Chapter Text
Everyone in the room sat with bated breath, gazing with intensity as a teenager said, "Is that you, Randy?" There was a pause where no one spoke, and the masked man shook his head no. Then, finally, the girl, Tatum, scoffs and makes her way over to him "Cute. And what movie is this from, I Spit On Your Garage?"
She pushes the killer playfully, "Lose the outfit. If Sidney sees it, she'll flip." the man shakes his head again as she tries to move past him. She looks up and smirks "Oh, you wanna play psycho killer?" the man nods.
"Can I play the helpless victim?" he nods again "Okay, let me see... No! Please don't kill me, Mr. Ghostface! I wanna be in the sequel!"
She laughs but becomes unnerved when the joke isn't over. "Cut, Casper. That's a wrap." the killer grabs her arm and-
"How many bottles will it take for this motherfucker to go down?!" Frank points at the broken phone screen in frustration. There is a chorus of groans as Suzie buries her face with her hands. Joey smacks his arm, and Frank squawks indignantly, "I'm right!"
"We're going to miss it-" Julie yells back but is cut off by the loud crunch on the screen. There are more groans, "You do this every time! It's a satirical Hollywood film! Of course, it's not realistic!"
He crosses his arms and huffs, "Why can't we watch The Hills Have Eyes?"
"Because nobody fucking likes hillbilly slashers!"
Susie meekly interrupts. "I liked Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
Frank grins and playfully ruffles her hair, much to Susie's displeasure, "See! Suz, this is why you're my favorite!"
"What?! Frank, you said you didn't have favorites!" Joey cried out, trying and failing miserably to keep from smiling.
"I'm simply a liar. I simply did not tell you the truth." Frank shrugged, cracking up.
Music starts playing loudly, and the teens' attention is drawn back to the screen. Sidney falls back into bed with Billy on top of her, as downstairs, a group screams before one starts rambling about the rules of horror. "for one, you can never have sex-"
"see Suz, this is an example of dramatic irony-"
"shut it, Joey."
"Number two, you can never drink or do drugs."
"Frank would immediately fail that rule." Julie snorts before Frank swats her on the back of the head.
"And number three, never, ever, ever under any circumstances, say 'I'll be right back,' cause you won't be back."
"Time for a smoke break," Frank stood up and walked to the door that led outside, and as the teen left, he grinned, "I'll be right back."
"fuck off!-" Frank shut the door behind him and walked over to his car, and sat inside it quickly, the wind and the winter chill freezing his eyelashes. He deftly searched for his lighter as numb fingers brought a cigarette up to his lips. Frank grumbled out a curse as he struggled to light the damn thing.
After a minute, he finally took a drag, watching the smoke travel up in waves, then watching those waves fade. He always liked smoking out on nights like this. When the air was so crisp, it hurt, and fog blanketed the town like a low-budget horror game. The teen gazed impassively at the ash falling onto his jeans and burning the fabric. The light from the setting sun paints everything in red. It was so bright that you wouldn't expect to hear it was -4 Celsius. It was still technically fall, but the snow came earlier this year, much to everyone's dismay. Julie complained for a solid week about the shitty roads and cold weather.
His mind wanders back to this afternoon; his teacher had pulled him aside, which Frank thought was total bullshit because he hadn't even done anything yet. But instead of a tongue lashing he had expected, his teacher had asked him about plans after high school; at the time, Frank scoffed and said something along the lines of Get the fuck out of Ormond.
His teacher looks at him tiredly "What after that, Frank? Are you going to spend the rest of your life tagging buildings and stealing from convenience stores?" Frank felt anger seep into his veins, but he felt something else beyond that. Panic. What will he do after highschool? The teen has spent his entire life just trying to survive until the next day, to make it to tomorrow.
He puts his cig out on his thigh and throws the stub into a snowbank. "fuck this."
The mixture of snow and rain falls in heavy sheets, making it nearly impossible to see out the window. The sleet rattles the roof playing a primitive rhythm that steers Frank in and out of sleep before another clap of thunder jolts him awake again. It was seriously bothering him, mostly because he's fucking exhausted but also because he really was sick of being awake. He just wanted to close his eyes and be at peace for fucking once.
After the first few hours of tossing and turning, Frank just gave up on a good night's sleep. He grumbled curses as he sat up and kicked his blanket off, shivering in the cold room. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and starts his day.
The teen walks into the bathroom, catching his reflection in the mirror and cringing. Greasy, shaggy hair with a patchy bleach job and brown roots that have grown out, plastered to his oily face. His Scars feel tight and itchy, and he smells like stale weed and sweat. The teen tries to remember the last time he showered, then Frank tries to remember the last time he ate or the last time he drank water. He can't recall. That can't be good , he thought.
