+Bad Catholics+ Frank Iero

+28+

Frank readjusted the hood on his head and faced it.

"Seriously? Have you ever heard of the Reaper of Jersey? Ellis Dean? Probably the craziest motherfucker to ever roam these streets in the last twenty years. He probably had at least a hundred people working for him, maybe even more. The craziest part of it all is no one even knew he lived here. Not until he died, at least. It was a media frenzy the second his body was found in there. Until then he seemed untouchable. It only happened like, five years ago. You had to have heard about it."

I stared at my childhood home.

It looked exactly the same to me as it did the day I left somehow, my current and past memories intertwining. The awning over the porch now bowed terribly, nearly on the edge of collapsing. The baby blue paint on the siding was chipped beyond recognition, so much so that I could likely only tell it used to be blue because I already knew that as fact. It was so feeble. I could feel my knees begging to buckle, but I wouldn't allow it. I never thought I could stomach going back. At some point over the years, I convinced myself it never even existed at all.

I remembered the day I drug a stick through the wet concrete in the sidewalk, writing my initials. Construction workers were there all day, and I watched them through the windows, despite my father constantly shooing me away in fear I'd be seen through the curtains. I remembered wondering what it felt like just to touch it while they poured it. I asked him if I could go outside, just for a moment, but I was only allowed in the backyard where I couldn't be seen. It was the only time I had ever done the opposite of what I was asked to do- I waited until he was busy, and until the workers outside stepped away, and I snuck out the side door and ran across the street to where the concrete was poured. I remembered finding a small stick, and how overwhelmed I was at the choices I had of what to write.

I remembered thinking about how I could make my "mark" on Jersey. How one day I could tell everyone I knew that my initials were forever etched into the streets of my city, and how profound it would be to have such a story to tell.

I was seven.

"I don't think we should go in there," I said, shocked I could even get the words out.

Frank turned back toward me again, a confused expression on his face.

"Mae, there's nothing to be scared of. I'm right here next to you," he said, grabbing my hand. "We don't have to stay long, I promise no one is around to see us. Half of the lots on this street are empty, anyway."

His words brought no comfort. I didn't know what to do- the situation was a living nightmare.

I couldn't tell him why I was so fearful of entering the house because that would mean I had to tell him everything. There was no telling what that would do to us, or myself. I was so angry that life found a way to really make me regret meeting Frank when until then I was able to finally feel grateful. I finally had something I was so scared to lose, and he was the one to lead me to what had the potential to make me lose at all. It was all so cruel.

I knew I had to make a choice. Those choices were palpable- It was the consequences that were strangers. If I ran away, I knew it would have to be the very last time. There would be no coming back from that. No explanation, no procrastinating until Frank simply decided it wasn't worth prying into and let it all go. I could tell he didn't want to let it go anymore. I could feel it in every word he spoke. I just didn't know if I could step foot into that house without collapsing. I didn't know if I could walk away from Frank for the last time without doing the same.

"Are you ready?" He asked, a soft smile on his lips.

I looked at the house again, the simple walls holding so much pain within them. My body trembled at the thought of reliving it all again, until I remembered the love they held, too. It wasn't much, but I didn't want to push that out either. Not like I did with everything else.