Anger flowed from Frank into his guitar. His arms, wrists, and fingers, were cramped from long sessions of playing. As he played the last notes of the song, his anger eased. He leaned against the wall and exhaled. He shook out his arms and wrists and cracked his knuckles one by one. Music always eased the pain.
Frank threw the decorative pillows off of his bed. He sighed as he threw open the cold, empty sheets of his bed. Jamia had taken the kids to see her parents. Frank fluffed his pillow and fell face first into it, exhausted. He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes.
Frank woke up in his living room. His childhood living. A wave of fear washed through. Not again. He got off of the worn out couch and looked down at his own body. He was an eight year old again. Hurriedly, he ran towards the front door. As he put his hand on the cold, metal doorknob, his head was smashed into the wooden door. He collapsed, holding his forehead, and looked up to the looming figure above him. His mother. Her face expressed an angry satisfaction and morbid happiness. She lifted her food and struck little Frank in the stomach. He doubled over, back arched upwards, knees and hands on the ground. She spat on him.
"You piece of shit," she growled. Silent tears landed on Frank's small hands. His mother raised her foot again and forcefully brought it down on her son's back.
Choking, Frank burst out from his dream. His head throbbed with pain, his stomach crying out in agony. His eyes were damp with tears. He stared at the wall opposite to his bed. His breaths were hard and were frequently interrupted by painful sobs. His stomach was churning, his throat tight. He threw the covers off of him and stumbled to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet and vomited. He flicked the vomit off of his bottom lip with his palm and sat in the corner of the bathroom. He hadn't had one of those dreams for years. His head still was beating from the dream. Frank gingerly touched his forehead and winced. He grunted as he lifted himself from the bathroom floor. He made his way to the sink and looked into the mirror. He inspected his forehead. Nothing. Yet when he touched it, it screamed in pain.