Frank

Posted: September 22, 2011 in Uncategorized

Frank

Frank lay in his bed, tubes from his nose, drip in his arm, wires stuck to his chest.  Jesus Christ how did this happen?  The machine beeped annoyingly beside him, a nurse came in, pottered around the room, gave him that “You’re Fucked” smile and left again.

He couldn’t complain of course, he’d had a good life, loved a good woman, and cheated on her with plenty of other good women.  Funny how he hadn’t slept with anyone since she died.  Too guilty to fuck around on a dead woman; ah the irony.  She’d known of course there had been others, not that Frank had flaunted it, but women know; they know instinctively.

He’d had a good, no, he’s had a great career, plenty of scoops in his day.  They held no glitter after his wife died though and for the last two years he was just putting in time.  He’d been offered anchor jobs on news shows, but apart from being old fashioned and thinking that print journalism was the only true representation of the craft, he always thought TV to be vain, who’d have thought that, Frank disdainful of vanity.

It was Frank who got to the bottom of the WMD lie, all those meetings in parks, the types with trees and the types with cars.  It was Frank who found out about the Senator with the secret bank account stuffed with drug money.  It was Frank who forced a Cardinal to resign.  It was Frank who got the exclusive interview with only the second President ever to resign from office.

But that was all in the past, 60 cigarettes a day were finally catching up with him now.  He used to say to his wife when he left for whatever particular disease and war ravaged shit hole the paper was sending him next, that the only thing that could kill him was a silver bullet.  Perhaps if you smoke enough cigarettes, you’ll eventually inhale enough silver to make that bullet.

The nurse came back into the room with his medication, some experimental shit they wanted to try, nothing to loose he supposed, not at this stage.

Frank’s eyes flitted open, Jesus he wanted a smoke.  He watched the machine beside the bed, line jumping and numbers counting, he watched it slow down, the numbers stopped counting, the line stopped jumping, the line went flat and Frank closed his eyes.

 The End

 *************

Bill Carson sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette and read the last paragraph again.  Was he doing the right thing?  Frank Glen had made him a lot of money down through the years.  But he owned Frank, didn’t he? He had given him life, a lifetime of adventures, love.  Yes he’d given him sorrow and sadness too, but Frank belonged to him, didn’t he?

He read the last paragraph again.  Was he doing the right thing?

Yes…….it was time to move on, for Frank and  Bill Carson, no going back from this. Bill stubbed out his cigarette, lit another one, held the cursor over the save button and………..

I’ve often wondered about the characters created in fiction pieces.  A theory exists that every time we make a decision, a parallel universe is created. What if a parallel universe is created every time a writer develops a new character?  I sometimes wonder if maybe we are all just figments of someone else’s imagination, does that mean we don’t want to hold on to our lives with every fibre of our beings?  I definitely want to and I’ll tell you what buddy, if you’re just imagining me, I’m going nowhere so get used to it 🙂

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Comments
  1. Brilliant Alan, love it, gone but not deleted!!!!!!

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