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"WELCOME TO THE PANIC ROOM, WHERE ALL YOUR DARKEST FEARS ARE GONNA COME FOR YOU"
- - -
Frankie spared one last sympathetic glance at the detective before shoving into the hallway, rubbing at their raw wrists, their pale skin stained a cherry red. Blood was beginning to prick up on their inner arm, and their bones ached.
Frankie was suddenly hyper aware of their lack of clothes, save for a shitty hospital gown and bandages wrapped tightly around their left arm.
They stumbled forward, their bare feet cold on the linoleum floor as they limped towards a dark room, the Detective's words replaying in their mind.
Was it my fault? Did I kill Delilah?
Frankie slid into the room and closed the door, a loud sob escaping their lips. They slid down the door, crumpling into a heap against it.
Another jagged sob dragged itself from their throat, and Frankie clapped a hand over their mouth in an attempt to muffle the noise.
"Oh god..." they whined, pulling their knees close.
"Hello?" A shaky voice said.
Frankie whipped their head up, blinking away tears. A bed sat next to a shuttered window, gentle light caressing a the room, casting a shadow over the inhabitant of said bed. Frankie cursed themselves for not having checked if the room was in use.
"Who's there?" The inhabitant asked, "Margaret?"
Frankie stood up slowly, making their way to the bed.
An old man lay in the centre of the bed, sheets tucked neatly around him. His light grey hair framed his pale face, giving him a spectre like appearance. Mottled hands reached towards Frankie, sightless eyes catching the moonlight like dark ponds.
"I'm not Margaret," Frankie said quietly. "I don't even know you."
"Then why did you come?" The man asked, disappointment lacing his voice.
