Father figure Frank and Louis finished a bottle of bourbon, smoked cigarettes and laughed the way only men in their older thirties can. I made my way through the hallway, trying to be easy on the steps, trying to float on their smoke. I didn't want them to know I was listening. They never said anything remotely true then I figured out long before I learned to lie myself.
Louis whispered about the accident. About a shared needle and a positive test result. The laughter stopped that instant.
My hero had fallen, he had been reduced from a life in the warmth of spotlights to nothing but death on a silver platter. I sat down frantically holding on to a copy of 1984 and shaking with anx when Frank found me, picked me up and carried me back to bed. Then he made me take a sip and set my throat on fire. From the hallway Louis steps echoed and set the beat to which Frank sang
It’s bedtime for jokers We’re dead serious this year And here comes April all in blue And good she dresses torned and too They killed our heroes one by one´
My hero had fallen, and the laughter never re-entered.