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Burning	By : misato29 Category: +1 through F > Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Views: 8939 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Fosters Home for Imaginary friends or any of the characters in this story. I have no financial interest, expect no money, etc. I wrote this for my own pleasure. Comments are most welcome.

Chapter List
- 1-Asleep, Awake, Asleep
- 1
I do not own Fosters Home for Imaginary friends or any of the characters in this story. I have no financial interest, expect no money, etc. I wrote this for my own pleasure. Comments are most welcome.
Not appropriate for underage readers. Some sexual content, some violence, scenes of underage sex & nudity, bestiality, angst, death.
Madame Foster was angry. The aged mistress of the Foster’s Home was indignant that her scatter-brained niece never showed up at the airport to pick her up. “Didn’t even have the decency to call me! She knew when my flight was due in…”
Anger was a good emotion. It hid the fear. Almost.
The taxi ride seemed endless. She closed her eyes, ignoring the incessant chatter of the driver who insisted in pointing out sights of interest… “As if I haven’t lived here my entire life!” she thought. “I probably knew your great-great-grandmother.”
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the driver… and the smoke in the distance.
A young woman slept fitfully, restlessly on the beach.
Scrambled images.
The door that would not open.
A red figure using an impossibly long arm, lowered smaller creatures through an open window.
A bull horned monster crying as his beloved toys burned.
Panic.
A child’s voice, so familiar, calling to her from the landing of an impossibly long staircase.
"The toybox!"
And a tidal wave of flame.
She awoke, memories of her nightmare fading quickly in the bright morning light. She stretched, momentarily wondering where she was. It didn’t seem important.
Frankie felt… fine. Really fine. There was no schedule to keep, no responsibilities. The world was quiet, no nagging voices. No unreasonable, unappreciative rabbits demanding her attention. (“Rabbits?” she wondered.)
No chores. No pain. No burns.
No burns?
She rubbed at her wrist, the one where she wore a gold watch. It was important to her, a graduation gift from her grandmother. It was the most valuable thing she owned. “That’s strange,” she thought. She almost never wore it around the house, it was too likely to be damaged. A rash had formed under the band. “Never did that before!”
She tried to make out the time, but couldn’t see the numbers clearly. Was that a two? A ten? Well, it wasn’t important. She knew it was early morning. The sky was bright, though she couldn’t see the sun. For a moment that bothered her, but it was too nice a day for that to worry her. And she had the entire day to herself.
She carefully removed the watch and put it in the pocket of her fleece jacket. “Better be careful. I don’t want to lose it!” The rash faded almost immediately.
She forgot about the watch. She forgot about time.
She walked along the beach and although the morning was clear and cool, her feet became heavy. Each step was harder and harder to take. She finally stopped, almost unable to move. Looking down she decided to remove her blue sneakers and orange socks to soak her feet in the clear surf. Almost at once she felt better, lighter. She wiggled her toes in the sea damp sand and laughed... She waded into the surf, loving how every grain of sand seemed to tickle her toes.
She would carry the sneakers, she decided… then walked away, almost danced. The sneakers and socks sat where she had left them. Minutes later she looked back, wondering if there was something she had forgotten. She saw the line of footprints stretching back up the beach. There was nothing else. She shrugged.
There was a grove of trees in the distance. Her stomach rumbled. “Maybe I’ll find some fruit,” she hoped.
The house had been built originally in the late 19^th century, the family estate of an industrialist named Franklin Foster. His son and heir had lost the house and family fortune due to bad investments (i.e. a penchant for trying to fill inside straights). In later years the mansion had become a hotel, a shelter for destitute women, a bootlegger’s hideout, and a whorehouse. The mansion eventually stood empty until a decedent of Franklin Foster reacquired sole ownership and using what remained of her inheritance, reopened the house as a home for orphaned “friends”.
Most imaginary friends didn’t survive being abandoned by their creators. The real world was too real for them, they disappeared, they faded. Foster’s Home existed as a place of refuge. Madame Foster’s spirit created a place where they could survive until they found someone to believe in them.
The taxi slowed. Madame Foster prayed before opening her eyes. There was her home, her life. Foster’s Home. Built and rebuilt, added onto, abandoned, damaged and repaired too many times to count. Ancient timber, paint, masonry, insulation. Held together by love and fun.
Ashes.
Ashes.
We all fall down.
Everything had burned.
There were fruit trees. “Some kind of pear”, she thought. The fruit fell into her outstretched hands and she greedily bit into the pale green skin. The juice was warm and cool, salty and sweet all at the same time. There was a tangy smell that reminded her of something… someone, but couldn’t quite remember. For a moment, just a moment, she had an insight that it was a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet. A taste, a smell… something that would become familiar. “But that’s silly,” she said, dismissing the thought.
