sans_regrets (sans_regrets) wrote in midway_ic, @ 2012-05-28 01:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | frank remington, tom pawlowski, week one |
{ W h o } Frankie and Tom.
{ W h a t } Talking.
{ W h e n } Late Saturday night.
{ W h e r e } Around the camping grounds.
{ S t a t u s } In progress!
Early on, he'd learned that secrets and lies were a necessary evil. In the end, nobody really wanted to know how a twelve year old kid had been able to afford suits his father could only have dreamed of. His girlfriends guessed that behind an angel's face was a demon's grin, but their questions were silenced by the baubles he brought home. And he never told anyone a damn word. By the time his world collapsed like a flan in a cupboard, he was ready to get out and get out fast. That passing carnival never realized how much he'd needed them. And that should have been it. Damn well should have been it.
The moment he recognized the nature of the people throwing their weight around the carnival and showing a picture, he was goner than gone. A borrowed truck got him into the city, where he wiled the hours away walking through unknown streets until the hour got late. And then, it was back to the camping grounds and hoping he hadn't been made. Making his way to his tent, his shoes scuffed over the dirt and then he looked up to make out the source of a shadow that was just a little too close. "Can I help you, Sir?"