Stay Together For The Kids
Title: Stay Together For The Kids
Author: keepthexfaith
Pairing: FrankxBob (doesn't use his name, but it's Bob)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not real, obviously. A figment of my imagination. Title/Inspiration/Cut lyrics courtesy of the song Stay Together for the Kids - Blink 182
Warnings:
Language
Divorce
Stay Together For The Kids
Nine years old. Sitting on top of the stairs, clutching at the banisters and trying to pretend that it isn't my parents screaming at each other downstairs.
A glass smashes against the wall.
"What was that for?"
"You know exactly what that was for!"
"Just…get out of here. I don't want to see you right now."
"Fine. I'm only sticking around for Frank anyway."
The door slams. The car drives out of the garage. Her last words are still echoing round the house. I bite my lip and walk away from the top of the stairs before anyone can see me and shut my bedroom door softly.
*
Eleven years old. Sitting at the table between my parents, eating my breakfast and wishing I was anywhere but there.
"How the hell would I know?"
"How do you always manage to make these things about you?"
"You just asked me why your credit card had been cancelled. How would I know?"
"Mum, it isn't his fault."
"Don't get into this Frank, you don't know what we're talking about."
She slams the empty mug down on the table.
"Please stop fighting." I whisper, but my words fall on deaf ears.
"Why do you try and blame it all on me?"
"I don't blame it all on you! See, that's you trying to make something else about you. You act like you're so hard done by." She says sarcastically, her voice gradually getting louder.
I don't think they even notice when I get up and leave the table.
*
Thirteen years old. Sitting on the very top stair and biting my nails as I watch the shadows of my parents as they scream at each other.
"Seven years! I've been with you for seven years! And you don't appreciate anything I've done for you!"
"That's because all you do is sit around and drink! You don't do anything!"
"See! This is exactly what I mean!" Someone stands up and opens the fridge. It's probably Dad.
"And surprise surprise," The sarcasm is practically dripping from her voice, "You're drinking again."
"Because I have to put up with you all day!"
"Oh, so now you're trying to blame your drinking problem on me! I see how it is…"
"Just go Cheryl. I don't really care." Dad sighs. He's probably rubbing the bridge of his nose, like the way a principal does when a regularly bad student walks into his office. You know, the 'what now?' kind of pose.
I see mum walk past the bottom of the stairs, into their room. She slams the door hard.
"Sleep on the couch tonight." She shouts, opening the door just a little to throw some clothes at him. I hear a bottle hit the floor and know that she's knocked Dad's drink over.
"What was that for?"
"It's not as if you need another drink."
The bottle flies across the room, spilling beer everywhere. It smashes against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and I just look at the mess, tears sliding down my face. I run down the hall to my room and shut my door quietly, so that they don't realise I was listening.
*
Fifteen years old, lying in my bed. Tear stains and smudges all over my face.
"Frank, wake up honey." Mum is shaking me, trying to get me up, "Time for school."
"Why do you and dad fight so much? Don't you love him anymore?" I ask groggily, rubbing my eyes tiredly. If I had been more awake, then maybe I would've realised that this was asking for trouble. Maybe I would've been able to dodge the hand that came heading my way as she slapped my face hard.
"I can't believe you would even suggest that." She said quietly, eyes flashing in anger.
I just stood up and pushed past her, hand resting lightly on my cheek. The sting lasted a lot longer than the red, five fingered mark on my face.
I guess the truth really does hurt.
*
Sixteen years old. I come home late from a party. I'm not surprised when I hear shouting from outside. I sit down against the door.
"He's my kid too!"
"Who gave birth to him?"
"Who didn't want him in the first place?" I shut my eyes and try to pretend that this doesn't hurt as much as it does.
"If you'd just worn a fucking condom we wouldn't even be in this mess!" Silence. I stand up and wipe away a few stray tears. I compose myself and put on a fake smile before unlocking the door and walking in. My parents are standing in the living room, staring at each other open mouthed. I attempt a smile.
"Sorry I'm late."
"It's fine." One of them mumbles. Dad motioning for me to leave and I practically run up to my room. I leave the door open in spite of myself and immediately regret it.
"He's the only thing keeping us together."
"Two more years and he'll move out."
"What are you implying?"
Nothing is said for a while, and the silence feels deafening.
"I want a divorce."
Those words hit me like a ton of bricks. I stand up and shut my door, slamming it in spite of myself.
*
Thirty-six years old. At my mothers funeral. And I don't feel a single ounce of sadness. I don't feel anything. I feel a hand slip into mine and I turn to smile at you gratefully. You squeeze my hand lightly and smile back. I look over and see Dad. He looks upset and I wonder why.
He comes over to me.
"I'm sorry son." I just laugh bitterly and he looks confused.
"No, you're not." I say harshly before turning my back on him, tugging you along with me.
"Maybe you should talk to him." You murmur in my ear as we walk. I shake my head and carry on walking.
*
Forty-three years old. Two days after my dad's funeral. No one can understand why I wasn't not upset. Not even you.
"What did your parents do that made you hate them so much?" You ask quietly, your arms around me. I turn slightly so my back is facing you.
"Nothing." I say quietly.
"Fine. I'm only sticking around for Frank anyway."
"How do you always manage to make these things about you?"
"It's not as if you need another drink."
"I can't believe you would even suggest that."
"If you'd just worn a fucking condom we wouldn't even be in this mess!"
"I want a divorce."
"…Frank?" You are shaking me. I must have fazed out. I turned to look at you again.
"Yeah?"
"What did they do? Why did you hate them so much?" You ask, and I meet your eyes and see the sadness. I immediately feel guilty. You've always been there, put up with my bitterness, anger, hatred and pain for all these years without an explanation. I think hard before I answer, trying to think how to put the way I felt the night of my sixteenth birthday and found out I was an accident into words. I gave up and shrugged.
"Why did I hate them?" I asked, delaying my answer.
"Yeah?" You asked quietly, putting your hand on my cheek.
I sigh a little and close my eyes.
"Cause they didn't love each other enough."