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mousie

The Stranger fan fiction

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“The Stranger” fan fiction

By Marcie

I sat there with tears rolling down my cheeks, the program from my mother’s funeral clutched in my hands. I could hear my son in his room, crying as well. In all his life, I had never seen Frankie cry so much. He had been inconsolable at the funeral. I knew that he had been close to his grandmother, but I supposed that the deaths of her and his father all in one year had been too much for him. I began to wonder just when Frankie had figured out that it hadn’t been his father writing him after all. Was it when the enigmatic stranger had entered our lives? The thought of him made fresh tears come. The two days I had know him had been the two happiest days of mine and Frankie’s lives. So unlike Davey, my husband, this man was so gentle and kind. I remembered thinking Davey handsome and charismatic when we met, and being genuinely in love. But that had all changed just a few months after our wedding. He began with the verbal abuse, the name calling. After that, it escalated to where the slightest little thing would set him off, and he had started hitting me. When I told him that I was pregnant, he had stormed out of the house, calling me a whore. After Frankie was born, his rage had turned on the innocent baby. I could never figure out where his rage came from. What was he so upset at all the time. Now, I would never know. All because of that terrible night. My hands clenched into fists as I recalled Davey coming home drunk. He began to slap me, calling me all kinds of horrible names. Then, Frankie had started crying in his bedroom. Davey had stormed up there, grabbed his son, and shook him so hard that it caused internal bleeding in the ear canal in his left ear. It soon spread to his right. I wasn’t aware that any damage had been done until a few days later, when he began bleeding from his ears. I had rushed him to the doctor, but it was too late, the damage was permanent. After that, I had left my abusive husband. Years of moving around seemed to be at an end after I learned of Davey’s death. That last confrontation, though, had left me shaken. He had called me a bitch, and had yelled to see his son. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to see a child he hadn’t even wanted. His sister had even put in his obituary “Father to Frankie”. She had always wanted to believe that the man she had grown up with was a decent human being. Even at the end. His death from prostate cancer had freed me from him. But, just three months later, my mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer. She had smoked for most of her life, so it didn’t come as any big shock to her, but what was a shock was how quickly the disease ravaged her body, and finally took her life.

The tears finally stopped as I got up to put on the tea. After putting the kettle on, I put the program on the table and quietly walked into Frankie’s room. He was curled up in his bed, silent. He must be asleep, I thought. I walked over and pulled his blanket over him. I could hear him softly talking in his sleep. After Marie’s brother, the stranger, had left, Frankie had started talking. Just a little at first, then he started signing that he wanted to learn how to speak properly. I had taken him to a professional teacher who specialized in teaching the deaf how to talk. Just a month ago, he had given his first oral report in school. Some kids had tittered a little, because his voice had sounded really strange to them, but when Ricky Monroe, the kid who had really started the whole chain reaction of us meeting Marie’s brother, had yelled “Shut up” at them, they had quieted. I was surprised that they had become such good friends. Marie said that they came into her store at least twice a week with Catriona, another friend who Marie was sure was sweet on Frankie. Marie. If it hadn’t been for her friendship, we wouldn’t be where we were today. She had come by earlier with food and kind words. She had even given me extra hours of work at her store so that I could afford Frankie’s voice lessons. I hadn’t asked her about her brother since he had left. I had figured that she would tell me all about him when she felt that it was appropriate.

Hearing the kettle whistle, I walked out of Frankie’s room and poured myself a hot cup of tea. I swished around the tea bag, thinking about my mother. She could be gruff, but she was the sweetest woman. I, being her only child, felt privileged to have her by my side throughout most of my life. She hadn’t approved of Davey, but supported me when I married him. After Frankie and I had left, she had stuck with us as we moved from town to town, even ending up in Ireland once. I put down my tea and picked up her red nail polish. She had left it on the table the day before I had taken her to the hospital because she was coughing up blood. She had never returned home. The hospital bills had been quite large, and I was going to have to find another job in order to pay them. I unscrewed the cap to the nail polish and painted my left index finger with the small black brush. Suddenly, the enormous weight of everything seemed to come crashing down upon me. I began sobbing again, sticking the brush back in to the nail polish. That’s when I heard someone knocking on my door. Great, I thought, another well-wisher. There had been several people over and I had been grateful for their company, but now I just wanted to be left alone. I quickly wiped my eyes with a napkin and went over to the door. I looked through the peep hole, but I didn’t see anyone. Someone playing a prank, I thought. So I walked back over to the kitchen table and picked up my tea. Then, I heard knocking again. Feeling angry, I rushed over to the door and yanked it open. Ricky was standing there.

