Touched by Demons, though I fall into grace (but on my second acc)

I slowly open my eyes, a blast of pain shooting through my head. I gasp, grabbing my scalp and sitting up. The first thing that comes to my mind is to get a painkiller, but I'm not sure if Advil was is a thing in 1972. I might as well check Frank's cabinet and take a pill or two.
I grab a book from Franks nightstand, scrawling a quick message in pencil on the first page.
Got a headache. Getting a painkiller.
-G
I set the book next to him, the pencil bookmarking the page that I wrote in. Frank stirs a bit, so I kiss his scalp before standing up and throwing on my shirt. In my defense, New Jersey gets cold at night.
I walk throughout the eerily quiet house. Whenever I'm here, music is always playing or Frank is talking. It's never quiet. Even the creaks that my footsteps make sound out of place when it's this late at night.
I open the cabinet in the laundry room, taking out the medicine box. Some band-aids, Neosporin, and something that looks like a bottle of painkillers. I take out the bottle of Oxycontin, and with further inspection, I determine that they are painkillers. I open the bottle, picking out two and downing them, not bothering for water.
Something falls over in the kitchen, startling me as I put the bottle away. "Frank?" I call out, stepping out of the laundry room. He doesn't respond, so I walk forward. I spot him, in the kitchen, by the sink. "What are you doing up?" I ask, taking his hand in mine.
He whispers something, and I ask him to repeat it.
"Faggots."
I let go of his hand. That didn't sound like him. He wouldn't say that, either. "What?" I ask, backing away.
"Faggots!" He yells and stomps on my foot. I cower away.
"Frank!" I yell, now recognizing the voice as none other than Eric. "Frank! Get in here!" I back away from Eric, limping backward. He follows, and I now notice the glint of the knife he carries in his hand. "Fuck!" I yell.
He pushes me over, and I make to crawl away from him, but he steps on my chest before I can. The door to our bedroom opens, and Frank rushes out. Eric looks up, hastily bringing the knife down into my shoulder, twice, then runs out of the house.
Shit.
It only feels like a punch, and I'm relieved when he steps off of my chest and runs out the front door.I shiver, grimacing at the heat surging through the wound. The strange tingle doesn't last; it's overcome by much more intense heat, causing me to yell out in pain.
Frank turns on the lights, running over to me and reaching his hands behind my shoulders. He begins to pick me up, but I gasp out in pain at the adjustment, and he gently sets me down.
"What do I do? Shit, Gerard! What the fuck do I do?" He yells, his hands shaking.
"Get..." I mutter, grimacing through the pain. "Get the shirt off!"
Frank nods, running to get another knife, returning and cutting through the shirt. He moves the shirt away from the wound, grimacing at the blood. "What now?" He asks.
"Call 911," I tell him hurriedly.
"What the hell is 911?" He says, standing up and running to the wall phone and dialing the number.
"Police. Hospital." I mumble, now thankful that I took two strong painkillers beforehand. The heat has now faded, adrenaline carrying me through the injury. Now the pain only comes in dull thuds, matching my heartbeat,
Frank drops the phone, running back over to me. He grabs my shirt, balling it up and pressing it against the wound, stopping the blood flow. I grimace, staring him dead in the eyes.
"Hey, Frank," I say.
"Yeah?" He replies.
"Just in case I don't get to talk to you again, I wanna tell you something."
"No, no!" He says, shaking his head. "Don't talk like that. We're gonna get out of this."
"No--Just in case," I say, "I wanna say that I love you. I've loved you since I walked through the door to the shop. You're perfect, and I couldn't ask for someone better than you. I love that stupid pumpkin that's tattooed on your back. I love your Search and Destroy tattoo. I love how your hair falls over your forehead, and how it's color brings out the yellow in your eyes. I love how whenever I take my shirt off, you like to run your hands on my shoulders. God, I love everything about you. And I don't want to lose you."
Frank smiles, and I notice how his eyes are about to leak tears. "I love you too." He smiles, kissing my forehead. "And I would give you a list of things that I love about you, but my brain is kind of mush right now and I can't think straight."
I let out a shaky laugh. "When we get out of this, I'll tell you everything that I love about you." He says.
