Hello! I have returned! sorry for my week long absence, but i have actually been away camping with no computer access, so i have a good excuse yes?

Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Thanks to yuuki Lucia and hells-angels-246 for their reviews :) take them as inspiration, and press the button people!

/

I don't know what time it was when he came. It was dark, but it's always dark in this hole.

He came, like he did every day. I think it may have been around evening, as it was only a few hours until it would be safe for me to open my curtains.

I hear his footsteps first, slowly making their way along the landing outside the flat, and then the pause.

He takes a deep breath, like he does every day, then knocks on the door softly, four times in quick succession.

I'm already crouching on the other side of the door, wrapped up in a sheet to fend off the chilly drafts that have a habit of making their way under the door.

'Frank?' he calls gently.

'Hello', I whisper back.

It's all I ever say. He never tries to make me say more either, which relieves me. I'm always scared he'll ask me something I can't answer.

I hear the weight of his body as he slides slowly down the outside of the door, until he's sitting leaning against it, in a posture identical to mine.

Then he begins to talk.

I close my eyes, and allow myself to be lulled by the sound of his voice, as he tells me about the world. Some days he describes places he's been. Other days he talks about historical events. Sometimes he even talks about his own life. Whatever he tells me, he describes in such rich vibrant words, that I can almost feel myself there.

I remember the first time he visited.

/

I could hear footsteps along the landing, and I was scared. I didn't know anyone at all. The only people who could possible want to visit me were the police, or them.

The footsteps stopped outside my door, and I was shaking by that point. I huddled up in the furthest corner of the room.

Knock, knock, knock, knock!

I whimpered quietly, but didn't move. The knocking almost relieved me a little, to tell you the truth. If it was them they would have just left themselves in.

'Frank?' the voice was soft and low.

I said nothing at all, hoping whoever it was would go away.

'Frank, my name is Dr. Simmons'

The name meant nothing to me. But I shuddered. I hated doctors.

'Frank, I am a psychiatrist who works with young people. I've been asked to come and see you, to see how you are coping with your legal change in status'

I said nothing, and neither did he. I was waiting for him to leave, and I guess he was waiting for me to speak. I just stayed in the corner, barely breathing, watching the door handle in case he tried to break in.

But minutes turned into hours, and he didn't go. He didn't try and break in either, and I even began to relax a little, although I didn't move a muscle from the corner.

It was a long cold night, and he must have been feeling it even more than me, out there in the open.

Around three am, I heard the letter box rattling, and sat up. My heart felt like it was about to burst right through my chest and my head was swimming with fear. Then a photograph drifted to the floor.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I dragged myself across the dirty floor to the door. Picking up the photograph, I scurried like an animal back to my corner.

My hands were trembling as I tried to see the image. But it was dark, and I didn't have a hope.

There were no lights in the apartment. I couldn't pay bills, and they lay in an abandoned, unopened dusty heap in the hallway. Eventually they just cut the power.

I stood up, my legs cramping a little, from being in the same place for so long. I walked softly towards the cupboard I used as a bedroom. I owned one tiny battery operated torch. I used it infrequently, knowing I would never get a chance to by another one. Living in the dark like I had for so long, meant that I was virtually blind.

Not physically, unless the dark had seriously messed with my eyes. But for all the light I saw, I may as well have been blind.

I flicked on the tiny torch, with my eyes squeezed tightly shut. It took several minutes before I was able to open them properly.

When I did, I slowly shone the light on the photograph.

And choked in shock, dropping the torch. It smashed into pieces on the floor, but I barely noticed. I was staring at the picture...

Later, when the night was at its coldest and darkest point, I slowly pushed open the front door for the first time in weeks. Dr Simmons was propped up against the railings opposite the door. I didn't look at him, too afraid to notice his features. He was snoring lightly, managing to shiver even through his sleep.

I spread the warmest blanket I had over his sleeping form, and then ran back inside, afraid he might wake up.

In the morning, the blanket was left folded neatly outside my door.

Ever since then, he has visited every night.

/

Today Dr Simmons was talking about music. I'm listening more closely than usual. This is a subject that actually interests me.

The only possession I have left from before is a beaten up old acoustic guitar. It has a string missing, and its so battered and broken you can barely get any noise out of it. But after years of being inside in the dark all day with nothing to do except cry or play, I can make it sound quite nice.

Dr Simmons tells me about the origins of music. He then goes on to talk about the classical music all the way through the centuries, and more modern rock and metal music. He avoids the subject of pop, telling me all the reasons why it doesn't count as music. I'm actually smiling by the time he's finished talking.

I hear him stand up, and prepare to leave. I know he's smiling at the door, as he says

'Goodbye Frank. Until tomorrow'

I always nod my head vigorously at the door, although I know he can't see.

He's the best part of my day. Maybe one day before I die I may even be brave enough to open the door to him.

/

I'm still considering this possibility doubtfully, when the second knock comes.

Wondering if he's forgotten something, I wait for the voice to speak. When it comes, it's not the one I'm expecting.

'Open up! This is Social Services. We know you're in there Frank!'

I take my hand off the door handle like it turned into a live spitting cobra right in front of me.

I run from the hall into the kitchen, then to the door that leads to the other bedroom –the one without a window they could break through.

I stop just long enough to unlock the door, and then run inside. Slamming the door shut, I frantically fumble with the locks, bolting the door behind me—as if I could lock out the reality of what just happened. Gasping for air, I slowly slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor.

My fucking arm is throbbing, and because of the sobbing and the running, I can't catch my breath. I can feel it coming on—a full blown panic attack. Hyperventilating, I curl up in a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees. Everything slowly goes black.

/

And thats that :) thoughts? hate it? love it? leave a review!

Remember my lovelies, nobody has the right to tell anyone when or whom to love. The only queer people are those who don't love anybody.

-Hana Belladonna xoxoxox