Frank sighs deeply, before shucking off his pants and boxers, making a point to not look in the mirror. He throws off his hoodie kicking all his dirty clothes into a corner. He looks at his binder next. He didn't want to take it off, but I would take forever to dry if he showered with it on. The teen unclips each buckle slowly, wincing at the rough and dirty material rubs against his rash. When he pulls it off he thinks he hears it crunch.
"Gross…" he said, disgusted with himself. He can't keep letting it get this bad. He turns the shower on, waiting for the water to get hot before stepping under the spay. It's so hot Frank feels cold, turning his skin pink.
Rivulets of water flow down the valley between his breasts and he cringes, the reminder they even exist upsetting him. He can't even look down, he can't see what he really is. He is quick about his movements, washing his hair then his body, almost in atuo pilot. When the teen finishes instead of turning off the water he sits down. The weak water pressure causes water to fall in him in fat splashs. He curls his legs in and tightly wraps his arms around his knees, starring at the dirty tile floor.
He can't say for how long he stays on the floor, but when he finally finds the strength to turn off the water, the bathroom is filled with a thick cloud of steam, and droplets of condensation run down the mirror. He sucks in a deep breath of air and his ribs ache. He overdid it again. He dries off, before he considers the dirty pile of clothes. He picks up his binder and puts it on, making a face at the feeling of dirty clothes on clean skin, then making another and his ribs scream in protest.
He wraps the towel around his waist before padding to his room, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. He dresses in questionably clean clothes, and most definitely dirty socks. He really does need to do his laundry.
The teen walks down the stairs and passes his foster father, asleep in the armchair, his program still playing in the background. Frank scowls and walks into the room to turn off the TV, huffing at the sleeping man. The teen moves to the kitchen digging through the cabinets and fridge for something to eat.
"Expired, expired, expired, didn't even know alchie bought that, expired-" Frank mutters "goddamnit."
He sighs softly, running a hand through his damp hair. The gas station should be open by now. The delinquent walked back to his room, avoiding the creaks on the stairs, before grabbing his wallet, smokes, phone, and keys.
Even when he ran to his car, Frank was still dripping with water, all over his leather seats. His hands are frost as he starts it, the engine sputtering, one, then twice, before starting, the car roaring to life. He pulls out his phone, connects to the Bluetooth radio, and throws on something random. He grins weakly at the song that starts blasting, something Julie added to his playlist, calling it her "gay cowboy music".
He starts the drive to the gas station, his brights cutting through the sheets of slush that falls in clumps in his windshield before his wipers push the snow off. Keeping an eye out for the stray deer that tend to wander near his neighborhood, he finally pulls up to the station.
It's an ugly little thing, like most of the buildings in this god forsaken town, that has had a "hiring now!" In the window since he arrived at this town three years ago, but the way it's faded says it's been there for much longer. The red paint in the tin roof is fading, and the snow covers it in clumps. The concrete walls have cracks and chips and the wooden benches are splintering from years of shitty weather. The neon open sign flickers, and the entire building reminds Frank of a horror movie, or maybe a building in Silent Hill.
He steps out of his car, getting absolutely soaked again before dashing to the front door. A bell chimes and a tired man looks up from his phone and mutters a greeting before looking down at his phone again. Franks rolls his eyes thinking this'll be easy. He finds a packet of Raman noodles, easily shoving it down his pants, the man at the counter not even looking up. He walks over to the beer, shoving a can of something random in his massive pockets, his baggy jeans concealing the items with ease. He then grabs a can of Arizona ice tea and brings it up to the register.
The man looks up at him with dead eyes. Frank wonders if this man was like him. Wonders if this man got stuck in this shit hole, and never got enough money when he was a teen to get out. Now he's a balding 30 year old, still living in the same apartment he got when he first moved out. The man scans the item before asking in a monotone voice, "will that be all?"
Frank thinks before saying "and a pack of Marlboro menthols."
He knows this guy couldn't give less of a shit about his age. He also knows he doesn't really look 17, the scars and tattoos that cover his skin making him appear older.
"That's going to be 18.59."
Frank grumbles about the price of cigarettes these days, before pulling out a crumpled 20 and setting it on the counter. The man sets the pack down In front of the teen and Frank snatches it and shoves it in his pocket before grabbing his drink and walking away without his change. This guy probably needs it more than him anyway.
