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Foster's World	By : Wendell Urth Category: +1 through F > Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Views: 4137 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.

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Mac was exhausted, unable to move. He felt like the weight of the world pressed down on his body. The weight of his failure. “They all died, I should have saved them.”
He had woken on the shore of a tiny island in the middle of a river. He was surprised that he was here, wherever “here” was. That he was only wearing his underwear, his “tightie-whities” as Bloo had called them, was not a surprise. He had been sleeping in them when… when… “when what? And who was Bloo?” he wondered. “Oh yeah, my friend… my best friend.” His eyes began to tear up again. “I didn’t save him. I should have saved him.”
“Everyone is dead except me.”
He had tried to swim to the nearest shore. It was probably less than a mile away and he was an OK swimmer. He knew how to float on his back and rest when he got tired of dog-paddling and the current didn’t seem that strong. But he couldn’t float, as soon as he got into the water, he felt a pressure pulling him under. He struggled with his arms and legs and managed to crawl back to the little island. Three times. He was afraid to try again.
He cursed himself. He should have let himself drown, but he was a coward.
There was a small tree on the island, a peach tree? A pear tree? He didn’t recognize it. He found a single ripe fruit but was afraid to eat it. His… his… mother(?) warned him about eating things he didn’t recognize. And there was sugar to worry about.
Mac was not the kind of little boy to cry. Not often. But all children do need to cry sometimes. Adults too. He had cried when his father had left that last time. He had cried (but not in front of his Mom or brother) when he was told he had to give up his imaginary friend.
Tonight, he cried, not because he was alone in a strange place and not because it might make him feel better. He didn’t cry for himself.
He cried for Bloo and all the friends who died when the mansion burned down.
He cried for his mom who wouldn’t know what happened to him.
He cried for the Madam, who was coming home to empty ruins of Fost? Frost? Fast? The name was on the tip of his tongue.
Fosters… something?
“Friends,” he thought. “To the ‘House of Mrs. Foster’s…Friends?’ Was that it?”
He even cried for Ga? Goo? She hadn’t been there, but all her friends were now gone.
He even cried for his brother... not much, just a little bit.
He didn’t cry for Frankie, though… It was too horrible. He had killed her. She could have been safe, but he killed her. He didn’t deserve to be able to cry for her. He didn’t deserve to eat the wild peach or pear or whatever, as hungry as he was.
He was just a little boy. The skin beneath his underwear itched and burned, but he was too tired and miserable to do anything about it. He deserved his misery, he thought.
He slept. Dreamt of the wall of flames driving them through the thick roiling black smoke, upwards and upwards. The attic. No escape. Frankie had picked him up, he thought she was going to throw him through the burning wall but instead found himself pitched into an impossibly small box. A wooden chest that seemed to expand into an entire world. He fell. Alone. He had lost Frankie. She died in the fire.

There were things about the Creator’s plan for his creatures She did not understand. He gave them wonderful bodies of flesh that grew and changed, yet He created Shame when they exposed their flesh. He made them cover their beautiful, beautiful bodies... and after a life time of experience, the bodies aged and decayed. It was cruel.
He gave them free will. The ability to question and grow beyond their Creator’s plan, yet punished them for using the free will he gave them.
He constantly created tests for his Creations that he knew they would fail, then cursed them for their weaknesses.
He created ‘Time’. His creations would live their lives chained to a wheel counting days and seasons as the wonderful bodies and flesh he gave them withered and decayed. They would count the days and seasons, the months and years, parsing time into smaller and smaller pieces - hours, minutes, seconds, grinding their lives away until nothing was left.
'Time' was an abomination.
She would not do that.

Frankie huddled under a tree in the absolute darkness of night. It was strange. The sky was full of the brightest stars she had ever seen. Comets blazed across the sky leaving trails of sparkling dust in every color of the rainbow. The moon rose and set and rose again, seemingly at random. And yet, with all this brightness, the world around her was totally, utterly dark.
The cosmic light show should have made the world as bright as day… as bright as the… the sun? When had she last seen the sun? It had been a bright and beautiful day, cool morning and a clear warm afternoon. She remembered fluffy clouds passing overhead. But she couldn’t remember seeing the sun.
Although the stars continued to dance in the sky, it began to rain. Downpour, torrents and howling wind... for a little while. She huddled under the tree, wishing the boy was here. Water dripped onto her naked body. She touched her breasts, because it felt good. Had she ever done that before? Touched her body? Enjoying the physical pleasure it brought her? She didn’t know. It didn't ease her lonliness. She only knew she needed the boy to be complete. Touching her body was good. Being touched by him would be better.
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