Chapter Text
Frank hoped he was far enough from home.
Surely, nobody would find him here. He couldn't carry on even if they could.
The motel Frank stopped by was extremely small. It was a single-floored building, long and rectangular shaped. He pushed open the chipped front doors and stepped inside.
Inside was nothing special, as Frank expected. Damp carpet smell hung thickly in the air and burned out oil lanterns still hung on the walls, its last flame extinguished a lifetime ago. In the center of the room sat a serious-looking man behind a desk.
"Welcome to Lyecester Motel. May I help you?" the man asked, adjusting his posture. Even sitting, he was nearly as tall as Frank. His blue eyes sparkled, as though Frank were the most exciting thing he'd seen all day. Judging by the motel's vacancy, he probably was.
"Uh, yeah," Frank mumbled. The man's attentive gaze unnerved him. "Do you have any open rooms? I'll probably have to rent for a while."
"All of the rooms are open. Take your pick," the man replied simply.
"What?" Frank asked. "Don't I need to fill out any papers?"
"Of course. We can get to that in a minute," the man’s tone stayed flat and even as he spoke. He made little movement besides his mouth when he talked, as though something were holding him back. The man leaned over his desk, offering his hand. Frank shook it.
"Mr. Weekes. Pleasure to meet you. May I please see some form of identification?"
—
Frank laid down on the motel bed, a hole in his heart and in his wallet. The familiar ache of homesickness began to trickle its way down his spine.
Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be here. He didn't want to leave Florida. He didn't want to hurt that little girl. He didn't want any of this to happen.
A jolt of anger surged through him. Frank bolted upright. He rolled up his sleeves with more force than necessary and set his forearm out in front of him.
Frank concentrated hard. He channeled the same energy inside of him that had been released that night. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, a voice was yelling at him to stop. It was too risky, he could be seen. But Frank didn't listen. He needed clarification that everything happening to him was his reality.
A small burning sensation began in the pit of Frank’s stomach, slowly making its way up the veins of his arms and resting in his palm. His hand shook as the feeling built. Frank clenched his eyes shut, not opening them until he dared to look.
When he finally peered from through his eyelashes, his heart skipped a beat.
There, floating slightly above his palm, rested a tiny orb of light. It made no movement or sound, and it was definitely smaller than the literal bursts of flame he had shot from his hands. His hands. The men. The girl in the car. On fire. Oh god, he fucked up. Frank fucked up so bad.
He closed his fist tightly, immediately extinguishing the flame, and flung it towards the nearest wall. He no longer felt angry, but ashamed. Ashamed of who he was and what he had done and what the consequences had been. Frank’s family most surely thought of him as a disgrace. Every policeman within a 100 mile radius of his home in Florida was searching for him.
Frank sat at the edge of his bed and wallowed in his regrets for a moment. A small scraping sound brought him to his attention. He turned his head just in time to see the lamp on the bedside table shift slightly. Almost as if it was moving towards him sympathetically.
Strange.