Only Frankie Knows

iv. breaking a cat's neck

dedicated to BlueDisorder
ilysm bb salamat sa pagbabasaaa;(

iv.
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I cannot count all the times I mended Frankie's wounds. Because of what her mother does to her, I'd kept dozens of antibiotics, pain relievers, band-aids, anything you could ask for whenever you are in pain somewhere. I always had to look after her.

Frankie and I would sit facing each other on top of my bed, a low hum of music playing from the radio as I apply ointments on her bruises and wounds. She and I were always quiet during these moments, as if afraid to break something; but it was always so, so intimate, fragile. Her skin, my breathing, her hair over her eyes, her low whimpers of pain . . .

One time, Frankie admitted that it makes her uncomfortable whenever I treat her wounds, because she said, "I'm afraid that you'll feel bad for me."

I just smiled at her as a response, but honestly, I don't. My heart doesn't break for Frankie. Why would I hate her wounds? Her wounds bring her to me; it gives me a chance to gently hold her -- a chance to hear her breathing close, but whenever I think of the process of her being hurt -- whenever I imagine her crying in front of her mother, it kind of boils something inside me; some type of anger I can't quite explain. Somehow I want her mother to pay, but that thought is always washed away whenever Frankie shows up on my doorstep with blood on the side of her lips.

"It hurts," she would say.

It hurts.

It hurts.

"It hurts, Mom!"

I remember gripping on my knife tighter, not quite knowing what to do with it. The most physically brutal thing I'd ever done was when I broke a kitten's neck when I was ten, but that's about it. I really don't remember what I was thinking that moment, 1 AM, inside my best friend's house -- I think it's safe to say that I was just blank. All I knew was Frankie needed my help.

Her voice was coming from a room. Slowly, I walked to that direction, hearing her mother cussing different things like slut, bitch, worthless, along with Frankie's quiet cries of pain.

I was calm the whole time though -- I was just worried about Frankie inside the room. Even so I walked slowly, carefully, because one wrong move and her mother would immediately notice, since the floors are creaky. If I'd have to kill her mother, I should have the advantage of surprising her first.

And that's what I did.

Again, I can't really remember much -- everything went too fast plus that was three months ago. When I opened the door, I had the knife ready -- in a split second I saw Frankie bleeding, her mother on top of her hitting her with a bat. I can remember that Frankie was missing her front tooth, her arms were full of scratches, there was so much hair on the floor and she was bleeding from her nose and mouth and cheek and her left eye was wounded too.

Then perhaps I did what anyone else would do.

I ran, kitchen knife pointed to her mother. I heard a gasp, then a curse. I breathed.

Then there was blood on my skin.

Murder. What I did was murder; of course it was murder, I killed the mother after all. My knife found her back, and right after that, Frankie screamed.

I pulled back the knife, before pushing it back to the flesh again. My head was static. Blank. Dark. My hands felt sticky. That time, I think I wasn't breathing properly and I felt like the surroundings have muted too.

Her mother pulled my hair but I don't think I was feeling any pain back then -- I wasn't feeling anything but anger because of what she'd done to Frankie and impatience because she wasn't dead yet. I lost count of the times I stabbed her mother; perhaps I stabbed it enough for Frankie to pull me away from her.

"That's enough, Rowan!"

I stabbed again. My face and hoodie and my hand was full of blood and it was thick and--

"She's dead, she's dead!"

She's dead, she's dead, she's dead.

And that was when I blinked back to my senses. I saw her mother covered with blood, her eyes wide open, blood on her face and on her mouth. I dropped the knife and looked at my hands and my clothes and my skin. I was covered with as much blood, too.

The first thought I had was that I needed to shower, but I looked at Frankie first.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Frankie's eyes were wide open, she was breathing heavily and her hands were shaking so bad, looking at her dead mother. She dropped to her knees. I was wondering, what's the issue? I'm sure she wished multiple times too that her mother was dead.

"What have you done?"

I frowned. What have I done? I saved her. What else?

Frankie was trembling all over, she seemed so afraid -- of me, of the corpse in front of her, of the fresh scent of blood, I don't know, really. But there was clear terror on her eyes I love, and it didn't make me happy.

"We . . . w-we have to get rid of her, R-Rowan. How do we . . ." She looked at her mother then back at me and said, "aren't you scared?"

Was I scared?

"Frankie, I need to shower," I said. The blood was thick and it felt uncomfortable to the skin.

Frankie laughed (or was it a scoff?), and she held her head. She turned her back to me. "Shower . . ." She looked back at me again, as if I was ridiculous, her eyes so strongly glaring at me. "Shower? You just murdered Mom and you want to fucking shower?"

I was taken aback because what was she so mad about? Her anger didn't last long though; I just stood there, blood dropping from my hands, unsure what I should tell her. I missed her, I just wanted to talk to her, but somehow I ended up murdering her mother. I still didn't understand as to how that was my fault.

Frankie looked at me for what seemed like eternity before she began to cry and said she'll prepare me water to bath with.

After I showered and dressed up using her clothes, I went to the kitchen where she's sitting at a dining table, and I had a better look at her. Her hair was so thin I could almost see her scalp, her arms were bony, as if she hadn't eaten for days, and the scratches on her skin was so long and they looked painful, some looked new. Frankie was covering her face with her hands. She was still trembling.

"Frankie," I called.

Slowly, she looked up from her hands, and with a very small, shaking voice, she said, "Rowan . . ."

I opened my arms and she sobbed, and then she hugged me. For a moment, I felt happy because finally she's seeking comfort in me, although I think it might be because no one else was available. However, that didn't make me any less happy. It was the happiest I've become ever since the first time Frankie brought up the name Seth.

That night, we sat facing each other on top of their dirty couch as I treated her wounds, just like before. It was so, so intimate, fragile. Her skin, my breathing, her hair over her eyes, her low whimpers of pain . . .

It was 1:55 AM.

A couple of hours later, my best friend Frankie would be dead.

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