"𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍." - Reba McEntire. "Fancy". 1990.
🐻Fancy🐰Mike🐤Ness🦊Vanessa✨
In which, Francine Jenkins is a Yale pre law and criminal justice major completing her senior thesis...
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Graphic death and rage warning ~~
Pull.
That was all she could think. Pull. Harder and harder and harder. She would escape this time, once again. Thank god she knew what to do. Thank god she chose to wear fucking high heels. The tape ripped again and she pulled harder, straining her wrists. She pulled up and out, applying more pressure with her heel.
Another rip.
Come on . She thought to herself.
Rip.
A rip so fierce she nearly fell over. In one swift movement she had ripped the tape binding her wrists together, and to the pole behind her in half. She pulled her wrists around for her to see them and look at them with grateful eyes. She didn't look at them long, though, she had to get to work. She had to keep moving.
She reached down to untie her feet. Her hands were frantic and shaking as she worked as quickly as she could.
Unwrapped.
Free. finally the tape over her mouth. She gripped the edges and pulled, it took a few layers of skin with it and she hissed in pain. But she was free. Seen and heard, suck on that, Samuel. She dropped the tape and made her way to the stairs, running up them, her hands grasped the door.
Locked. Of course. He had learned from last time. She was going to die here. He would come home, find her loose, and kill her for disobeying him. She had risen from her own premeditated death only to die once again. No, she couldn't think like that, what could she use? She threw herself at the door. No use, and now her entire left side was throbbing with pain. She shrieked in frustration.
She was so close. So close. What could she use? Think Fancy, think. You solved a case that had been cold for years, almost as long as she had been alive. She wasn't going to let this stop her. She raced back down the stairs and looked around. There were beer bottles scattered in one corner, a fridge, the table with the knife, and a closet.
She tried the closet first. Locked. Of course. The knife was her next thought. She wiped it against her shirt, her blood was still on it, and marched back up the stairs. She wouldn't be able to use it in the lock, each lock is molded around a specific shape of a specific key. This knife would not be able to mold into that perfect shape. She decided to use the knife as a make shift screwdriver, unscrewing the bolts that held the lock in place. It kept slipping, not out of her hands but out of the bolts.
