Antichrist (Frerard)

4: If You're A Bloodsucker, You're Probably A Cocksucker Too

Frank lay in bed awake at night, his mind on anything but sleep and the not quite so peaceful haunted realms it held for him, wishing for his life back in New York when nothing was ever quite as fucked up as this and right now he'd probably be out fucking some guy and making sure he was stoned enough so he couldn't remember anything in the morning.

Frank began to realise that he hated remembering everything, and that he hated that he couldn't forget his mistakes in anything other than a dodgy cigarette bummed off a guy he barely knew all due to his fucking grandparents, and boy did he want to just let them go fuck themselves and buy a packet or several dozen, but by now his grandparents had of course informed just about everyone in this fucking village of his existence, leaving him with very little chance that he get away with it, let alone anyone sold him smokes in the first place.

Man, Frank was fucked.

And not in the way he wanted to be, and as weird as it sounds, he missed it; he missed being fucked over his head at two in the morning speaking into the toilet bowl he just threw up into and seeing shapes on the wall that the pills put there, waiting for some guy to take him away from the bathroom and then fuck him until they passed out, and then Frank would wake up somewhere else, and let the cycle repeat once more - it was a cycle of unconsciousness and he never had to worry about anything, let alone his next fix or what the hell this fucking creepy dark figure was doing stalking him and haunting his nightmares at the same time.

Things like that should only happen when Frank was high, and he hadn't even touched anything for like two weeks now and was most likely going insane in the process, and perhaps right now he would have preferred the figure to be nothing but a mere hallucination, but Mikey had to see it too, and still he couldn't quite get his head around the recognition between the two, and of course just how eager the figure was to vanish as soon as Ray returned.

If he didn’t want to been seen, then Frank couldn't see how he didn't find him a problem, and how he'd been taunting him for days now and then decided to just appear casually beside Mikey and him, only to lead Frank to the conclusion that Mikey somehow knew him, and it just got worse, because Frank knew he couldn't ask Ray for answers here - there was a reason the figure disappeared at Ray's appearance, and the answer lay in no one but Mikey, the one person Frank was unsure if and when he'd see again.

Bert of course did also seem capable in the department of providing answers, but of course awfully cryptic and encouragingly uninterested in the matter, which was nothing more than irritatingly problematic, spinning Frank's head into the wrong kind of oblivion - the kind that hadn't been manufactured into powders and pills, but brought casually by one's own mind as a method of subconscious self-destruction, and really that was the last thing Frank needed right now.

Clarity was all he required, but the only kind of clarity he could find in white lines or particularly pungent smoke; both things he'd been cut off from here, along with whatever sanity he felt he had originally. Perhaps it would have been better for him just to stay back in New York, and face whatever dangers the world had for him there than to take his chances which insanity and its many warriors in deep in the village in the middle of nowhere and fog that seemed to consume the whole of reality.

Escape, and the whole outside of the village, in fact, seemed unreachable, and was not helped by the unreliable phone signal, and the fact that Alex hadn't answered his phone in days, which was both concerning and annoying, and yet despite the moonlit boredom shooting through his skull, Frank still couldn't trick himself into sleep's own grasp.

And there he lay awake for hours - awake and breathing irregularly, his thoughts racing, acting nervously in self defence mechanism he'd almost forgotten about, his brain acting on instinct, doing all in its power to focus on anything but the unexplainable shadow in the corner of the room, illuminated by a teasing streak of moonlit from a window Frank definitely had not opened.