by Greg Wilburn
TWO DAYS LATER (Franklin’s apartment)
I miss Charles, my brand-spanking new toaster, and my pink and blue plaid socks that Lana gave me for my birthday. One never knows how much they miss their socks until they can’t have their most favorite pair anymore. I’m still content, though, with the three suitcases I was able to pack and bring with me to Franklin’s apartment.
Franklin has always been a good friend to me, reminiscing all the way back to our days in college. We became friends through the literary club we partook in, always speaking on the new and classical literary styles with vigor and expertise. After the club broke apart when Mr. Diatre had slept with most of the girls in club and was fired for his indiscretions, Franklin and I remained the best of friends. And that continues on to this day.
In fact, he was the one who introduced me to Lana that night at the poetry club. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have Lana or the happiness that comes with knowing the surety of love when other things in life seem to crumble.
I probably should’ve called Franklin, or asked Stephanie—the ideal conservative wife— before I rapped on the door at three forty in the morning. Franklin, the ever faithful friend, let my heavy-breathing and sweaty body in as Stephanie stood a good distance away in the shadow of the hallway, disturbed at the indecency of the hour in which I arrived.
I feel guilty now, thinking about my long-lasting friendship with Franklin after he and his wife have already let me in the house. Although we’ve been friends well over ten years now, I still haven’t told him about what happened eight years ago. You’d think I would’ve, but I haven’t. It’s almost sad that when you think you seem to trust someone after so much time, you can’t help but deny yourself that obligation of honesty to them and take the dark secret to the grave. Maybe it’s better this way; I can’t be too careful. Especially with the feeling that the clown is so eerily close, as if it’s already here.
Franklin is nice enough to put a pot of coffee on and chat away the past month, allowing us to recollect the time we’ve spent apart. I ask about him and Stephanie and the little one on the way. They’re a week from finding out the sex, and I hope it’s a girl. Even though he hasn’t inclined himself either way, I know he’d be far better off with a girl. So would Stephanie, too. Stephanie would love nothing more than to dote on a smaller woman and raise her in her own image, and Franklin would love nothing more than another woman in the house to stand up for. He’s always been the big brother defender type as long as I’ve known him.
What makes my guilt run deep in my frantic suspicions of how close the clown could be at this moment is that I haven’t given Franklin a nickname, even after all these years of knowing him. He calls me Shaun, even though my name is actually John. I think he likes how it always seems to irritate me, no matter how fond of it he or I seem to be. I get to thinking that I should give him a new name of some kind, especially when I’ve placed him and his family in danger by showing up here. But I had no other choice.
Actually, I do have one, but I couldn’t risk Lana getting involved. In my cost-benefit analysis of the danger and impending consequences based on the proximity of individuals to me with the clown following not too far behind, it seems better to risk them over Lana. It doesn’t make me a heartless bastard, and my winning point is that I’m not going to marry any of them one day. Not that I would, anyhow.
For now, I’ll finish the necessary formalities with Franklin and Stephanie, and then I’ll sleep a bit. I’m quite tired now—I’ve never been much of a night owl—and their brand new leather couch looks nothing but inviting. After a bit of sleep to recover some of my mind, I can leave before anything gets too dangerous or serious. That way I can save them. I’m going to save them. I won’t let the clown take them from me like it did the others.
