"Sometimes you hit a point where you either change or self destruct."
― Sam Stevens
Journal Entry 1: Turmoil before Horror
It's not 2009 anymore. I'm 21 years old with a college degree nearly wrapped up, and Foster's is still a delightful household of friends of every shape and kind. Wilt still drops the dunks, Coco remains misunderstood, Eduardo's fascination with potatoes is ever-high, and Bloo's egotism never fades. But some things have changed.
Madame Foster disappeared at 100 years of age, just over a year ago. The last thing she ever said to me was - "Goodnight sweetie, till later!", with that silly, high pitched voice of a loving grandmother. She was never found or seen again, and the case into her disappearance from her bedroom was closed a few months ago after absolutely no evidence found. The anguish felt by everyone at Foster's was exemplified by Mr. Herriman. He maintained his dignified air and eloquence, and was even kinder and less demanding than before, but every imaginary friend saw behind his monocle that he held sad and lifeless eyes that they all shared.
Frankie took the news the hardest. She had lived her entire life at Foster's, and regrettably, had not fallen in love, received another job, or moved on. It's not as if her looks had receded, I can assure you that, and neither has her sociability faltered, but rather, it's was simply her lack of luck and timing. The work and the care she gave for the imaginary friends was always much appreciated, more so than ever, but without Madame Foster, she lost her sense of reality. 35 and without any other family or outside friends, Frankie had embraced her role at Foster's and through the support of her imaginary friends she had remained ever hopeful, until Madame Foster disappeared.
As a child, my crush on Frankie was eventually replaced by girlfriends in high school. I always felt a bit guilty for giving up my hopes to be with her, and as a result, my other relationships never stuck, so I always returned to Frankie to relax, talk and have fun. I wanted her from college-onward to see me as a man, but to her, I was always the same Mac that became forever connected with the house when I dropped off Bloo that fateful day. When I found Frankie hiding in an attic at Fosters the day after the case for Madame Foster closed, I had promised to be there for her, for companionship, for security and if she wanted, romance, if she never found the one she deserved, and for the first time ever, she embraced me and kissed me as a lover, as the one for her, and promised that she would slowly become much closer to me.
For a month and a half she visited me at my college and even slowly moved into my apartment, and I visited and helped her around Foster's during the day, where she would finish up her work and roam the house in hopes of finding Madame Foster. It was eight weeks after the kiss that Frankie first started having nightmares and screams. She left employment and her inheritance of the house at Foster's against much opposition by Mr. Herriman, who offered to look for others and have her become head of the house once she recovered, but she felt it was best to leave the house, at least for the time being. During that time, I had constantly spoken and attempted to comfort her, to figure out what had happened, yet she pushed me away, ignored me, apologized when she was in good moods, and hit me when she wasn't. Somewhere between those two months something had re-upset Frankie and had driven her to finally leave me and Foster's completely.
After she left, I quietly roamed streets during midnight, where no person dared to go without a weapon, fearing Frankie may have ended up raped or killed. Drugs, violence, sex, everything consumed the areas I carefully sneaked around, but I never found Frankie. I revealed only to my closest friends at Foster's my searches, who understood I couldn't stop because of my love for her. Breaking into abandoned homes, finding everything but Frankie, I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up. It's as if all the Foster's wanted and could evaporate from the surface of the Earth. Walking back to my apartment, I pulled up my hood and covered my face from the rain and tears, when I found her.
Frankie was surrounded by needles, meth, cocaine, ecstasy and drugs of every variety, splashed in the mud and grime surrounding her. She lay on a blanket, naked, bleeding all over, eyes bloodshot, hair soaked. Next to her, a man lay unconscious, one hand in a pan of money, another holding her like she was a toy, and another hand groping her. Choking back the tears, I slid to my knees.
I had found her, yet I had lost her.
Frankie had given up her mind and body to her fears - she had self destructed. With nothing but Foster's throughout her life, and without Madame Foster supporting her, Frankie had managed well enough. But after that, she slowly grew distant and consumed by... something. Walking slowly toward her, I picked up a needle, twirled it through my fingers, and sunk it into the man's thigh. The already over-dosed man relaxed his grip on Frankie, and I took off my jacket. Sliding it under her body, I gingerly lifted her. I looked at her, felt joy and betrayal, and carefully wrapped her up, and carried her up to my apartment. She looked at me and began crying, for what reason I just don't know.
The next few days will hopefully reveal more, but for now, I need to care for Frankie, regardless of what she thinks of me now. A bath and a call to Foster's will hopefully help ease tensions, but my gut tells me I haven't faced the worst yet.