“Uh, hi,” he said. His head was down and he looked a little embarrassed.

“Frankie’s asleep,” I told him. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow.” Ricky just stood there for a minute. Finally, he lifted his head.

“Okay, but would you give him this?” He opened his right hand and revealed a small porcelain seahorse.

“Wow, that’s really nice of you,” I said as I took it from him.

“Yeah, well, my mom bought it, she thought that Frankie would like it.”

“I’ll see he gets it,” I said. As Ricky turned to go, I suddenly asked him, “Why did you run away when I opened the door the first time?” He looked confused.

“What?” he asked.

“Well, you knocked and I opened the door, but you weren’t there.”

“Uh, no I didn’t,” he said, still looking confused. I thought to argue with him, but I decided to just let it go.

“Okay, well, see you tomorrow,” I said as he turned and walked down the stairs. Weird, I thought. But after all that had happened, it left my mind instantly.

I awoke with a sudden jolt at about 1:00 am. I thought that I had heard my mother call for me. Just a dream, I reminded myself. Fresh tears started rolling down my cheeks. It had been hard for me to sleep ever since my mother passed. I got up, pulling on my robe. I turned on the kitchen light and decided to have some more tea. Herbal, I thought, it might help me sleep. As I reached for the kettle, I heard a soft noise at the door, kind of like a shuffling sound. Feeling nervous, I crept to the door and looked through the peephole. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything, because it was so dark in the hall. I decided to take a chance. I undid the lock and bolt, put on the chain, and opened the door very carefully.

“Hello,” I called. No answer. I could, however, tell that there was someone out there moving around. I got spooked and was about to shut the door when I heard a deep voice say,

“Lizzie?”

I froze, not knowing what to do.

“Yes?” I asked, weakly. A shape materialized in the darkness, silhouetted by my kitchen light. I wasn’t scared. I knew that voice. I had only known it for two days, but it had only taken that amount of time to get to know it. The last time I had seen this person was right where he was now. I undid the chain and opened the door wider. As I looked into those green-blue eyes, my heart melted. He was wearing the same black leather jacket as before.

“I,” he started to say, but stopped. Throwing any reserve to the wind, I stepped forward and flung myself into his arms, sobbing. The familiar arms wrapped around me, pulling me to his chest. He stroked my hair with his large, gentle hands. It was obvious what had happened. He had heard about my mother and had come back. I didn’t think about if he was back for good, or where he had been. Suddenly, I heard a noise behind me. I let go of him and turned around. Frankie was standing in the doorway, his hair tousled from being asleep. He was staring at me with the man who had played his father for two days. Questions started to flood my mind. How was my son going to react? Was he going to be angry at this man for pretending to be his father? Was he going to be angry at me for pretending he was his father? Frankie had said nothing about any of it. That letter that I had read on the bus had been his last. I had decided not to press him about it, Frankie was the type of boy that you didn’t try to pry things out of. These things went through my mind as I watched Frankie stand in the doorway. Suddenly, he ran back into the apartment. I stared at the doorway, then looked back at my company. He shrugged. Then, as quick as he had disappeared, Frankie was back, this time bearing a large book. I realized that I didn’t recognize it. As I looked closer, I saw that it was a stamp book. It was a nice one, with different pages to put different kinds of stamps on, as it boasted on the cover. Frankie ran past me and over to the man. He held up the book and said, as clear as a bell,

“Thank you.” I was shocked beyond belief. First of all, when had this man given Frankie this book? Second, when did he learn to talk so well? The man knelt down and said,

“You’re welcome.” Then he enveloped Frankie in a big hug, not the reluctant one he had given Frankie when he had first come to play the part of his dad. They parted, and Frankie pulled something out of the book and handed it to me. It was a letter, not written by Frankie, but by the stranger. With trembling hands, I pulled it out of the worn envelope. It had obviously been read many times.

