Death Is Strange

TWENTY-FIVE

Frank's head felt like it was splitting open, and he whimpered, trying to open his eyes and realizing he was blindfolded. He shook his head, then tried to use his shoulder to awkwardly shove the cloth up. After several attempts, he managed, and blinked, glancing frantically around the area.

It was Mr. Armstrong's dark room. He struggled, his wrists tied to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound to the chair's legs. If only he could raise his hand enough...

Pain shot through his skull, and he felt a drop of blood slither down his lip. Maybe the drugs had effected his abilities.

He sat still for a moment, struggling to remember what had happened, and then a cold feeling slithered through him, leaving numbness in its wake. Gerard was dead, and Frank hadn't been able to do anything.

He wanted to cry, but his eyes only stung, and he looked over at the little metal cart on his right, seeing his wallet, phone and keys on a tray placed on top. A Polaroid poked out beneath his phone, and when he remembered what it was, he shuddered. How had Pansy known what would happen? There was something off about her. Or him. Whichever she actually identified as. He realized he hadn't even thought to ask.

"Damn," he whispered, his cracked and dry lips stinging with the movement. He craned his neck, seeing a clock in the corner.

It had been five hours since Gerard died. Since they found Bert. Since Danny injected something in Frank's neck and now he was here and what the fucking hell was happening? Had his picture been added to the photo album, right there with Denis and Mikey?

He spotted a box cutter on the edge of the cart beside him, and desperately struggled to free his right hand. The rope chafed at his already-raw wrist, little droplets of blood dripping down the arm of the chair when he began to fight in earnest. He grimaced, his thumb popping when he managed to slide it through, the rest of his hand following. He rubbed his wrist, inhaling sharply. "Okay," he whispered, trying to steady his racing heart, and reaching for the box cutter. His fingers brushed it, and he strained against the chair, finally grabbing it and sliding it open, sawing the rope holding his left wrist away and bending forward to free his ankles.

He heard the trap door above snap shut, and he frantically snatched his stuff off the metal tray, focusing on the photograph.

His head began to spin, and he felt blood spilling from his nose, but the room stayed the same.

Why is it not working? He thought frantically, and shoved everything in his pocket, stumbling across the room, feeling like he was in a drunken stupor, the blood on his lips leaving a bitterly metallic taste on his tongue.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and he flung himself behind the white backdrop, moving on to Plan B, and realizing he had no Plan B. Call the police? Armstrong would hear him when he came in. He fumbled with his phone, struggling to focus on the screen, opening Ben's contact and sending him a message: At dark room Gerard dead call police now.

Ben replied almost instantly: OK.

"What the fuck?" Mr. Armstrong yelled. He sounded drunk, and he was plodding around the room now. "Frank? Frank? Where the hell are you hiding, you little bastard?"

Frank held his breath, his heart crashing against his ribs. Even the blood rushing through his veins seemed too loud now and he could see Armstrong's shadow on the other side of the backdrop.

"I took such pretty pictures," Armstrong slurred, and his shadow faded away as he walked back across the room. It sounded like he was headed for the stairs, but Frank was afraid to get his hopes up. "You must be in the barn, you little fuck," he mumbled, and his footsteps headed echoed back up the concrete steps, heavy and slow.