me to got to bed, so I do. He doesn't come up, at any point of the night. I stay awake, watching the night grow darker and then lighter as the sun comes up. I start to hear birds tweeting, and sit up.
My arms ache, so does my face, so does my torso, so do my legs. I'm also kind of hungry, but I don't want to go into the kitchen and have to be faced with the awkwardness of yesterday.
I watch the sky some more. It gradually gets bluer and bluer, the oranges and yellows and pinks disappearing and being replaced with clouds and a clear blue. I start to get hot wrapped up in the bedsheets, so I peel them off me and stand up, deciding to have a shower.
By now, it has to be almost mid-morning.
Gathering some clothes, I keep glancing over my shoulder at the door, willing it to stay closed. I must jinx it, because the door slowly opens, and Miles walks in, anger still radiating off him. I almost drop the clothes, but I plaster a smile on my face to conceal the surprise and disappointment.
“Good morning, Frankie,” I say nothing to him, just nod a greeting. He sighs, a long, drawn out, sad sigh. “Frank, stop,”
“Stop what?” He rolls his eyes, and sits on the end of the bed.
“Stop being so damn difficult. I've apologised over yesterday, but you're not going to let it drop. You just like seeing me feel fucking awful, don't you?” I raise my eyebrows at the accusation, amused by it. “Yeah, you do. I can see it in your fucking eyes, Frankie, and I don't like it. Not one fucking bit. You're being a prick, purposely making me feel fucking terrible over getting a bit angry over some spilt juice!”
“Woah, Miles, calm down. There's no need to swear at me, or be aggressive, or throw accusations around.”
“But it's fucking true! You like it!” He stands up, throwing his arms up and glaring at me. “You can't fucking deny it, Frank. Can you? No, you can't!” He slowly gets himself more worked up as he speaks, his own paranoia getting the better of him.
I stand and watch him shout things at me with my arms crossed, unimpressed and unaffected by it all. I think he must finally realize that I'm either, not listening, or I don't care.
“You don't even fucking care about me! I thought you loved me, Frankie! You just don't care about anything but yourself! You're a selfish, spoilt dick!” He stops shouting, and he just looks me. Searching for a reaction, searching for anything.
“Okay, Miles, have you finished? Have you finished abusing me? Or do you want to finish your spiel by attacking me, as well?” He makes no move to do anything, so I carry on. “I think, what your problem is, is that you can't stand not having attention on you. You don't like that I'm ignoring you, so you've decided to come in here and try to cause a petty fight between us,” He stares at me, dumbstruck, so I smile at him. “Yesterday, you scared me. Miles, I was scared you were going to hit me. Now, I don't think I should think that about someone I live with. So, I'm sorry that I couldn't just snap back to pandering to your every need, or whatever. And I'll continue to be sorry about that until I feel comfortable around, okay?” I don't wait for his answer, I just gather up my clothes from I dropped them and walk into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Leaning back against the door, I gulp in several big breaths, my heart pounding. I listen out for any movement in the bedroom, and when I hear none, I relax a little. But, then, there's several knocks on the door, each of them in quick succession.
Jumping backwards, my stomach starts twisting and turning. My mouth goes dry as I search for something to arm myself with, and I decide on the detachable towel rack. Seemingly growing impatient, the lock clicks and the door swings violently open.
Miles comes in, his eyes locked on mine. Blackness swirls around them, mixed with tinges of red. His irises seem to have completely swallowed his pupils. His face, normally so passive, is contorted with rage. And, even though he doesn't need air, his chest heaves.
“Miles... Miles.” I try to divert his rage slightly by walking a few steps forward with my hands up and keeping my voice low and soft, but he punches the door and leaves a gaping hole in it.
“No, Frank!” His voice isn't his voice, it's something different altogether. Several different voices, mingled together that echo their words. I stay silent, my hairs standing up on end.
“How dare you speak to me like that! We've talked about that, Frank, and you do not speak to me like that! It makes me so... so fucking angry! Furious!” My hands slowly drop down to my sides, and the towel rack falls on the floor and bounces slightly, rattling.
“Miles? This isn't you. Calm the hell down!” He smiles at this, stepping forward. I take a step back, my foot knocking the towel rack and sending it sliding into the wall.
“Oh, baby, this is me. This is the real me, and if you can't love it, then we'll have to do something about that. Won't you love me, Frankie?”
I'm freaking out by now, my eyes as wide as saucers and my whole body shaking vigorously. I stutter out some incomprehensible words, my stepping backwards cut short by the wall hitting my back.
As I look at him, he seems to grow. Shadows crawl around him, like mist, spreading in sinister waves.
“Come on, Frankie, what's not to love? I'm better than anyone, baby.” I shake my head, a name crawling up my throat and tongue.
“Gerard! He's better than you!” At first he stumbles backwards, but then he laughs.
“Gerard? You can't even fucking remember him! You're a joke, and so is he,”
A flurry of memories comes rushing back to me, and specifically one of Miles making me look into his eyes every time he wants to convince me of something.
