Frank could not sleep. Not matter how hard he tried, he just could not fall into slumber. Even when he squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to forget every horrible image he had encountered, he couldn't. He rolled and raved, tossed and turned, until, eventually, he just sat up in bed in a hot sweat. He sat nibbling his lip and picking the skin round his nails.

He looked at his clock; it read 02:45. It was dark outisde, apart from the one streetlamp that stood across the street. He rested on his window ledge and looked down the street. Everything seemed normal; quiet, reserved.

Frank sighed and rubbed his face, which was just spreading the day before's eyeliner around his face. His hair hung over his eyes, and he tried to slick it back with his sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and the small teenager tried to forget everything in the world at that moment. He tried to forget all his memories, even his best, just to forget the murder scene, but it was written on his brain.

He thought about the poor man, the poor murdered man in the alley. They way his eyes just looked right at Frank, making him feel miniscule. The way his head just attached by the skin.
What he was trying to forget the most was probably never going to go away. It wasn't the murder scene itself, but the murder that he couldn't forget. His eyes, his deep hazel eyes. It was like he was looking into Frank, making him feel naked; he could see everything that he had to offer to anyone, noticed tings Frank didn't even know was there himself. He was kind of god-like, and a beautiful one at that.

Frank wretched at that thought. He tried to keep it inside, but his body wanted out. Before running to the toilet, he took one last look at the street below; nothing was going to try and get him tonight.

He tipped his head over the bowl, and emptied the entire contents of his stomach down the toilet. He wiped his mouth after the first spew, but it just would not stop coming. The second, third, fourth times were just as bad as the first, maybe even worse. By the time we wretched for the tenth time, he had nothing more to empty, and there was a few drops of blood in his bile. Frank Hated being sick, but then who the hell enjoyed it?

He went back to his room, and he was wary. Something had changed - he was sure, so fucking sure - that something had indeed changed. He crept over the threshold. He looked around, but he could see next to nothing in the dark, compared to the amount of light in the bathroom.

He face forwards on his bed, a breathed slowly into his pillow. He sucked the last remaing stragles of air from the porus subject, before he turned around to get some fresh air. And he was faced with something that teriffied him.

He was held at knife point, by someone. Frank's eyes travelled from the persons wrist, up the arm. He was wearing what looked to be like a leather jacket, and a white T-Shirt. Once the level of alarm had raised, Frank's arms flailed, and reached around in the dark. His neck moved against the knife, and he could feel his skin had been knicked by the blade. His hand caught something round and tried to squeeze it, to hurt it. The person chuckled, quite meniacally for a laugh.

"If you dare move again, I will cut your throat. And, er, if you don't mind, that's my butt you've got hold of."