Chapter Four: Nobody
Fingers, the same that desperately scrapped the windows and door, groped blindly forward. Brilliant azure eyes, clouded by insanity, cleared and, grinning jubilantly, he cheered. He attempted to embrace the figure, but his arms passed through. Perplexed, he stared blankly and gnawed his lip. He gingerly reached out again, but to no avail.
"Mac?" he whispered, trembling. "Mac, is that you? Why can't I touch you?"
Sighing heavily, he placed his hands on his shoulders, but they sank through. Bloo clenched his eyes shut, willed away the hot tears burning the corners, and wished harder than he'd even done in his life for his creator to have a greater form. Releasing energy through the bond that still existed because part of his imagination lived on, Mac gained some solidity, enough for his hands to actually touch Bloo, though they were icy. Rivulets coursed down Bloo's cheeks and Mac thumbed them away.
"You came back…for me…" he whispered, choking back sobs. Passively, his creator watched, glancing around them at the padded walls, heavily locked door, and barred window. Frowning lightly, he sat Indian style on the floor and waited until his creation calmed himself. Bloo opened one eye and Mac patted the floor beside him. No sound came out.
"I came back because of you," he said, miserable. Bloo had never seen him so anguished in his life and tears welled up in his eyes. Flinging himself beside him, he glanced up and scrutinized his sorrowful expression. More tears streamed down his face and, with them, a desperate release of energy that enabled him to wrap his arms around him. The realization his creator was dead had just struck him and rather poignantly. Its acuity seared deeply and his chest heaved.
"You won't let me go, so I can't pass on."
Part of him pitied him, but the part driven mad by his absence whispered, "Now he can never leave me. He's mine forever." He grinned, darkly amused, but he merely shook his head and hung it. Translucent brown bangs hid his eyes and when he raised his head again, he saw that agony again. A voice whispered, "if you love him, you have to let him go", but he ignored it. Selfishly, regardless of its impact on him, he needed him beside him. Seeing him again brought him back to a lucid state and, at the same time, struck buried nerves and wounds never healed. Mac was dead. The truth he refused to accept was here and smacking him in the face. Mac was dead. He couldn't be. No.
"Bloo, you're hurting me. I can't go onto the afterlife, and I can't live again. I'm stuck in limbo because you won't accept my death. I don't want to see you in pain, but I…" he trailed off, glancing away and swallowing hard. What he really wanted to say he wasn't ready to hear and the more staunchly he denied the truth, the more energy he sapped out of him. It tethered him to this plane, but it wracked his spirit as well. No one else had such a claim, either.
Starting over, he said, "It's not just me you're hurting, either. I've been watching you for a while (I had no choice). You tried to stab Frankie with a fork and attack Mr. Herriman when they said I was dead. You threatened Terrence and Mom when they wouldn't let you 'see me' in the apartment. You won't recover…and you bring everyone else down with you."
Bloo turned away, refusing to listen to his past deeds. Clapping a hand over his ears, he glared sullenly at the wall. No matter how much Mac plied him, he pretended he wasn't there. Depressed, he used his lingering energy to run his fingers through his hair and then escape through the window. That night, the friends who timidly quested up to that particular corridor heard the broken sobbing once more.
Frankie knew she oughtn't to be there in the first place. She knew she ought to return to the safety of her room, or, in the very least, Mr. Herriman's. Yet she worried about him and after the oddness of the night, she felt obligated to check up on him. Creeping along and creating utterly no noise, she pulled back the little viewer screen to see Bloo rocking back and forth, tears streaming unabated. He pounded the floor and wailed his creator's name repeatedly. She hesitated, ready to turn away, when their eyes met. Gulping, she leapt back, unable to suppress the squeak of terror escaping. Yes, she'd admit it- Bloo frightened her.
"Frankie?" he whispered, and, throat closing up, she nodded queasily. How did he recognize her? Did he know she came here nightly? Did he still hate her for telling him what never settled in? She hesitantly lingered by the door in the hopes he might not be hostile. Chances were, he would be, but there was always that slim possibility. She refused to give up on him.
"Don't…go. Please. Don't leave me."
