FicWad

Sorry, this is pretty short c': R&R to continue ^-^

I saw Frankie every day since that day, up until when I was ten years old. For the first five weeks and three days I hated him and on three occasions I tried to lock him in the cupboard under the stairs but Mom always found out and scolded me. I tried to drown him in the pond once but I just got in trouble and had to stay in my room with no dinner – plus, it was all for nothing, because Frankie was fine afterwards. He didn’t even get a cold.
On the fifth week, on the fourth day, I decided that he wasn't too bad. He toddled around on his feet and he asked me if he could fingerpaint with me. Normally, I would tell him no, because fingerpainting is for me and Mikey only, but he looked very sad that day for some reason and he wasn't staring at me much so I decided I would let him. I do not like it when people are sad. It makes me uncomfortable.
Frankie was very good at fingerpainting. He made a very cute picture of some puppies and I didn't understand how he had done it, so he spent the next hour explaining every detail to me, and once he was finished it was clear to me that I liked him, on some level, even if it was for his fingerpainting skills. He was one of the funniest people I had ever met, even if I had only met about ten people in my lifetime.

After the first year of meeting him he was my best friend besides Mikey and by the second year when I was going to school again (after being home schooled, from kicking a head teacher), I would eat my lunch with him and he would tell me everything that he did that day, which was normally quite exciting because in the year below you always get to do more interesting stuff.
I did not like being eight.
Eight is a bad age because the kids start to notice you and they start to pick on you if you’re weird. Frankie is very weird. He always got picked on and I hated that because he would come to me so upset and I couldn’t do anything, because I was far too small. I think he is interesting and fantastic but the others don’t think so; neither does Mikey. Mikey never liked Frankie.
It was the day before my tenth birthday.
“Mikey, why don’t you like Frankie?” I asked, sitting on our bedroom floor. Mikey’s cradle was now long gone and replaced with a little bed, beside mine. You can barely see him when he’s in it because he insists on having every single one of his stuffed toys around him, so he doesn't leave any toys out, and no feelings are hurt. He is a very caring person by nature and I appreciate that because I am definitely not.
“He takes up all of your time.” Mikey continued to play with his horses, making them neigh at each other and squealing with delight. “You don’t play with me much anymore.”
I sighed and pushed my crayons across the page. “I'm sorry Mikes. But that’s not Frankie’s fault.” He stood up and waddled over to me, his horses in his hands.
“You need to spend a little time with Henrietta.” Mikey placed the horse in front of me and toddled out of the room, and down the stairs. I stared absently at the little plastic horse and picked it up, stroking it’s plastic mane with my thumb. It didn't feel like a mane was supposed to. I didn't like that.

Frankie was supposed to be arriving in a few minutes. Thinking about it, he was supposed to have arrived several minutes ago – and there was no sign of him. There was also no sign of my mother and no sign of my father, and outside, the usual tweeting birds were oddly silent.
All it took was the squeal of fright and tires and I already knew what had happened.