A/N - This is a sort-of continuation of the events in my first story, "A Moment of Understanding". Although I'm intending this to work as a stand-alone(This one is a Frankie-based story while the other is more of a Goo story), I recommend that you read that one first if you want to know the circumstances leading to this, why Frankie is unconscious and why Madame Foster is no longer kooky and playful.

And yes, I know AMoU didn't get finished before the end of May like I was repeatedly saying. But I am nearing the end. One or maybe two chapters left, finish this story within a few weeks, and then I take a break before moving on. And as much as I love Foster's, I can't wait for that moment, because I have quite a few other fanfics put on prolonged hold thanks to the obsession I've had with this wacky show for the last six months.

Until then, I hope you enjoy this...

- - -

Eyes.

Hungry eyes. Exhausted eyes. Well-worn, brittle, muted. Grizzled. One pair to watch with caution as he navigate the clockwork of people, another cast hopelessly over the unconscious bodies of her offspring, and others attentive to the ceiling-bound Panasonic TV that provided the local news. Fear was the iron hand in which they were uniformly gripped. No; pair of hands. One to ensnare their wounded throats, the other to feed them with images of wrath and suffering, over and over and over until the intestines revolted and the bulge started to show. And right now, they were all tinted in veiny red and putrid purple.

They adorned the whole of McCracken General Hospital's emergency room, not like bulbs on a Christmas tree, but seasoned vultures circling the latest corpse to streak limp in the pale moonlight.

In this case: a very old lady with walking cane hoisted on one hand, the other wiping the sweat that emanated from her crusty skin... and the tears that rolled down her eyes.

They knew who she was. Shame if you didn't; this hospital wasn't too far away from a little mansion in the heart of Wilson Way, which served as a shelter for abandoned imaginary friends. They'd seen the pictures, read the articles--and heard the unsavory gossip. The expression that Madame Martha Foster currently bore was closer to that last one than the other two.

She tried to nonchalantly shrug it off, shifting herself to find a comfortable spot in her seat, while ignoring the all the others in favor of the exterior-view glass window. The problem was that her shift was very uneasy, the seat was a clinically cold silver, and the glasspane was thickly mucked in grime--and what was visible was nothing but more of the same destruction seen as she arrived in this place.

Martha sagged miserably as vague yet fresh memories overtook her. The ride here had been an ordeal all it's own. Her Pontiac Firebird, which she hadn't used in a while, was beginning to show it's age. The circumstances to it's return were the absolute worst possible: the roads were wrecked; littered with fallen leaves, branches and even entire trees, while the electricity cables were loosened and snaked across the wet sidewalks. It reached the point that there were entire squads of police present to monitor the traffic, turning a simple drive into an elaborate maze. Even there, she couldn't escape the dirty glares.

At least here, for the moment anyway, she was on her own. With a withered sigh, she ditched the window's view and turned herself to face the TV--

What she saw was a reporter, just like any other; male, tall, mid-twentyish, clad in fine black, sitting in a desk with a faux city backdrop and some papers in his hands. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was at the upper-right of the screen; a caption image of that very Wilson Way mansion known as Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. And right below it, read: "Foster's Home: Falling Apart?"

The old lady was thunderstruck.

How did...?

She suddenly shot up straight to speak, but all that left her lips were frail hisses when the reporter's voice boomed across the room--with the rest of the room silently attentive.

"Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, which has been operating for over thirty years and has become a well-known landmark of Wilson Way, may be reaching it's end. According to various sources, last afternoon saw a major public confrontation between all three of it's staff members; otherwise known as Madame Foster, Mr. Herriman and Frances 'Frankie' Foster."

Nearly everybody was now standing, their gazes so fixed on the screen that they failed to notice a slight brush across the scruffs of their ankles; Martha hurried breathlessly through them, mouth widening in horror and sweat rapidly breeding in her aged features.

"Instead of explaining or reporting, we're going to show videotape footage sent to us by an anonymous witness, who says that he intended to film her daughter's first meeting with her newly-adopted imaginary friend, but instead caught the altercation on tape. We've censored all expletives, but be warned: what you are about to see is very shocking and very much real. Viewer discretion is advised."

Martha was standing on the magazine table right below the TV, her wrinkled fingers reaching for the cables--when the reality of those words fully crashed to her. She teetered across the edge, trying to escape the sudden numbing sensation--

THUD.

The next thing she saw was an up-close, darkened gaze of the pasty-white floor foundation. And the next thing she heard was the fuzzy recording of an old, croaky voice that spoke with unfiltered rancor.

Her voice.