She nodded again, staring at his small figure and wishing she trusted him enough to hug him. Framed against the corner, he looked especially woebegone, more pathetic than dangerous. Stringy blue hair dangled over his wet eyes and his fingers, quaking like a tree in a hurricane, struggled to tug it behind his ear. A tray of dinner lay full across from him and she scowled, since this was the fourth meal in two days he left unmarred. Mr. Herriman assured her he was fine, but she doubted it. She had no idea what was going on in Bloo's head, but this starvation troubled her greatly. She wondered if he intended to waste away.
Five minutes passed- she opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it quickly. The last day she'd conversed with him was two nights before his imprisonment, the night he'd tried to stab her over dinner and Mr. Herriman had leapt up to defend her. When they contained him, she'd not said a single word, merely glanced on mutely. Had that made his opinion of her worsen because she'd 'let them do it'?
"Did-did you see him?" he murmured, smiling softly. "Mac came back. I told you he would."
She suddenly found it difficult to swallow and studied the floor instead of him. The sad thing was, he sounded entirely sane for once. He truly believed he'd returned. She wanted to believe this was true, but she knew it couldn't be. Unable to think of anything that wouldn't result in his rage, she began to walk away. He called to her through the door, but, by that time, she no longer heard him.
Mr. Herriman glanced at the clock, scowled, and mentally berated himself for being too petrified to work under his duress. Because of that delay, he hadn't finished until rather late. Of course, he could have always started again in the morning, but he loathed leaving unfinished papers. Outside, the sky had calmed and, nodding as if affirming whatever had happened was a mirage, he hopped to the curtains, shut them, and hopped back to the door. No phantoms of the past would afflict his current state and the idea of a ghost was preposterous. There were no such things as spirits or other supernatural phenomena.
Passing Frankie's room, he poked a head inside to at least observe her sleeping. However, her bed was empty and, traveling up and down the corridor showed no sign of her. Foster's, nonetheless, was a large place and she could be anywhere. Hardly fazed, he hopped towards his room and, on the way, decided to take the roundabout path to see if he ran into her. He did, but in the last place he expected, speeding down the stairs leading to the north tower. He frowned deeply, opening his mouth to chastise her.
She halted, paling. Disapproval etched in every line in his face, she stared at the carpet rather than him. Already, there'd been several close calls, ones she'd inexpertly maneuvered out of. He'd explicitly forbidden her to visit Bloo and she understood his reasoning, truly she did, but his rules had never stopped her in the past and, on a matter this important, she overlooked them completely. The last time he'd caught her, it'd been in the same general direction, but not coming off the stairs. There was no way to conceal her actions now.
"Miss Frances," he began, and her heart sunk along with her head. A lecture followed, surely, and one she ill desired. Scanning her immediate vicinity, she lamentably surmised her only escapes lay in either running faster than he or darting back up the stairs. In addition, if she did evade him tonight, he'd simply add it to his reprimand. However, she knew better than to assume the late hour would ebb the flow of his words. She'd once received chastising at two a.m. that lasted an hour.
"I know I'm not supposed to be up there. I know you've caught me doing it twice already and I know that I should listen to you when you tell me the rules, since they were made to be obeyed, not ignored like I always do. I'm aware of how dangerous Bloo is and what he did the night we locked him up. I also know you're going to snap at me now for being rude, because I am. You're going to add that it's late and I shouldn't be out of bed in the first place because I have a house full of chores and friends to attend to in the morning. Did I miss anything?" she replied, exacerbated. Shaking her head, she descended the rest of the stairs and tried to go along her merry way, but he seized her wrist. The usual stern look was in his eyes, but mingled with it was deep concern and anxiety for her well-being. Atop her right wrist, his paw massaged it.
"This is not a joke, Frankie," he intoned, dropping his voice so any sojourning friends missed his using her nickname. She wanted to roll her eyes, but she was more irritated with him than amused by his attempts to disguise their relationship. Yanking her wrist out of his reach, she folded her arms across her chest and regarded him balefully. Jade eyes narrowed to slits.
"Neither's this. Are you just going to let him waste away up there? I know he's unbalanced, but how dare you give up on him! Is this the example we set for Foster's? When imaginary friends give us trouble, we shove them off the side and pretend they don't exist?" she pointed her finger accusingly at his chest and he shoved it to the side.
"When it means difference between your living and dying, yes, I should say so," he retorted, glaring back. "In case you've forgotten, he tried to kill you numerous times. And yet you persist in tempting the fates and antagonizing him!"
