needles • frerard

twenty one

We finished up his tattoo that day, then returned to the apartment.

"Hey Frankie, you got somethin' in the mail." I say, flipping through the envelopes as I'm kicking off my shoes. "I did?" He takes off his flannel and hangs it up on the coat hook. I hand it to him. It's void of any information, just his name and address handwritten in a messy scrawl.

He drags his nail under the seal and pulls out the contents. I can't see what it is, but the color drains from Frank's face.

"I, uh, I gotta go." He mumbles, shoving the whole thing in his pocket and grabbing his jacket. "Wh- is everything okay?" I ask. He doesn't reply, just opens the door. "Frank?"

No response. He's out the door and down the stairs. "Frankie!" I shout after him from the doorway, my hand gripping the gray frame tightly. All I see is his back as he disappears without a single explanation.

- - - - -

It's late, maybe midnight. I've long stopped trying to call him, he's obviously not picking up the phone. I alternate between sitting on the edge of the couch cushion and pacing my living room. My nails are bitten to shreds and a thousand thoughts are spinning around in my brain.

Did he run away?

Is Bob out of prison?

Is he dead?

Is he lying in an alleyway somewhere, bleeding out and unable to cry for help?

Is he at some crackhouse, veins filled with heroin and mouth filled the booze?

Then suddenly, I hear keys.

I stand up so quick I get light-headed. But that's the least of my worries when Frank stumbles inside and his lips are blue.

My heart drops to my stomach. "Frankie!" I gasp, rushing towards the smaller boy. The adrenaline immediately shoots through my body and I can only think about Frank. I brush his hair aside; his face is so cold and his skin looks nearly gray. I press my index and middle fingers against his neck, feeling the erratic thump of Frank's pulse. "Oh, Frankie..."

"Baby, can you hear me?" My voice cracks.

He's mumbling incoherently, pupils blown so wide it's like he barely has an iris at all. "Frankie, baby, what did you take?" I ask. His eyebrows crease slightly, then he collapses to his knees, a bottle of pills falling out of his pocket. They spill onto the floor, next to a drop of blood from a deep scrape on his knee. I recognize the pills almost instantly. "Oh god, oh god, Frank. How many did you take?" I cry out, joining him on the floor and picking up the now empty bottle. It isn't his prescription. Hell, why would it be?

"Frank, look at me." I say, keeping his head steady. "How many?"

"...b' hal'" He slurs.

"How many?" I repeat.

"Bout half."

My jaw drops. "Jesus Christ, okay. Okay, sweetheart. It's gonna be okay." I mumble. "It's gonna be okay." A tear wells up in the corner of my eye. "You need these out of your system, c'mon." I say to no one in particular. It's not like Frank can understand me. He's shaking from head to toe and can't seem to get in a full breath.

I pull him to his feet and guide him to the bathroom, where I kneel him in front of the toilet. "Frank. Frank, listen to me." I cup his jaw, looking him the eyes. "Can you throw up the pills for me?" I ask. He doesn't respond, just blankly stares while taking in a rattling breath. I grimace, knowing that he's nearly unconscious and can't even think right now.

So I pry open his jaw and hold back his hair.