Living with Frank

I don’t really remember when Frank moved in. I just know that I woke up one day and he was just kinda… there. And up until that moment, I don’t recall ever meeting or seeing him let alone inviting him to move in. He just did.

Frank wasn’t a man of many words, in fact I could hardly tell he was there. But when he did talk, he made his presence known. Loud and clear. And don’t get me wrong for even though he rarely spoke, he had a weird way of conveying his messages.

Frank was a very dull person. He rarely socialized with anyone. He had a few likeminded friends who would often visit for short periods of time. But other than that he pretty much just watched life fly by from the sidelines. Like a heavy smooth stone at the bottom of a river. He just existed. He was very neutral in the sense that his entire existence seemed pointless. He was just there. He would often sit with me and watch a movie, completely oblivious to my existence. I wonder if he thought the same of me. I struggled to understand him and he never really cared to explain.

When I tell people about Frank they recommend I kick him out or just get rid of him somehow. The thing is, I tried. Most of the time he would just disappear and show up after a while but on few occasions he would actually protest and fight back. He had this way of belittling me and instilling guilt deep down my core. Like his name suggests, he was straightforward and frank. He would tell it like it is. He would highlight all my flaws and spread them across the floor. Devastating if you ask me. Eventually I gave up, I simply lost the will to try. Fuck it.

I woke up this morning and saw Frank in my living room. He was gone for two years. I wanted to throw him out but I knew it’d be futile. He will not leave unless he wanted to.