Chapter 216: Reminiscence
If Frank had faked his cancer merely to deceive Sheila and Karen, then going so far as to draft a will—one written so sincerely—would've been completely unnecessary.
Anyone who read Frank's will would be convinced those were the genuine final words of a dying man.
In fact, Sheila and Karen never even opened the will. They saw the cancer report and believed it immediately.
So why write a will and leave behind an inheritance? That was just overkill—like drawing legs on a snake, or putting on pants just to fart.
That's why when Frank claimed his cancer had been fake, Fiona remained suspicious. She'd been thinking about it all day, and the more she thought, the more wrong it felt.
"Don't worry," Frank said casually. "I'm fine, really. Ever heard that old saying? 'Only the good die young; bastards live forever.'"
"I'm going to bed," he added, ending the conversation there.
Seeing that Frank didn't want to continue, Fiona didn't press. She glanced at the time, downed the last of her wine in one gulp, and headed upstairs.
"Debbie, stop reading under the covers with a flashlight," she said as she passed by Debbie's room.
From inside, the faint light under the blanket flicked off.
Frank lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, Monica's face would involuntarily appear in his mind.
Truth be told, Monica wasn't even his type. She wasn't the kind of woman Frank usually went for.
Yet her image haunted him, like a song stuck in his head. He even had the urge to go see her.
It was like being in love—when you keep checking your phone for messages, even when you know the other person is busy. You just can't help yourself. You want to finish work faster, just to be with them.
Frank understood what was happening—it was because of "Frank."
He had never realized just how deeply "Frank"—the version of himself from another life—had influenced him.
But Monica had been a wake-up call.
As he thought back over the past six months, cold sweat broke out on his back.
He'd thought he'd conquered "Frank," that he was free of that man's shadow.
But reviewing everything now, Frank realized that wasn't true. He hadn't defeated "Frank" at all. That influence had quietly seeped into his bones without him even noticing.
And it had all started that winter night, half a year ago.
Before that night, Frank could clearly feel the pull of "Frank" and had consciously resisted it.
But after what happened that evening, his emotions spiraled out of control. "Frank" found his opening—and the drinking that followed only dulled his senses further.
Frank used to be a light drinker. He never binged, never blacked out. That kind of behavior just wasn't him.
Even though many things happened that night, the truth was: misunderstandings and conflicts between fathers and children were normal. What family didn't argue once in a while? Give it a few days, let tempers cool, and things would go back to normal.
All Frank had to do was go home and talk things through.
But instead, he stayed away for six whole months.
A man who loved his kids that much—vanished from their lives, with no contact. Not a call. Not a message. The family even believed he was dead.
Frank had countless opportunities to go home, but he kept avoiding it. Every time he picked up the phone, he'd put it down again.
Now that he thought back… it was almost unbelievable.
And all of it—every decision, every hesitation—was under the influence of "Frank."
The old "Frank" never cared about home when he was living the high life.
Frank had even lived in Joseph's house and stolen jewelry.
He shamelessly leeched off Stephen, the disabled doctor—living in his house, eating his food, stealing his money.
And when Stephen fell apart mentally, when he needed help the most, Frank offered no support. Not a dime.
He even took the money he scammed from Stephen and just vanished—off to New Mexico, leaving Stephen behind without a second thought. It was heartless. Cold.
In New Mexico, Frank had no intention of helping Walter and Pinkman. He just wanted to use them. They had no idea.
When he first arrived, he got caught up in a mess involving two dead bodies. At first, Frank wanted nothing to do with it—he was ready to walk away.
But once he saw Walter's product sample, everything changed.
Frank suddenly became proactive—helping clean up, getting close to them, solving problems. His attitude toward Walter and Pinkman was a world apart from how he treated Stephen.
Anyone who knew "Frank" would recognize the pattern: when he acts nice, it's always because he wants something.
To get what he wanted, "Frank" could become the perfect father, lover, or friend. But once he got what he wanted, he'd kick you to the curb.
And what did Frank want from Walter? His technique.
But after witnessing Walter's process, Frank finally realized—he'd never be able to learn it.
Even with video recordings or step-by-step instructions, he could never replicate that level of quality.
Only then did Frank give up his original plan—to learn Walter's method, cut ties with both Walter and Pinkman, and go back to Chicago to strike out on his own.
Yes, that had been his plan: master the formula, ghost his partners, and sell the product for 100% profit.
And it wasn't just that—there were the women too.
He messed around with Walter's sister-in-law Marie. Then there was Gretchen.
None of it was really him. It was all under "Frank's" influence.
Frank wasn't the type to chase every woman in sight. And he definitely wasn't the kind to wreck families.
But to "Frank," this kind of behavior was normal. Women? Men? Didn't matter. If there was a benefit to be gained, anything was on the table.
Looking back now, Frank broke out in another cold sweat.
This wasn't just influence anymore. It was assimilation.
He wasn't like this in his past life. He had morals. He respected the law. He had a decent worldview.
And yet, without realizing it, he had been assimilated by "Frank."
The signs were there from the beginning—like when he slept with Jimmy's mother and didn't even resist. The assimilation might've started right then.
Frank was still "himself," sure.
But in more and more ways—how he thought, how he acted—he had become like "Frank."
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