She’d come up with a whole lot of nothing.
((Frankie Matsui continued from Shit’s Fucked))
Maybe it was for the better that Frankie hadn’t run into anyone since seeing Charity on the beach. She’d come close countless times since then, hearing conversation or scuffling or gunfire in the distance. It was a good thing that Frankie was already good at going about unnoticed, and she managed to trek across the village unscathed.
When nightfall came, Frankie found herself in the type of neighborhood she wouldn’t normally get a chance to even step foot in. The houses were a lot bigger and nicer than her home back in Denver, a couple blocks from the diner. There were also huge windows and open floor plans, ones that Frankie couldn’t even hope to find cover in. If she was looking for a safe place to sleep, it wasn’t here.
But hell, Frankie was going to be dead by the end of the week anyway, if not the next day, or hour. She could afford to live a little vicariously.
Thankfully, nobody was in the house, alive or dead. Frankie made her way to the top floor, hoping to minimize the amount of places she could get ambushed from. Best to sleep with her back against the wall, so to speak.
She walked into what looked like the master bedroom, with a fluffy-looking queen sized bed flanked by ornate-looking nightstands and lamps. On the other end of the room was a half-open door, and Frankie caught a glimpse of a large bathtub between the crack. Perpendicular to the bed was a wide window, and outside she could see the picturesque backyard, white-picket fence, and the houses beyond.
Frankie shut the curtains. It was better if nobody saw her.
Count to Ten
Phase 2 (13-24 Hours)
Frankie locked the door. It probably wouldn’t do much, but it gave her a peace of mind. She also conducted a quick search of the master bathroom, and was glad to find nothing of note. After all of that, she finally allowed herself to settle down.
IIt felt nice to sit down and eat dinner (no matter how shitty the MREs tasted) while cross-legged on the comforter, sneakers kicked against the opposite wall. While Frankie had been a little nervous turning on one of the lamps, she settled with eating by flashlight. Once she was finished, she turned out the light and sprawled herself out, setting her bag on the floor. The Uzi, however, was kept on the nightstand, within arm’s reach. Just in case.
As she stared at the dark ceiling, Frankie finally came to a decision. She wasn’t going to go down compliant, like a cow calm as it’s led to slaughter. She was going to make a fuss before she went out, and make her sentiments about this god awful country clear to everyone watching.
But how was she going to do it?
Ranting was the easiest and most obvious choice. But despite being a poet, Frankie doubted she had the eloquence to do much besides spew swears and base-level insults, while repeating talking points done do death. Sure, it was the most direct way of getting but her frustrations, but it was hardly an original idea. Frankie wouldn’t be satisfied with that. She wanted to stick it to them in a way that mattered. Yet, she struggled to come up with how to do it.
The thoughts swirled around in her head, until the tides of sleep washed them all away.
IIt felt nice to sit down and eat dinner (no matter how shitty the MREs tasted) while cross-legged on the comforter, sneakers kicked against the opposite wall. While Frankie had been a little nervous turning on one of the lamps, she settled with eating by flashlight. Once she was finished, she turned out the light and sprawled herself out, setting her bag on the floor. The Uzi, however, was kept on the nightstand, within arm’s reach. Just in case.
As she stared at the dark ceiling, Frankie finally came to a decision. She wasn’t going to go down compliant, like a cow calm as it’s led to slaughter. She was going to make a fuss before she went out, and make her sentiments about this god awful country clear to everyone watching.
But how was she going to do it?
Ranting was the easiest and most obvious choice. But despite being a poet, Frankie doubted she had the eloquence to do much besides spew swears and base-level insults, while repeating talking points done do death. Sure, it was the most direct way of getting but her frustrations, but it was hardly an original idea. Frankie wouldn’t be satisfied with that. She wanted to stick it to them in a way that mattered. Yet, she struggled to come up with how to do it.
The thoughts swirled around in her head, until the tides of sleep washed them all away.