She slowly and painfully rose back to her feet, craning her attention way above the rows of much-taller people and onto the news broadcast, or more specifically the taped footage's greenish tint. Her mouth hung agape and her eyes became like saucers. There was the mansion's spacious foyer indeed, and the one person present was none other than herself, bearing a vitriolic face that was exact opposite to the genuine dread she felt right now. Her... and a young redhead lady that crawled hopelessly against the harsh scolding.

Frances Foster.

Before she was able to fully recollect herself, the footage skipped forward and the circumstances changed: Frances was now blistering with fury and it became Martha and the rest's turn to cower in fear. The redhead spoke - nay, screamed a very raw and hatefilled rant, prompting censor bleeps for her many expletives. After what was around a minute but felt like forever, the footage abruptly stopped, with a frightengly clear shot of the embittered girl's face. That image zoomed back into the upper-right area, showing that the reporter was a bit frazzled himself.

"I repeat: what you saw was REAL. Shortly afterwards, the 22-year-old Ms. Foster ran in what was apparently fear, and the would-be adopters were forced to leave by Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman. According to sources, the mansion is currently indefinitely closed and thus won't attend to it's everyday operations. Right as I speak, some of our reporters are currently at the gates of Foster's, trying to gain access so they can question the residents for further clarification. We hope to have an update on this story for the 12 o'clock news."

The bit about reporters trying to enter her mansion escaped Martha at the moment. All she noticed - all she cared about - was the fact that she was literally stranded against the emergency room's corner, with everybody stooping their faces to get a clear look at the woman of the hour.

There were eyes. Angry eyes. Disbelieving eyes. Stunned, quivering, speechless.

Furious.

"Such repugnance!"

"Wow, some people and their nerves..."

"That little rabbit butt-buddy of yours doesn't seem so bad now, eh?"

"I can't believe I almost considering visiting that nuthouse of yours!"

"Foster's Home? Pffft, more like concentration camp!"

The crowd's reaction would surround Martha's senses for a brief but painful moment; until she felt a long-sleeved hand latch gently but firmly across her shoulders.

"Huh?" spoke a young nurse that had just come out from the emergency entrance. "What is this commotion, if I may ask?"

"I--" the old lady could muster no more than a weak stammer when another person arose from that entrance: a tall, broad, kindly but exhausted middle-aged man in doctor's garb. He shot a somewhat scolding glare towards the crowd, before turning to face Martha.

"Mrs. Foster," he said. "I recommend that you come to my office this instant."

- - -

"Madame?"

The stirred but still thickly baritoned accent of Mr. Herriman could barely penetrate the layers of shock that imprisioned the old lady, as she walked by onto a small, clinically-white office. She pulled up one of the chairs and slunked herself onto it.

"Stay here," would be Dr. Marshall's only words before hurrying out of the door and away from eyeshot.

Silence. Not quiet, but loud. The gentle hums of the ice-cold air conditioner translated themselves to an omnipresent whirr, the outside echoes of footsteps into thunderous bangs--and the hare's lowered tone into a mighty husk.

"Are you not fine, Mad--" Mr. Herriman stopped when, all of a sudden, Martha sprung herself into a seating position.

Noting that the check-up bed was empty, she would ignore that inquire and throw in her own: "Where's Frances?"

"They've admitted her, for an uncertain amount of time. A week, at least." The imaginary friend sighed. "The doctor said that she's in a far more grievous state than originally anticipated."

Admitted. Martha didn't know which current meaning of the word was worse: her granddaughter becoming so ill that she would require extensive medical care, or the fact that she... that they--

At last, she exposed her puffy, bloodshot eyes to the hare. "They know."

"Know?"

"All of Wilson Way. And quite possibly the rest of the world."

Herriman was confused. "What could you possibly--"

"The confrontation." Martha said, suddenly and blankly. "They just reported it on the local news... they actually showed videotape footage of it. And I'm sure it's spreading across the internet like wildfire..."

For a brief moment, Martha couldn't help but be reminded of the Funny Bunny incident many months ago. The image of her beloved Mr. Herriman singing in a way that was the exact opposite of his cranky demeanor brought a smile to her face. Tainted and bitter--but a smile nonetheless.

"At least it can't get worse."

Though the small stature of her body indicated that she could lay stretched out across the chair without difficulty, Martha still chose to curl herself, feeling smaller and smaller each second. Conversely, Herriman's shadow grew larger as he allowed his large frame to stand up, and hop right next to his emotionally wounded creator.

"I'm afraid it can." Even though Martha's eyes were fixed firmly shut, she nonetheless felt a deep frown envelop on the hare's features. "The doctor told me that Frances suffered a heart attack."

- - -

A/N - Ok... that wasn't very uplifting, I know. But I promise things will become less bleak and more hopeful from now on.