He climbs into his car and removes his loot, setting it in the passenger seat before driving off. The clock reads 4:23, but it's always a little fast. He parks his car near the boat ramps and stares out into the frozen lake, that seems as large as the ocean in the stormy night, it's impossible to see the tree line across the way.
He cracks open the ice tea and opens the Raman, content to eat it dry, even if it's a fucking mess. "A feast for kings." He says to himself, through a mouth full of uncooked noodles, that he eats like a bag of chips. This was practically a delicacy when it was "fend for yourself" night. He polishes the bag off quickly, then finishes his tea just as fast.
The teen quickly opens his ashtray and digs for his older pack, smacking it on his palm before setting one between his lips and lighting it, the car almost instantly fogging up, the smoke creating a haze around him as his head feels light. He reclines his seat, closing his eyes, like he's savoring the burn. He thinks of the blunt in his glove box, wondering if he should light up or save it for the kids.
His eyes feel heavy as ash falls on his hoodie and he barely notices as the butt starts to burn his fingers. He stubs it on his thigh before discarding it in his overflowing ashtray. He turns his car off before letting sleep overtake him. It wouldn't be the first time he slept in his car.
He wakes slowly, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He sits up, but finds himself in a clearing, not his car. There's no snow or water if thunder. Just brown leaves, the crunch under his hands. He pads, bearfoot, into the woods, looking for the lake. It's so dark that he struggles to avoid rock and stick, grumbling annoyed curses. He finds the lake, but instead of the familiar gravel shores he sees white sand that gets lapped over by foamy water.
He can't see across and feels uneasy and he walks to the water, which smells like salt. The teen recognizes this as the ocean he visited when he was younger. When he turns around to face the forest it's gone, and it's replaced with a cliff side.
His head whips around as he feels the creeping of dread through his core. He was being watched. He whips his head around, uneasy at the feeling of eyes at the back of his neck. The teen tries to reason with himself telling him that no one else is really here, but the oppressive darkness makes it hard to make out shapes and his mind supplies him with all the possible danger that could lerk just beyond his sight.
This can't be real. Frank thinks, panicking at the thought of being lost. I just have to follow the shore until I see my car. The teen knows this is a weak lie, that his car is nowhere near here. That Ormond is in a landlocked territory, the coast is thousands of kilometers away, yet still he tells himself that he can make it.
He stumbles across the shore line, but every step he takes he feels weaker. Deep panic and anxiety makes him sick to the point he crumbles and falls to his knees, pain nearly unbearable as salt water kisses his knees, he hugs his stomach as he starts to dry-heave, tears welling in his eyes and the gags make his body lerch. When the teen finally vomits, the relief he thought he would feel doesn't come.
Puke spews out from him in waves; the moments in between barely let Frank breath, and the pain only gets worse. He didn't think pain this bad was real, as he sobs in-between bouts of sickness. Vomit turned into blood, almost black in the night, staining the white sand. The water doesn't even wash away his mess. It taunts him.
Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, he felt his teeth, stained yellow by years of smoking, fall out. one by one. Tears flow freely, and the teen is consumed by pain and panic. He was taken by complete surprise as he felt a hand in his hair, first gentle, as it brushes the sweat slick hair from Frank's forehead, then rough as it grabs the back of his neck and shoves it into the mess. It falls back into gentleness as it runs the back of Frank's neck, petting him. A woman's voice behind him coos, telling him that it will be okay, as he sobs out into the night his face smeared with sickness and blood.
This feels so wrong in every way. He can't help but cry out a desperate plea for help, begging to go to the hospital, or even back to Ormond, just to get him away from here.
The woman laughs, like Frank is a little kid who just said something so odd and ridiculous she can't help but giggle.
"Sweetie, you know this is a punishment. You don't get to choose when it's over. I do."
The teen sobs as the hand on his nape digs its nails in, before dragging over to his shoulder.
"I told you this would happen, but you just had to push."
Apologies leave his lips before another wave of nausea floods him. He feels something crawling out of his throat. His lungs, blacker than tar, small and shriveled. He cries out in surprise but his voice is drowned out by the retching and the sound of waves.
"All those cigarettes were bad for you. Now look, you've made a mess. someone's going to have to clean it and it sure as hell won't be me."
Arms wrap around him and he finches so violently that the woman falters before hugging him tightly.
"I do this because I love you, you know that baby? I don't stop loving you when you make a mistake, but that doesn't mean I can let bad behavior go unchecked. If you were good this wouldn't have happened." She sounds sad too, the way her voice wavers. Upset that it came to this. The back of his shirt becomes wet with tears.
He cries out again, shaking like a leaf in the wind. She shushed him, murmuring "I still love you."