The curtains in the master bedroom were thick enough so that the room was still dim when morning came around. It was the announcement that woke Frankie up, too groggy to even process what he was saying. Not that it mattered much. Someone killed so-and-so, repeat ad nauseam. She couldn’t even bother to care about the identities of the victims, even if they were friends. Frankie told herself that it was better if she never knew.
She laid there, unmoving, long after the speakers died out. A part of her wanted to stay there forever, but she knew she’d have to keep on the move to stay alive. And there was no point in anything if she died before she did what she needed to do...whatever that ended up being.
With some deliberation, Frankie hoisted herself out of bed and gathered her things. She decided to ditch her winter coat, deeming it too heavy to lug around for the rest of her days. Her journey back out of the house was cautious and drawn-out, always on the lookout for anyone who could’ve wandered in.
Frankie stepped out on the porch and leaned against the railings. The neighborhood looked so peaceful, basked in the morning light. It was the kind of scene you’d see in the movies or on postcards, showing off the classic American town. Of course, this wasn’t the suburbs people actually lived in, with smaller houses and shittier, colder weather. This was the kind of place white people usually lived in.
She glanced over and spotted a familiar shape hanging off a porch down the street. Frankie could get the idea behind rabid patriotism if she tried, but she could never understand the need to plaster the flag everywhere. It was hanging in every classroom at school, waving on every other street corner, and even fluttering in people’s lawns. It showed off patriotism to an almost insufferable degree, and living in a neighborhood full of minorities, Frankie hadn’t seen them much. Though there were always a couple of families, like the Davises down the street, who felt the need to have it above their doorstep. What was the point in glorifying a country that had treated them so horribly?
The idea came to her almost instantaneously. Frankie jogged down the street, towards the house. It was was a relatively large two-story home, painted baby blue with a dark shingled roof. She came up the lawn and halfway up the staircase, reaching out to feel the material. It was some sort of synthetic fabric, but her idea should still work.
Frankie broke out into a wide grin. It was easy to ignore words, but symbols carried much more weight. And how would patriots back home react at the sight of their flag, the very essence of the country, being desecrated?
Oh, this was going to be good.
She was getting giddy, but Frankie decided to wait until the right time. After all, It’d burn brighter at night.
((Frankie Matsui continued elsewhere))
She laid there, unmoving, long after the speakers died out. A part of her wanted to stay there forever, but she knew she’d have to keep on the move to stay alive. And there was no point in anything if she died before she did what she needed to do...whatever that ended up being.
With some deliberation, Frankie hoisted herself out of bed and gathered her things. She decided to ditch her winter coat, deeming it too heavy to lug around for the rest of her days. Her journey back out of the house was cautious and drawn-out, always on the lookout for anyone who could’ve wandered in.
Frankie stepped out on the porch and leaned against the railings. The neighborhood looked so peaceful, basked in the morning light. It was the kind of scene you’d see in the movies or on postcards, showing off the classic American town. Of course, this wasn’t the suburbs people actually lived in, with smaller houses and shittier, colder weather. This was the kind of place white people usually lived in.
She glanced over and spotted a familiar shape hanging off a porch down the street. Frankie could get the idea behind rabid patriotism if she tried, but she could never understand the need to plaster the flag everywhere. It was hanging in every classroom at school, waving on every other street corner, and even fluttering in people’s lawns. It showed off patriotism to an almost insufferable degree, and living in a neighborhood full of minorities, Frankie hadn’t seen them much. Though there were always a couple of families, like the Davises down the street, who felt the need to have it above their doorstep. What was the point in glorifying a country that had treated them so horribly?
The idea came to her almost instantaneously. Frankie jogged down the street, towards the house. It was was a relatively large two-story home, painted baby blue with a dark shingled roof. She came up the lawn and halfway up the staircase, reaching out to feel the material. It was some sort of synthetic fabric, but her idea should still work.
Frankie broke out into a wide grin. It was easy to ignore words, but symbols carried much more weight. And how would patriots back home react at the sight of their flag, the very essence of the country, being desecrated?
Oh, this was going to be good.
She was getting giddy, but Frankie decided to wait until the right time. After all, It’d burn brighter at night.
((Frankie Matsui continued elsewhere))