𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓, p. parker

xiii. never the same

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜɪʀᴛᴇᴇɴ ── ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ

               PETER WASN'T AT THE FUNERAL. Frankie called and called but he never answered. She waited in her room every night, window wide open as she rocked back and forth, sobs escaping her lips but he never came. She sent messages and he never replied. She left a dozen voicemails, most of them damn near pathetic as she cried on the phone but Peter never called her back.

Gwen told her he hadn't been at school either and if Frankie wasn't so tired from the events of the past few days, she would have been furious. Instead, she just feels exhausted. Frankie doesn't have the energy to be angry, she just wanted to be held.

Melissa Strange wasn't at the funeral either. It was only Frankie, alone in the room of people where everyone seems to think she needed their hugs and I'm sorry. She was alone as she stood with her back stiff straight, as if a rod had been glued on her spine. She stood, face straight and emotionless, arms around herself as though trying to hold herself together. She resembled a child, a terrified and broken one.

Throughout it, all she could think about was her father's funeral, back when she was ten years old and everyone offered her sad smiles across the room. Many people attempted to hug her then, but every time they got close, Stephen would pull her away, placing her behind him as he glared at them. And when she broke down, he was there to hold her together, to shush her to sleep.

He isn't here now, though. Instead, it's him Frankie is mourning. Instead, the candles and sympathy were for him.

And the only person she wanted to hold her, to make her feel safe, to make her feel as though she isn't so hopelessly and helplessly alone, isn't there.

It isn't raining. In fact, the sun is out, a warm glow on everyone's skin. The sky is clear, but Frankie wore a thick sweatshirt, one much bigger than she is. Her hair had been left unkempt, put in a ponytail to hold it in place and the black bags under her eyes are unmissable so is the paleness of her skin. She looked sick and the usual confidence in her stance was gone along with the burning pride in her eyes. Instead, the blue in them had turned dull. Anyone who knew Francesca Strange wouldn't have recognized her now.

"Oh Frankie dear," Aunt May said sadly as she opened the door, seeing the girl with her arms wrapped around herself. "I'm so sorry."

Frankie swallowed the lump in her throat, rubbing her hand on her arm, a trick she's started to self sooth. "Is Peter there?"

Aunt May simply smiled sadly as she nodded. "He is."

"Is it possible to talk to him please?"

"Of course, dear." She then turned around, shouting up the stairs, "Peter! Someone's here for you."

Only a few seconds passed as Frankie wrapped her arms tighter around herself, looking around the house as Peter climbed down the stairs. The rose bushes they fell on were pushed back to the corner, broken vases and soil. It felt so long ago.

Eventually, Peter stopped in front of her, looking almost as bad as she did. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Frankie faced him, studying the way his face seems to contort in pain, hands in his pockets as shame fills his eyes.

Finally, Frankie spoke. "What happened?"

"I was injured." He said it robotically, as if he rehearsed it in front of the mirror, void of emotion, just pure memorization. "I had to go after these gangs, apply for college. I couldn't attend the funeral. I'm sorry."

Frankie's heart broke at that moment. Peter doesn't care. He didn't care that Frankie was waiting for him, depending on him. He didn't care. He hadn't done anything but she felt betrayed anyway. She looked at the sole of her shoes, trying to gather her thoughts and blink the tears away from her eyes before she looked back up at him.