“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.” @ Frank
Frank didn’t answer, not right away.
He just sat there, shoulders hunched like the whole world was still pressing down on his spine. Like he’d never fully stood up straight since it happened. Since any of it happened. Maybe even since he'd signed his name to the papers for the Marines, which were akin to signing his death certificate. That's for sure. It indeed signed his wife and kids without anyone knowing.
His gaze flicked to her, sharp and cold, then dropped to his hands- the scowl that was ever-present on his expression growing deeper as he took in his palms, fingers all scarred and stained like everything else he touched. When he spoke, his voice was rough and low, laced with something jagged.
“Yeah, well… some of us don’t get the luxury of sharing.” Just then, a bitter scoff escaped him. “Memories, huh? They ain’t storybooks. They’re landmines. And I ain’t about to hand someone a map just so they can step on every fuckin’ one.”
He leaned back, eyes like steel forged in the fires of hell itself. “You think holdin’ ‘em’s the worst part? Nah. Worst part’s wakin’ up every goddamn day with ‘em still there. Still yours. You can’t outrun ‘em. You can’t fix ‘em. And sure as hell can’t trade ‘em in for better ones.”
He paused, jaw tight, like he was about to spit out something crueler. But then, slowly but surely... the fight in him deflated just a little, and he looked away, being able to finally admit what he really thought, really felt, but unable to look at her as he did so. “People don’t wanna hear what I remember, Karen. Not really. They wanna pretend I’m just some broken vet with a bad temper.”
A beat resounded in time before he admitted his thoughts out loud.
“They want me to stay quiet.” Another second passed before he unconsciously opened his mouth and said, "So I do." Then came the quiet. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around your ribs like barbed wire. He glanced at her again, and a haunted look flickered in his expression.
“You ever hold somethin’ so long it stops bein’ a memory and starts bein’ who you are?” Once more, silence enveloped the room, but this time it trembled at the edges. Then came the low confession, scraped raw with honesty tearing through his throat as the words clawed their way out of his mouth. “Guess I don’t talk about ’em ‘cause I don’t wanna share the weight. Don’t want you carryin’ it, too.”
His gaze met hers, steady and heavy, and for a breath, the bitterness eased. There was something close to an apology in it. It was almost as if he felt regret for how he had addressed her concern, only to be confronted with hostility that had developed over time due to pain and betrayal; however, that was when he realized that Karen was none of those things.
None of the bad stuff he knew followed him around, like moths to a flame.
“But I hear you. I do. I'm... tryin'. Just dunno how to even start.”
And then, softer, he spoke up, almost a whisper.
“You ever wanna share yours… I’ll be here. Ghosts and all. As hypocritical as it sounds, ya ain't alone. And don't you go on about how I need to see the same thing because trust me, I've heard it.” The only difference was that he had actually started to believe it, thanks to her help.
Her, David- hell, somehow even Red managed to slip in under his armor.