What he wished to add, but it never quite came out, was, And I won't lose you. Not to him.
"He thinks he saw Mac tonight," she snapped, changing topic. "He's getting worse, not better! Obviously, putting him up there did absolutely nothing."
"And what would you suppose I ought to do? Let him live with the others and try to kill us all in our sleep? I said this once and I'll say it again, I will not share a house with a monster!"
Drawing back her palm, she slapped him. At first, the two stared blankly, uncomprehending. Frankie examined her hand like she'd never seen it before and Mr. Herriman gawked, paw flying to his sore cheek. Not even when she'd been infuriated with him had she ever raised a hand against him. Incredible hurt, beyond the mere physical bother, flashed in his eyes, but was replaced by anger.
In the coldest voice she'd ever heard out of his mouth, he hissed, "Go to sleep, Miss Frances."
"I…"
"Bed, Miss Frances," he snarled, glaring at her. "The longer you delay, the more I will deduct from your pay. Good night."
And, with that, hops echoing down the hall, he returned to his bedroom.
The tension in the house the following morning was insufferable. While arguments between Frankie and Mr. Herriman were hardly a rarity, the level of animosity between them now was. The two couldn't maintain eye contact and any conversation was stilted, spoken through gritted teeth and threatening undertones. Any indication of a relationship between boss and worker was lost completely, replaced by snappy remarks that only strengthened their disagreement. By the end of the morning, it looked like it might come to blows.
Madame Foster finally interceded, rapping them both smartly on the heads and steering them into his office. Frankie scoffed, at once gazing longingly towards the door. Mr. Herriman too resented her input, but as this was his creator, he kept his protests at a minimum. He focused his energy on glowering at Frankie and she responded equally. Another rap brought their attention back to her.
Unlike the others, like Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco, she actually knew the truth behind their relationship. And, unlike the others, she knew a staged argument when she heard one. The fury radiating off both was anything but staged and it distressed and unnerved her simultaneously. She cast the two a surreptitious look, then paced. An incredibly uneasy five minutes transpired, brimming with biting sarcasm waiting to be unleashed. Whenever one opened their mouth, a sharp look silenced any budding words.
"What," she said finally, "the heck is going on? Don't tell me it's a lover's quarrel, either, because I know you two. Spit it out."
Frankie huffed, staring out the window instead of answering. Mr. Herriman eyed the floor and then, jerked his head back up to scowl at Frankie.
"The floors are dirty, Miss Frances. You must have shirked on your duties while disobeying me," he snapped.
"Or maybe it's because I was too busy giving a damn to wash your stupid floors in the first place," she growled. "Unlike some creatures in here, I don't think it's right to let imaginary friends wither and die."
"No, you would much rather let humans and innocent friends get caught in the crossfire," he hissed. "And if one of them dies, so be it. At least you'll be doing your job as caretaker instead of sneaking around at night."
"And you could do your job and write up a nice little report about how stupid I was and how right you were. That'd make you happy, wouldn't it? Locking Bloo up looks good in ink, doesn't it? So good, you don't remember there's an imaginary friend living up there!"
Dangerously low, he snapped, "And you suppose I would rather prove myself right than keep you alive?"
Madame Foster, weary of their argument, cracked her cane over their heads so smartly, they both saw stars. She pivoted, scrutinizing both and, when it appeared they'd recovered, whacking them again. After about five minutes of this, she hopped onto the chair to gain leverage.
"Enough! Herriman, you're upset with Frankie because you think she's risking her life unnecessarily, but you forget that it's her job to care about all the friends in Foster's, regardless of who they are. She can't ignore Bloo like you can't ignore a stack of paperwork.
"And Frankie, you think Mr. Herriman started these rules senselessly, but what he probably hasn't mentioned is that he's worried sick about you. He's afraid if you wander up to see Bloo, you might not return in one piece. He loves you, Frankie, even if he hasn't said it yet. Now, will you two stop being such idiots and make up? Or do I have to hit you again?"
Neither said a word, but both contemplated their feet. Sighing, she jumped off, squeezed their paw and hand in hers, and hugged them both. Shutting the door quietly, she waited, listening intently. She only hoped her words hadn't fallen on deaf ears.