The juice dribbled down her chin and left stains on the front of her fleece jacket. “What is the matter with me, I’m acting like a kid?” she asked herself. Then “So what’s wrong with that?” She wiped her juice stained lips on the sleeves. She took off the jacket and folded it carefully, placing it on the ground in front of the tree so she wouldn’t forget it. The day was growing warmer anyway.
She ate a second, then a third pear. “Mac would love these.”
“Mac?” she thought. She remembered Mac, now. Was he here too?
“Mac?” she called out and began to move through the trees. “MAC?”
She dropped the fruit and turned around. Was there something by the trees she was supposed to…? No. There was nothing. Not even the discarded fruit. Not important. She began to run. She had to find Mac.
It didn’t matter to her that she had lost her blue sneakers or her orange socks or the gold watch in the pocket of her green fleece jacket, these things no longer existed for Francis Foster. She began to run faster.
They told her that although the fire department had arrived promptly, there had never been a chance to save the mansion. The fire had burned too hot and had spread too quickly.
“Fortunately no one was hurt” the fire marshal said. Then added, “No one real, I mean… Human beings.” Madame Foster’s heart broke. Then hopefully, “But my niece is all right, then? And the boy too, Thank God for that”
The fire marshal looked at her. “Niece,” he asked? “And a boy?” He began speaking into the radio clipped to his helmet.
No bodies were discovered in the ash and rubble, leading investigators to assume this was arson for insurance. They were sure that niece would turn up eventually to press an insurance claim. As for the boy, there had been some confusion. An adolescent male was seen in the neighborhood on the afternoon of the fire. This turned out to be a juvenile with a recent history of acting out, but no violence. No further action on the missing boy theory was taken.
Arson was confirmed when tests indicated that gasoline had been used in three different locations almost simultaneously. Investigation showed that there was almost no insurance on Foster’s Home since insurance companies are reluctant to issue policies on residences occupied by three or more imaginary beings. Foster’s Home housed thousands.
It wasn’t until later that the fire department became aware of a missing child police report on the juvenile’s younger brother, who was known to frequent the Foster house. A can of gasoline was found in the teenaged boy’s locker in school.
In the days that followed it was clear that at least two people had disappeared from the mansion. It was eventually presumed they had died in the fire, though no trace of their bodies was ever found. The police and fire departments did not look for the imaginary residents.
She was running now. She discarded her jewelry, the earrings, the hair bands and even her scrunchy. She found she could move faster when her hair was free. No reason for that, but it was true. The seashore and groves had changed to grasslands, wild plants grew waist high. Her bare arms and legs flowed smoothly through the undergrowth. But her skirt began to snag.
She tripped.
She fell.
The need to find the boy now drove her. She wasn’t even aware of tearing off her purple skirt. She was relieved with the freedom of motion she gained. Her white t-shirt came next.
The grassland gave way to thickets, seemingly impassible. Thorns tore at her panties and bra. She didn’t even stop to remove them, they ripped free on the nettles.
Naked.
Free.
She dove into the thick vegetation, it was like flying. It was beginning to get dark. She had to find… find? Find someone. The boy. The Boy! She had forgotten his name, but it wasn’t important. She had to find the Boy.
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 opposite 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 for some reason he couldn’t float here. 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. He found a single ripe fruit and ate it greedily. The juice was warm and salty, tangy and tart. He thought of Frankie.
Mac was not the kind of little boy to cry. Not often. But all children do need to cry sometimes. 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 Madame Foster, who was coming home to empty ruins of Foster’s.
Foster's?… Forster's something…
“Friends,” he thought. “The House of Mrs. Fosters…Friends… Was that it?”
He even cried for G… the girl, the one with pig tails. Or was it braids? He wasn’t sure. Had she been there?
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, but he couldn’t help himself. And it tasted so good.
He was just a little boy.
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 from different directions. 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 actually seeing the sun.
Although the stars continued to dance in the sky, it began to rain. She huddled under the tree, wishing the boy was here. Water dripped onto her naked body.
She huddled in the wet darkness, her right hand cupped and caressing her left breast. It felt warm and familiar in her hand. The nipple stiffened under her thumb. Her right hand found the “sweet spot” between her legs, lightly fingering the moistly warm folds that tingled "down there". She was a little girl again, touching herself in the darkness. hoping that the pleasure it brought her would soothe the emptiness in her heart.
She wept. Her caresses brought her no relief. She was alone in the dark.
"Oh Mac, you were safe!" she sobbed. "Why did you go back into the house?" But she knew the answer to that question. "He came back to save me."
She prayed, something she had not done since the night her parents had died. Before she had gone to live with... with... the old woman.
She prayed for the boy, for Mac. Her Mac! She prayed for the old woman that she had loved but could no longer really remember.
She climaxed, but it brought her no pleasure. But some thing inside her unclenched... let go. The woman that was once Frankie Foster slept.
- 1
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Burning