“We met outside my house, where he asked for a cigarette. We hated each other, but I think we both loved each other; we had to work on a music project that never got finished; I love him, and he loves me. I know better than I know myself, Miles, and I know him better than I'll ever know anyone. You can try and make me forget about him, but you'll never succeed!” At this, the shadows disappear, and his eyes turn back to normal, as does everything else about him.
“No, you can't remember him. That's impossible, Frank, impossible. I'm a thousand times stronger than you!”
“I can. You're obviously not as strong as you thought you were,” Miles shakes his head, well and truly speechless. “If anything, you're weak. You're a lying, manipulative little bastard.” I laugh, the laugh fake and shaky, but it seems to do what I intended it to. He stumbles backwards. His mouth hanging open and his eyes wide and bulging out of his head. “I don't love, and I never will. I hate you, Miles. I hate your guts.”
After that, he leaves, looking defeated and small, and he doesn't return to the house until three days after that.
During that time, I have freedom to do whatever I want. I talk to the woman that placed my dinner on the table when Lucifer was round, and we come to an understanding. Her name is Charlotte, and she's forty-three. She's being held here, against her will, like me. But, she's allowed to leave for short periods of time to see her family and things like that.
We agree, when I get his location, she'd send letter and the likes to Gerard, because she doesn't actually have any family to visit and spends her time in hotels just enjoying her freedom. She'd also buy me things I need, or just bring me back things to might make me happy.
I think she pities me, or empathises with me, otherwise she wouldn't be so willing. She said that she'd try to keep Miles away from me all she could, and that she'd warm me to whatever mood he was in when he walks in from 'business trips'.
She mothered me, by cooking me meals, helping me tend to my cuts, being loving and generally like a mother. Something I haven't had in a long time, apart from when Gerard did for a while. She cooked whatever I wanted, whether it be pancakes, bacon and eggs, pizza or even just a salad.
I spent most of my time in solitude, though. I went into the attic a lot during the night, because of the window and the way you could climb onto the roof and sit up there using it.
The attic is all but clear, apart from an antic dresser, but it's covered in cobwebs and dust. It's the sky that brings me happiness; the beauty and the freedom of it.
The stars shine more than the moon some nights. The moon sometimes doesn't shine at all, because it gets covered by clouds. Sometimes they shine equally as bright as each other, and sometimes they're as dull as each other. Most of this variety can be found in one night, and a night can be a long time when all you have to do is be lonely and stare at the sky.
In the three days, I didn't see a shooting star. I saw Mars, the night became clear long enough for me to spot the red blur. I couldn't make out any details of it, so I might ask Charlotte is she can me a telescope. And a book about the stars and planets and everything. I'd like to know the constellations so I can spot them.
The sun rises and sunsets and the highlight for me, though. The colors blend so perfectly with each other without meaning to. And the way the stars sometimes start appearing before the sun is totally down is beautiful. There's something especially perfect about a sunset after rain. I'm not sure what it is, the smell of the rain or the way everything seems so fresh.
It makes me want to jump into the sun and never look back.
It was mid-evening when Miles came back, and I was up in the attic, looking out the window. I saw him walk up the driveway. Charlotte tried to warn me, but he was inside before anyone could do anything.
“Frank! You, yes you, where the fuck is he? I want to see him!”
“I.. I don't know, sir, I haven't seen him all day,” Silently, I thank her for not telling him. If he knows I get happiness from being up here, he'd surely ruin it.
“Whatever, bitch. Get out of my sight and stay out of it.” I hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and I feel a sense of deja vu. Terror runs through me like an icy wave.
I still every movement, even breathing and blinking.
He moves past the hatch, moving into a room a few doors down from it. I take this as a chance to get down and see what he wants, so I don't anger him any more. Every creak makes my heart skip a beat, but I get down without alerting him to where I am.
“Miles? I'm here.” He rushes out of the room, coming to a stop a few feet before me.
We look at each other for a second, my terror giving way to curiosity. He smiles, a small smile that sort of lights up his face. I'm not fooled by it, though, and stare back at him impassively.
Slowly, the smile disappears and is replaced with a snarl, and he lunges and grabs my arm. I try to struggle out of his grip, but some of my stitches rip, so I stop. Blood slowly trickles down my arm, warm and thick, and makes quiet noises as it splatters onto the carpet.
Looking down, his eyes begin to sparkle. He lifts up my arm, painstakingly slowly, and runs a finger up it, gathering some of the blood. Bringing the finger to his mouth, he sucks the blood of it. He lifts my arm farther upwards, and starts lapping up the blood from it.
My whole being recoils, and I tense up, already feeling the need to gag. This is almost worse than anything he's every done to me; this is disgusting. It's appalling; it's beastly; it's abhorrent.
Blood keeps coming, but he stops. He looks at me long enough for the image of my blood dripping from his chin to become embedded into my mind. I double over, not caring if my shoulder gets ripped from it's socket, and throw up on the floor.