I smile, looking to the door when I begin to hear sirens. "I'll help you up." He says, gently lifting the shirt off of the wound, wrapping his arm around my back and pulling me up. Together, we limp out of the house and to the cars. A handful of medics rush over to me, taking me from Franks' arms and carrying me into the ambulance. Another handful of police gathers around Frank to take his statement.
Once in the ambulance, they begin yelling codes to one another. I see one of them take out a needle, and that's when I lose it. I squirm away from the doctor, yelling at him to get the needle away from me. Another two EMTs push me down, while the one who had the needle puts a mask over my head. They blast something--I'm guessing anesthesia--through the mask, and I begin to falter. Soon enough, I'm calmly laying on the sheet, falling asleep against my will.
The dull hum of the hospital air conditioner is what wakes me. Just that. Not screams, or an alarm clock, or a kiss on the lips. Somehow, the screams would have been better than the dull hum. I would have immediately been wide awake if it were the screams. Now, sleep has sewn my eyelids shut, and I'm blind on the search for the scissors.
I absentmindedly tap my left index finger on the thin sheets, satisfied when it comes down with more weight than it would have 12 hours ago. The feeling of something attached to your finger, monitoring your heartbeat, gives me a sense of satisfaction. It's like remembering that you're there.
"Gerard?" None other than my very own boyfriend asks. "Are you awake?"
I don't feel like talking. My lips are stuck together with glue. So I say yes by faintly humming, nearly smiling when I hear a relieved sigh come from Frank's direction.
"You've been out for about 5 hours. The doctors gave you stitches."
I hear the words. I know that, at least. But I don't quite process them. I would ask him to repeat it, if the doctors hadn't glued my lips together. It's a shame, really. I would love to see him.
"I never got to return the favor, last night."
Hmm. I don't quite remember that part. Maybe you could give me a refresher?
"The whole 'I love you' conversation."
Ah. The Talk. I was a bit delirious in the rush of last night. Or, rather, this morning. Very early in the morning, though.
A chair scrapes against the hospital floor tiles, getting closer to me. Something weighs down a spot on the mattress, just to the right of my head. He's either resting his head next to mine--No, that doesn't sound right. His elbow is on the mattress, his head is on the hand and he's looking at me.
"Open your eyes, Darling."
And so I do. The thread is gone. He's cast the scissors away, and untied it himself. What a gentleman.
"Darling?" I mock the new pet name. "What ever happened to 'Honey'?"
Frank laughs. I was right, about the elbow hand head thing. He's doing it. And he's doing it perfectly. At the angle that I'm seeing him from, you'd expect an unflattering photo. But all I see is him.
"You got stabbed, Honey." He says, playfully saying the last word with anger in his voice. "And you're making fun of me?"
I shrug, or more like... Half shrug. It's hard to shrug when your shoulder is half-numb from whatever numbing liquid the doctors use.
"About the conversation." He continues, picking up a notepad from the floor. "I took the time to write a little something while you were sleeping."
He holds the notepad up, now having moved positions. Before starting, he glances at me, making sure that I'm listening.
I am. Not with my ears, though.
"I love you." He starts, "I love the way that you cup my neck when we kiss. I love the way that you talk out of the side of your mouth. I love how you always ask if I'm okay with something, even if it's just changing the TV channel. I love the way that your forehead curves. It's a silly thing to notice, but I notice it. I love the way that you held my hand the first day we met. I love how you always doodle on the backs of envelopes when you're on the phone. I love how you love me, even when I don't understand how you can."
I don't cry. I did enough crying last night.
I just hold out my good arm, pulling him into a hug. He's careful, careful not to move the arm that's in a sling for whatever reason. And we just sit there. Somewhat happy, not quite healthy, and mostly alive.
Frank breaks away first. "You're beautiful."
"You're perfect."
He gently pecks me on the lips, sighing. "And I should call the detective. Detective Auman?"
I kiss him again, wanting to make our moment last, gripping onto his shirt. He gently reaches up, lowering my hands once the Detective comes in. I can't help but frown.
