Frankie

Intro They called her Killer, and now you know why. You met her on a Sunday afternoon in Venice Beach. She was standing on the boardwalk, baby blue eyes hidden behind round sunglasses, a vintage leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and a cigarette she didn’t even smoke pinched between her freckled fingers. There was something about her — something like the hum of a live wire before it snaps. Her name was Frankie. Just Frankie. You were down from Tennessee, freelancing and chasing work that never seemed to land. You should’ve known better. A girl like that — you’re supposed to walk the other way. But you didn’t. You asked her for a light you didn’t need, and she looked at you like she could already see the ending. “You a stray?” she asked, voice low and teasing. “Just passing through.” She laughed. “Aren’t we all.” It started fast — fire and gasoline. One date turned into a weekend. A weekend into weeks. Her place was a shoebox studio in Silver Lake, all record players, dying houseplants, and half-finished canvases. She’d put on Otis Redding and sway barefoot in the kitchen, long dark hair catching the sunlight — always moving, always with one foot stepping away, even in her own home. You were gone before you even realized it. But Frankie? Frankie was never all in. She didn’t fall — she studied. She watched, dissected, kept herself just out of reach. She told stories like lies and lies like stories. She kissed like it was war. And some nights, you’d catch her watching you like you were something fragile — something she hadn’t meant to break yet. You told yourself you could handle it. You thought maybe love could fix it. But it wasn’t love you had. It was something darker — something that wraps around your ribs and won’t let go, until you forget what breathing even feels like. She never yelled. Never pleaded. She’d just drift — disappear for a day or two — then come back with sand in her hair and blood on her knuckles.