All Frankies go to heaven.

    After the depression, I often found myself wanting to blame things for myself. I'd want to blame the depression for the way I ended up. It was my mothers fault, of course, she raised me wrong. Or maybe it was my brothers, for pretending to push me into that river so many times. Maybe even Gods fault for making my fall into the river, right? Right. Of course. It was anyones fault but mine. Sometimes I even believe that, too. I even believe that I could've changed everything, and anything. I believed i could have made everything so much better then it is now. For my name is Gerard, and I know whats happening in Lourince, France 50 hours, 36 minuets, and 8 seconds from now.

Right now, He's flying a Kite all by himself over a cliff. In 68 seconds, he's reeling the kite in, and smiling like a fool. After that, he's going to walk back to his house and get scolded by his mother. Just like Frank does everyday. I would know, I've been watching.

   I've known since the day deaths gates took me in, and the day deaths gates rejected me. To do what, go to hell? No, I've never seen a Hell in my life. Just earth, and death. And for some reason, death didn't want me. Since 1901, death didn't want me. And thats why i've stayed here. Watching the daily drift of things. Watching the people go by, people that have never given me a second glance. I think thats what made Frank so different. He always knew i was there. He knew, I don't care whats possible and whats not. But Frank knew, and was horrified by the very idea.

   Two months, three days and 2 hours after his 11th birthday, he would be laying awake at night, wide-eyed into darkness for knowledge of me being there. Just the simplicity of being terrified the boy. I nearly couldn't live with myself with the image of a young Frank standing in the kitchen, frozen to the core with fear. All because of me wanting to see the boy. It killed me inside and out. But, that didn't stop me from looking over him.

When he grew older, he was for the most part used to my existence. Sometimes i think he would even speak to me, or look at me. In a dim light burning outside of his room, you could see his face. It was swallowed in a blue darkness, but you could make out the image of his face, his big eyes reflecting a light. And i swear he knew. Which did ease the pain a good bit. And sometimes I think we could've even be called "Friends."

By the time he was 13, (Eleven months, three days, and seven hours to be exact.) was when his loud spirt began showing on his shoulders. He would do foolish things, such as scream at the top of his lungs about a newspaper he was trying to sell, and make up silly games that no one even played with him. Things that don't even make since, just to try and stand out a little bit. He was always a free spirt, of course he was, but now it was truly coming to life, and it made had always made being dead a little easier for me.

15, he is. 15, and almost 16. And he goes outside of his homely abode, and into the back yard. The grass has always been long there, and he has always loved it. He looked up into the sky. The sky looked back at him, and then to everything else. I made sure it did. For the sake of the last sky he'd ever see. For the sake of my Dear one's, last sky.

And now, my dear Frank is 16 years young. He is laying in the same quilted bed that his mother made for all of his other siblings. Four quilted beds, all the same in wooden houses. My Frank is motionless, not stirred, not in pain. (to this day, i'm not sure how he wasn't screaming bloody murder.) A towel is over his head, as if to slow the process. His mother his holding his hand, and his mother is hunched over in defeat. His father is to infuriated to be in the house, and his sisters and brothers are out side of his door, holding their knees to their faces. Maddy has her ears covered up, with a look of twisted fear on her face. And Lily is hiding in the back yard shed, where they used to play. William is crying at the top of his lungs, and I am sitting back and watching it all.
Why?
Because i am a ghost, and I can do nothing. I can do nothing but watch my frank be swallowed up on the inside, while his outsides waits to disconnect from himself. And i'm not even really sure if i care about all the pain the people he loves are going through. I don't really think that i care that nothing will be the same after this particular moment in time, for this particular household i chose to watch. I just want Frankie to see me. I want him to see me, for just one second. For just a moment..... Please see me...


The moment Frank died was the only moment we were together. He had to die, I had to stay here. The only moment, if just for a moment, I got to tell him that i loved him. I saw him for a moment, the very moment he was dead. He opened his eyes, he opened his eyes on the quilted bed. His mother looked up agape, and his brother was still crying, and he simply opened his eyes. At 1934, November 1st, 11:17 am, 14sec, he saw me. He didn't say much, he really couldn't. Like a frightened child waking up from a nap, (Which to this day makes me laugh.) he stated,

"It's you, isn't it?"

I smiled.

Frank had to die, to watch over me.



  It is now March 12th, 1963, 7:39 pm, 53 seconds, and 7 milliseconds. I'm sitting on a busy street, watching the rush of seemingly fancy cars run by. I'm watching the air be polluted with gases, throwing it's self up all over the sky. Then, I'm looking at the sky. I'm looking at the sky turn grayer, and the city lights turning on. I'm thinking about a boy.
   
   A 11 year old boy, frozen with fear in his kitchen. A 13 year old boy, jumping up and down the streets for a reason unknown to me. A 15 year old boy, looking at the sky with the most foolish smile. A 16 year old boy, dying on his bed, with a mother holding his hand. And how the world has all but forgotten about that boy. And how even though the people in the world have forgotten, maybe there was a small portion, smaller then a human cell, that would remember him by what i do.

  A 11 year old boy, frozen with fear in his kitchen. A 13 year old boy, jumping up and down the streets for a reason unknown to me. A 15 year old boy, looking at the sky with the most foolish smile. A 16 year old boy, dying on his bed, with a mother holding his hand. Right?

And i'll wonder if he remembers me. I wonder if he knows what i'm doing. I wonder if knows how much I think about him.

And I honestly think that he does. Of course, not that it matters right now.

I am a ghost, and I can do nothing.