Detective Auman sits down, adjusting her jacket and crossing her legs. "I assume you're Gerard?" She asks, holding out her hand. I take it, up, down, release. "I'm Amanda Auman. Nice to meet you."
I return the gesture, going through the whole Nice to meet you! exchange that I've grown to hate. You know that your acquaintance will say Good, so why do you even ask?
"I'm just here to take your statement, and make sure both of your stories check out." She smiles, taking a notepad off of her belt. She conjures a pen from seemingly nowhere, and looks up at me. "Could you go play by play, what happened up until the stabbing?"
I nod, thinking up a Heterosexual response to that question. "I wake up with a headache. I go to take a painkiller. I walk out, and see Frank standing there. I walk up to him, realize it isn't Frank, and back away. He shoves me to the floor and stabs me twice."
She nods, jotting a few things down in her notebook. "Are you aware that one of our detectives found a note reading..." She flips the page. "'Got a headache. Getting a painkiller. G.' sitting on Franks bed? Why was it on Franks bed?"
Frank and I exchange glances, and he prepares a response. "Yes, we are aware of that. For reasons we would like to keep a secret."
Amanda stares at us, her brown eyes seemingly penetrating into our souls. "Would it hurt to tell me? I don't have to tell my captain."
Frank sighs, "It possibly could. Very, very much."
"Let me guess." She says, leaning back. "You two are sleeping together."
"Hell no!"
"Well..."
I said the first part. Frank said the second.
Amanda raises her eyebrows, encouraging for us to say more.
"We are dating." He says. Technically, if he disclosed that we were planning to have sex in the near future, it could have gotten us arrested or shipped off to mental asylums.
"Ah. I'll make up an excuse for the note, for my captain and the NJPD."
Frank and I just stare at her. One of the first people to accept us without batting an eye. I want to pry, and ask her why, but I feel that it's best to let her keep to herself.
While Frank is busy expressing his thanks, I think of how hard it must be for her. Being a woman of color must be tough enough in the 70's, but stacking the detective part on top of that? The precinct must be hell on earth.
"Another thing. Frank, you said you didn't catch the attackers looks or features. Gerard?"
I look at Frank in surprise. "You didn't see him?" He shakes his head. "It was Eric."
Frank freezes. "Goddamn." He says, picking up his pen from the floor and clicking it again and again, his mind elsewhere. "How did I not notice? He has that disco-lover haircut."
Detective Auman leans in, pen and paper in hand. "Eric? Eric who? Do you have an address?"
"Eric is--soon to be was--our radio runner at the record shop. We run it together." I say, not taking my eyes off of Frank. I can sense that when he gets angry, he gets angry. It'll be best for me to calm him down before he even gets close to angry. So, since the detective already knows, I take his hand and squeeze it. "He caught us kissing in the breakroom. Not the kindest soul."
"Ah." The Detective says, scribbling something down on a new piece of paper. "Do you have his address?"
Frank shakes his head. "Its Eric Sawyer, if that helps. Shoulder length brown hair, wears it in a bun, small brown eyes."
Detective Auman rips out a piece of paper from her notepad, handing it over. "Thank you. This is my work phone, if you ever think of anything that might help the case."
Frank takes the note, folding it up twice and sticking it in his pocket. "No, thank you." He says, shaking her hand. I make to do the same, but shy away when the bandages on my shoulder tug at my skin. Instead, I decide on a simple nod, raising a finger in her direction.
She walks out, and I catch the start of a conversation with a fellow detective while the door is still open. Instead of closing, a doctor walks in, sitting in the detectives chair. "Before you go, I need to go over a few things with you."
Frank smiles at him, a bit confused. "You already told me all of that."
"I know. But I'm going to repeat it in case you didn't catch all of it." He purses his lips, nodding at Frank, a bit demeaning, if you ask me. He hands me a sheet of paper and a something that looks like a first-aid package. "You'll need to change the bandages on your shoulder in the morning and at night until Thursday, there are instructions how to inside the box. Since we had you under a lot of anesthesia, so we'll have to wheel you out. You'll be on bedrest for the rest of the day, and you can go back to work on Wednesday. Until you get your stitches out, in about two weeks, we ask that you refrain from sexual intercourse."