Dear Frankie:

By now you should know about your real father. Marie wrote and told me about his death. I’m really sorry about everything. I know that I shouldn’t have pretended to be someone I’m not. The truth is…

I stopped reading for a second. I looked at my son. His eyes were bright with anticipation. I continued.

…my own father didn’t want me, either. Marie is not my biological sister, she’s my foster sister. I was eight and she was six when I came to live with her family. My mother died when I was five, and my father decided that he didn’t want a kid anymore, although it took him three years to figure it out. He started to ignore me immediately after the funeral. I was pretty much on my own until the day that a friend of mine dared me to shoplift and I was brought home by the police. A few days later, he gave me up as a ward of the state. I haven’t seen him since. It was hard for me to believe that a man couldn’t love his own son. Even though Marie’s parents eventually adopted me and were kind to me, there was always this hole in my heart that could never be filled. I have spent most of my adult life traveling, trying to find him. A couple of weeks before Marie contacted me about you, I finally found him. He had died four years earlier. I went to his grave and seemed to make peace with the situation, but I still felt that familiar emptiness. I don’t know if you believe in fate or not, but you came into my life at just the right time. When Marie contacted me and told me about your mother’s situation, I couldn’t say no. I thought at the time that your father had abandoned you, so I felt that you would be somewhat of a kindred spirit. When I learned the truth, I felt even more so. I don’t know which is worse, being abused or being ignored. So today, on your 10th birthday, I want you to know the truth about me and want you to know the reason for my deception. You’ve been in my thoughts all these months, and I hope that you like the stamp book. Marie told me that your old one is almost filled up.

I could barely read, my eyes were so wet.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I asked Frankie. He took a deep breath.

“Because…I thought it would upset you,” he said slowly, but clearly. He walked up to me.

“I’ve been…practicing. Reading this letter out loud every day after school, before you got home.” I sank to my knees and hugged him tightly.

“I’m not upset,” I said. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. You’re able to talk, and…” I left off. Marie’s brother was looking down at us, smiling. Now what? I thought.

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"Now what?" indeed! *more* *more*

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yes.... more more please ....

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I agree with the gals above me, more!!! :kisswink:

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“I see you’re in the same place,” he said, quite abruptly. I looked up at him, startled.

“Yeah, we never got around to moving after everything happened,” I replied. He nodded. I stood up and gently guided Frankie to the door. He got the hint and went back into the house.

“How can I ever thank…” I started saying, when all of a sudden he reached out and pulled me to him again. He began to kiss me, really kiss me, passionately. I gave in completely and reached up to run my hands through his hair, which had grown considerably since we had seen each other last. I hadn’t kissed anyone like this since my husband, but it had always been violent, like he had wanted to ravish me. But this was so much different. It was passionate, but not violent, and it was very tender. It seemed like years passed, and then we finally parted.

“I have wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” I said, my heart beating rapidly.

“That was much better than that half-assed kiss from before, pardon my language,” he said. I looked at him for a moment, then, without warning, I started to laugh. He joined me. After everything with my mother, it was good to laugh again. We embraced again and he began to sing softly in my ear,

“When I was a young girl, I use to dream of a lover…” It was the song we had danced to. I didn’t know that he even knew it.

“Marie taught it to me,” he said, reading my thoughts and interrupting the song. He began singing again. I was amazed at how nice his voice was. When he was finished singing, I leaned closer to him.

“I don’t even know your name, Mr. No past present, or future,” I whispered.

“That’s not my name anymore,” he whispered back.

“It’s…”

:muahaha2:

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aaaaaaaaaaah Mousie, how can you leave us hanging like this :stranger::stranger::stranger:

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Oooooooooooh!!!!!!!!!!

:heat::claphands::pointy: and a little bit of this :stars: at leavin' us hanging! ::D:

'cuse me while I calm the butterflies in my stomach....

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acting like a little child) I wanna know what his name is :tantrum::tantrum::tantrum:

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