November 1st (Frerard)

2: Tuesday, October 2nd

Frank had never reckoned that this whole note thing would have bothered him quite as much as it had ended up doing, but of course, as had already been established, Frank was an idiot.

A world class fucking idiot, and somewhat proud of it too, which of course only added to the idiocy, because Frank could have the world record for being the world's biggest loser and he'd still be proud.

But that was something, at least.

But this note was something else entirely, and it had kept Frank up at night, with the folded up piece of lined paper on his bedside table, within reach, because Frank had developed this awful habit of reading it over in excess, despite the fact that he'd barely even been in possession of it for twelve hours.

He groaned, rolling over in bed, and coming to accept that perhaps sleep simply wouldn't come tonight, and the number two for two am glaring at him from his alarm clock in the darkness of the room was certainly doing him no favours.

And fuck, because Frank could feel a stupid decision coming a mile off, but at this point he'd become somewhat accustomed to embracing them, which was of course even more preposterous than the ideas themselves, but he had little left to do.

Frank was a compulsive failure, and relishing in that fact as he crawled out of bed, and pulled on jeans from earlier and the first shirt he found, before grabbing his jacket and making his way out of his bedroom window and somehow managing to make it to the ground without breaking his neck - this was probably something to with the fact that Frank lived in a bungalow. 

He still had difficulty, though, so don't suppress his struggles.

The sixteen year old pulled his hood up, and did his best to ignore the cold October breeze, and the dark night around him as he made his way through the streets, headed down to the beach, because fuck, it was cold and horrible, but Frank needed to be alone, he needed to think, and he needed to get his head together.

Although he was sure that he could never quite get his head together, because Frank couldn't shake the feeling that he simply didn't have all the pieces. It was an odd feeling, to say the least, but one soon discarded as the smell of the ocean hit Frank's lungs, and the sixteen year old sat down on the sand, close to the sea, but within safe distance of the tide, because it was October, and it was Jersey, and the water was fucking cold.

He sucked in a breath, and lit a cigarette, caring little for the consequences or the people in the beach front houses who probably resented his existence for getting in the way of their view, not that he suspected many people were awake at two in the morning on a Tuesday, but Frank just laughed to himself and hoped there was a sea storm and the beachfront houses got flooded.

He actually began to consider it for a moment: a tsunami hitting the town, and it all being destroyed, and somehow, Frank found comfort in that - an odd kind of sadistic comfort that made him laugh to himself, but comfort nonetheless, even in his own watery demise too.

And then, Frank's mind was alight with thoughts of the note - left up in his bedroom, and fuck, Frank had every urge to go back for it, but fuck, it wasn't like he couldn't recite the one legible paragraph at this point.

He attempted to make sense of the rest of the note, but it simply wasn't possible; he'd considered scanning it into his computer and zooming in super far in photoshop, but still, he doubted it'd work, and still, he doubted he'd get much more out of the letter than invading some poor person's privacy, which was something Frank still felt guilty about, but he'd much rather have someone embarrassed than dead.

And that was assuming that Frank could actually put a stop to this mess, of course, which was even in the back of his mind, unlikely, but he was still going strong upfront, and it was two am and he was so absolutely fucked come tomorrow at school, and he was supposed to be in some desperate search for this Mikey kid, but fuck.