I have to stop myself from taking a sharp inhale and glancing at Frank. In two weeks, our deadline will nearly be up. We'll just have a few days to do the do, as you do.
"As for that, you're free to go. Lucky you, you're on the first floor and we can wheel you right out the back door, your friend will just have to drive his car around."

I can't help but smile. It sounds weird, but I'm actually really excited to get home and do this whole 'bedrest' thing.
"I'll get the car." Frank says, picking up his notepad, his book, and walking out. The doctor says that he is going to get the wheelchair, leaving me in the hospital room. I take this as an opportunity to peek under my bandages, now realizing that I'm wearing one of Frank's oversized hoodies. He must've picked it up, seeing as I was shirtless after the incident.

The doctor comes back in the room, walking over to me. He unclips the heart monitor on my finger and helps me to the doorway. My legs do feel kind of numb, though I'm not quite sure why. I sit down in the wheelchair and the doctor wheels me through the halls for a bit, before propping a door open and then rolling me through. He rolls me down the sidewalk, stopping me right outside Franks car.
"Hello, again." Frank smiles, rolling down the window and hopping out the car to help me up. "How ya feelin'?"
I thank the doctor for all of his help, smiling at him and then closing the door. "Numb. I'm feeling numb." I laugh, using my good hand to gently press on my left shoulder, feeling absolutely nothing.
Frank chuckles a little, "Work starts in 10 minutes. I'm gonna drop by and let them know what happened. I suggest you stay in the car."

I shake my head. "Can I at least wait in the back room? Or in the radio station?"
Frank sighs. "Fine. You can wait in the radio room. Speaking of, we need someone to run that now that Eric is fired."
He pulls into the parking lot, walking around the car to help me out. He opens the door, slinging my arm around his neck and helping me to the back room.
"This is a first." I say, breathing heavier than I should be. "Hobbling into a record store, slung over my boyfriend's back."
Frank smiles, opening the door and walking us inside. Luckly, no one is in the back room. He sets me down on one of the stools we would always use when taking breaks. "You can sit here since no one is in the room. I'll go out and talk to them."

He leaves the room, leaving me bored and lonely. Now, I can actually look under the bandage. I didn't quite get the chance to, last time. I pull down the hoodie, struggling to lift up the bandage and peer inside.

Before I can figure out how to do that with just one hand, Jordan rushes through the curtains. She immediately throws herself onto me, nearly knocking over me and my stool. I groan, as she's pressing against my arm, whatever happened to it. I still can't figure out why it's in a sling, though it hurts like Hell.
"Shit, sorry." She says, taking a few steps back. "Why is your arm in a sling? I thought you got stabbed in the shoulder."
"I did," I say, pulling down Frank's hoodie again, revealing the bandage. "And honestly? I don't know?"
Frank walks in through the curtains, one hand resting on his hip. "Oh, the sling?" Frank says, kissing my cheek, making me blush. "The knife damaged a few muscles, I think. You could hurt yourself if you move it too much."
I nod, holding out my arm for him to help me up. "Did he tell you everything?" I ask her, groaning when Frank picks me up and slings my arm around him. She shakes her head.
"He just said that you got stabbed and would be taking a few days off."
"Well, we'll both be taking two days off. You can see us whenever you're off work." Frank smiles, starting to walk out the door.
"Wait!" Jordan half-yells, "Who did it?"

Frank and I both sigh. I leave it up to him to answer that question.
"Eric. If you see him around here, call this number." He pulls the detectives note out of his pocket, showing it to Jordan. She copies it down on her wrist, waving.

Frank takes this as an opportunity to throw open the door, walking us outside.
"I can feel my legs, you know." I say, smiling as he takes in another deep breath. "You can stop with the gentleman crap."

"Thank God." He says, releasing my arm and opening the door for me. "You're staying in bed the rest of the day, though. I picked up a few books I thought you might like, as well. A Wrinkle in Time, To Kill A Mockingbird, and The Outsiders."
I smile, "You have good taste. All classics in the 21st century."
"Really? I've never heard of them before."
"You haven't heard of Harry Potter either."

"Who the hell names their kid hairy?"
I crack up, covering my mouth. "Harry. H-A-R-R-Y."
"Still a fucked up name. What's it about?"
"Some orphan in Europe finds out that he's a wizard and he proceeds to kill giant snakes, break mirrors, free murderers from prison, and teleport to cemeteries."

Notes