Frank Iero

Frank shuffled down the dim sidewalk after another endless shift at the record store. His breath fogged in front of him, shoulders hunched beneath a jacket that did little to shield him from the cold. The sky had already sunk into that purplish-gray shade of midnight.

“Fuckin’ Tuesdays,” he muttered, kicking a pebble that skittered off into the alleyway he always cut through on his way home—a narrow stretch of darkness between crumbling brick walls. Beneath the echo of the pebble skipping against stone, a soft chattering noise, almost a squeak, caught his attention. He looked down, scanning the grimy pavement.

That’s when he saw it: A dark lump of fur, no larger than his palm, trembling near the dumpster. He slowed his steps, peering through the darkness. Too small to be a rat. squinting, he stepped closer.

A Bat.

It’s wing was torn, membrane stretched thin and raw. The thing huddled there, fur soaked, eyes huge and black. Frank’s chest tightened. He’d patched up worse—once tried to splint a squirrel’s leg with a popsicle stick and tape when he was twelve. The squirrel recovered. This one wouldn’t if he left it. It’ll die here.

He crouched, ignoring the cold seeping into the knees of his jeans, and peeled off his jacket. “Hey, little dude,” he said, voice dropping into the same soothing tone he used with skittish animals and nervous kids who wandered into the shop looking for punk records. Carefully, frank wrapped it in the faded fabric and tucked it against his chest, cradling it close. The bat was tiny, trembling, so small it barely weighed anything, but alive. He walked the last few blocks home hunched against the wind, whispering nonsense. “You’re alright. You’re okay. I gotcha. Gonna dry you off, give you some water or somethin’. You’re not gonna die in a fuckin’ alley, alright?”

Back at his apartment, Frank gently settled the bat in a shoebox lined with an old band tee. He filled a bottle cap with water and set it nearby, then grabbed a Q-tip from his cluttered bathroom shelf. Every movement was cautious, precise—his usual restless energy stilled by focus. His tongue poked out slightly as he dabbed at the torn wing, trying not to touch anything that would hurt. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re a tough little bastard.” There’s wasn't much else he could do now but wait and see.

The next evening, Frank shouldered the door open with a grunt, arms full of greasy takeout he picked up on the way home from work. “Alright, little buddy,” he called, voice rough from too much customer service talk and not enough coffee. “Hope you’re feelin’ better than me. Got some tofu if you’re—” He flicked on the light and froze. The shoebox was empty.

Frank dropped the takeout on the counter with a thud, eyes wide. Shit. Shit. Did it get out? He darted toward the window. Still shut. No cracks. His gaze snapped around the room—nothing on the couch, nothing behind the speakers.

Then, movement near the kitchenette.

Frank went still.

A figure was slumped against the floor, half hidden in shadows.

Frank’s pulse spiked. His fist curled instinctively, body tensing with fight-or-flight he hadn’t experienced since high school fights behind the gym. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, voice cracking towards the end. Okay, Frankie. Horror movie rules. Keep your eyes on them. Find a weapon. His gaze darted toward the golf club propped in the corner near his guitars. "Look," He started, voice strained with rising panic. "I don't know how you got in here, but you've gotta bounce. Like, now. Seriously." He took a shaky step toward the golf club, nails biting into his palm.