Hey diddle diddle!
Faster. Higher. Frank needed to move, he needed to move, he needed to move. Speed things up. He'd been in a slump for so many months now, a long, slow slip and slide into a deep, dark hole. It had been barely noticeable to himself and right now, he couldn't give two fucks if anyone else had noticed or not. Been out less, spoke less, missed a class here and there. The black fingers of depression crawling up and over him, squeezing, squeezing. After they'd gotten you once, you were theirs, it was harder to fight the second time.
He sniffed. Tried to swing to the beat of his heart but it was so fast, so random, he could hear the beads of sweat popping on his forehead and rolling down to his temples. He sniffed again. Looked behind him, around him, sniffed and twitched and sniffed.
The wind rushed his face the higher he swung, fingertips gripping at metal, feet shoved in the seat of the swing. Faster. Higher. Straight towards the moon. He stared at it in the sky, a giant white orb, not quite all there. Not quite all there. Never a truer word. It was hypnotising, the only thing that could keep Frank's attention for more than a few seconds. He stared so hard that his eyeballs were bloodshot, pupils large, giant black orbs, all there, all there. If he reached out he could pluck the moon from the sky and keep it in his pocket.
He tipped back his head, elated, opened his mouth, eyes on the stars. Grandpa Hoover was up there. Old Edwin. Bumping uglies with a lady star, doing a few lines, sharing a few pearls of wisdom. He'd been okay, the old guy had been okay. Fag rags and slushies. A few of Frank's favorite things. Richard was a moron, an almighty prick. A moron at least. A bad dancer. A horrendous dancer. Josh had been a good dancer. Larry fucking Sugarman couldn't spell his name right if he was tracing the damn thing. But fag rags and slushies, blue tongues. Fagragsandslushies fagragsandslushies. Dancing blue tongues. Josh had had guns. And the dish ran away with the spoon.
"Need I remind you that I'm the pre-eminent Proust scholar of the United States?" he demanded again of the moon, waving a finger at it, knees buckling at the sudden loss of support. "Don't! The cow is watching! And it is gonna jump over you, you little fucker." Frank blinked, head bouncing back, tone polite, posh. He smiled. "Big fucker, aren't you?"
The world was looking up.
[ooc: He's high on Ashby's cocaine and it's the first time he's used it, so he won't know what he's doing. He just knows he's reallyreallyreallyreally happy for the moment at least and has a TON of energy. The short-term effects/behaviour can be read here. The high wears off after about twenty minutes, he'll be mostly harmless. He's in the playground, timed to about 10pm. LT/ST welcome]