Fifteen-year old Francis lay on his bed, tears in his eyes, trembling madly. It couldn't be, it just couldn't. She was alive just this morning. Just last night they lay on the roof, talking about this and that, making plans. They were going to marry someday, and they were going to get out of here. It was their destiny.
Now she was gone. Poof. And no one really cared, but him. It made him sick, how someone could pull a trigger with no thought in the matter except for revenge. If they missed, if they took the life of someone who deserved to live, they didn't care. So and so shouldn't have messed around with them in the first place. It was their fault; they knew what they were getting into. Francis remembered the first time he'd saw the guy's face. He hadn't even really done anything wrong; he was only defending her honor. He didn't like people messing with his girl like that. And he remembered the motion the dude had made: one hand held like a gun, pointing it first at his girlfriend, then at Francis himself. The gesture terrified him, but he didn't let her know. Men don't display their fear to anyone. He thought it was a mere threat, that he wasn't for real. Now, as he lay in bed, it was more real than anything could ever be.
Melissa was her name. She was changing him. She was the only one who knew who he really was. Behind his anger problems and his tough guy act. He felt like he could be himself with her. He told things about him no one knew. And she saw the Francis no one else knew and brought him to the surface. Francis hated his name. It was always an extremely feminine sounding name to him. But when she said it to him, it felt right. They were soul mates, he felt, and nothing could tear them apart. Even in their freshman year, he knew this. Even now, he still wore their promise ring. He stared at the sparkling green stone set in the ring, the same color as her eyes. Her eyes were beautiful, much more impressive than his steel gray ones. Yet she used to say she could stare into them all day. He didn't quite understand why, but he could definitely say the same for her. He wondered how they looked now. Still green, but cold and lifeless. They'd never sparkle for him again.
It wasn't fair. She didn't do anything to anybody. She was a Christian. She wanted to be a model, he believed in her wholeheartedly. She was definitely pretty enough. She loved to practice her walk in front of him, her face set, one foot in front of the other. Strutting down an invisible runway, she got to the end and stopped. She'd whip her head around swinging her long, thick, bright auburn hair. She'd look so serious, until she would look at him and they'd both roll on the floor laughing. And then they would kiss.
That's what they were doing today. Walking home from school, talking. The gunshots came without warning. They ran, their footsteps matching the rhythm of the gunshots echoing behind them. He was okay, but she wasn't. He'd thought that she was unconscious, until he saw the blood. He begged her to wake up, but she didn't. He'd called 911 but her mother had just called…they couldn't save her. She was gone, she'd left him, and his soul had left with hers. She was the only thing that kept him sane, and now that she was gone, he saw no use in trying to stay that way.
That was the day Francis died.
That was the day F-Stop was born.