Miles drops my arm like it's red hot, and steps away. I continue to crouch long after I finish, preferring to have my face closer to my vomit than Miles.
Yanking me up using my hair, much like before, he drags me into the bedroom. Fearing the worst, I dig my heels into the carpet, my arms flailing around. I'm screaming again, my throat already beginning to burn.
He stops pulling me, and I stop my movements in confusion, only to slam my head into the door frame. My vision shakes, and I feel blood trickle down my back. I let him drag me again, too weak now to try to stop him. I hear him laugh, but it sounds hollowly in my ears.
Everything is moving, and I can see three of everything. Blackness moves in and out of my eyes, black, red, and white spots dancing around. Everything is happening so quickly, too quickly for me to even register what's happening.
But it hits me like a ton of bricks, it's happening again. It's happening again, and it'll probably happen again after that, and again after that. I'm winded by the fact that it's happening again, and I can't get anything to work properly.
My throat has closed up, my eyes won't open, and my jaw won't unclench. I can still hear his laugh, and I can feel his fingers trailing over me.
In one minute, they're on my face, trailing over my lips, the next they're getting further and further down, until they're at the top of my pants. I feel them tug, and I feel the fabric rip.
And...
There's nothing I can do;
Nothing I can do;
Nothing I can do.
Apart from let it happen.
So I do that, and hope that he doesn't add to my collection of bruises and cuts along the way, and hope that he gets bored quickly.
Even though it's probably over quickly, it feel like an eternity. Out of all of the times he's done this to me, this time is the worst. I'm fully aware of everything that's happening, I haven't been knocked out or I'm not intoxicated, I'm one hundred percent sober. I can feel and hear everything he's doing, whether that be taunting me, or touching me.
I'm frozen still, not moving except to breathe and blink every so often. Everything else has been blocked out, like the feel of the cotton bedsheets or the sun hitting my back. I can see these things, but all I can feel is him.
On top of me, to the side of me, his fingers trailing up my arms and neck and back and legs. He pushes himself inside me, the process painful and rough, and he starts moving. I can't scream out, I can't move. My skin is crawling, I can taste bile in my mouth.
Tears leak out, but no sound does. I bury my head in a pillow, silently screaming. Every movement is worse and more painful than the last, every movement brings a new wave of horror. Every movement sends me more into myself, until, by the end, there's none of me left.
I've been broken, irrevocably and painfully. There's no going back, and no going forward. Not even the thought of death could console me.
He finishes, gets off of me, and lies beside me for a while. His hands trail up and down my torso, 'gently'. Not even a feather seems gentle now. He traces shapes, circles, triangles, stars. I'm not sure what he's trying to achieve, but I hate it. I hate everything, but most of all, him.
When he gets no response from me, apart from a sharp breath whenever he touches me, he gets up, sighing.
“You're so fucking stiff, Frank. Lighten up a little, you cunt.”
I stay silent, and he gets dressed or whatever and walks out of the room, leaving the door open. A draught wafts through the room, causing me to get more goosebumps. I bury my face deeper into the pillow, cutting off any air supply.
When it gets too much, not being able to breathe, I lift my head up slightly and see the sun setting. The beauty in it, as usual, shocks me. But, it also stirs something else, something deep, dark and endless that words couldn't even begin to describe. The feeling is profound, unlike anything I've ever felt before. Unlike everything else, it's something pure, even if it stems from hatred. It's probably the most innocent thing in this place, anyway.
The sunset, which is bright and full of promise, makes my tears stop, and be replaced by something hard, like steel. I decide, there and then, to never cry again. I'm going to become devoid of emotion, because then I can't get hurt any more.
Not even Miles will penetrate my wall. The steel, reinforced wall I've built atop of my old one. The damage will never be repaired, I'll continue to be like this, but I won't show how I feel. I'll just be empty. Completely, absolutely empty of everything, even love.
Love is the worst, love breaks you the hardest. Love has brought me nothing but pain. And it will continue to bring me nothing but pain. Love can make you feel on top of the world, but when things are bad, things are worse than anything.
Even the love you feel for your parents. I loved my dad, he brought me pain, I loved my mom, she brought me pain. They're both dead, and they weren't too good at loving while they were alive. Mom was too worried to do anything apart from sit inside and give me a few kind words and loving touches, and we ran from dad because he'd murder us if he found us.
Gerard, I love him. But loving him has brought me nothing but longing, fear, pain. Just about everything was bad, I just couldn't see it. The start was good, really good, but it all went downhill. It was never going to last, so why try?
I was blinded by love, taken by the high it gave me, not caring about the incredible low I would get from it. Not caring about anything.

Notes

I've had half of this wrote since eighteen days ago, but I've been in Germany/Austria, and I didn't take my laptop, and the WiFi was shitty, anyway.
Yeah, so the next updates won't be in anyone's POV, but narrators. I have too much to write about everyone's thoughts/feelings, so this way is just easier.
Thanks for reading, as always, and enjoy your day.