frankie [episodes 1-3]

-14-

"What about the way I move, arsehole?" I say.

He spins around.  

His red face looms above mine - clammy, moist. His beady eyes fix onto me. They widen in a mixture of shock. And then he laughs.

"How did you get in here?" he says. "You're disgusting."

I look him up and down. He smells rancid. Wax seeps from his pores – all over his red, raw body.

"You're one to talk..."

Then as he lurches forward – I spring into action.

Hook. Jab.

In quick succession I jab him twice in the face. A suction sound resounds around the room as my fist impacts his skin. When I pull away a layer of wax begins to harden.

Gross.

I hurriedly wipe against my jeans and he lifts his taloned fingers to spray me.

"DUCK!" yells Rebecca behind me.

I do so at the last minute as a shower of wax rains in the workshop. Some of them hit me. I cower, pulling my arms over my head. I feel hot, scolding droplets, hardening on my skin. 

Shit.

I wince, biting my lip, doubt flooding me as I feel my skin burn. What was I thinking? I'm no match for him. I blink hard. My eyes dart about me.

And through watery eyes, I see a number of wax models. 

Only they're not wax models. They're girls. Dead girls. Put on display. Girls who had their lives stolen by this monster.

And I feel them – I feel all the girls he did this to. I feel Eleanor. I feel her pain, I feel her anger. It surges through my veins like fire.

Avenge us. Avenge us all.

I grit my teeth.

Slowly, through the rain of wax, I raise myself to my full height. My fists curl. 

And I fight,

Jab. Cross. Elbow strike.

My arms almost move independently from my body, a blur of limbs. The gloopy liquid stops spraying from his wrists. He stumbles back to the edge of the desk.

Side kick.

I kick his arm as he raises it to spray me once more.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" I yell at the brunette girl behind the table.

She scampers to the side.

Upper cut. Jab. Front kick.

The curator flies back off the rickety table, landing on his back on the dirty workshop floor. I leap down in front of him. The fire from the wax furnace behind is raging – I feel like my skin is burning from here.

The demon gets to his feet. He seems moister, the wax running down his red, pulsating flesh. 

"I suppose I could use you for scrap parts," he snarls.

He swipes at me but I duck.

Jab. Straight. Cross.

I pummel into his chest, and with each blow he stumbles back. The furnace bellows out heat, raw and relentless. I don't desist.

Side kick. Jab. Jab.

He stumbles further.

Hook. Hook. Uppercut. Jab.

The flames extend their tongue out greedily from the large, metal contraption behind.

We've got this I hear the voices, strong in my mind.

"I suppose I could use you for candles," I say.

Round kick in the face. Front kick in the chest. Upper cut to the chin.

His beady eyes widen as he is lifted from his feet. The flames embrace him as he flies into the metal furnace behind. There's an anguished screaming mixed with the fizzing sound of bubbling wax.

I step backwards, out of the spray of wax that spits from the metal oven. I'm aware, now, of Rebecca and Jared at either side of me. Rebecca puts her hand on my shoulder as we watch the distorted figure of the Curator melt and burn.

Then silence.

I feel a release of tension inside – and I feel a sense of peace that I can only assume comes from Eleanor.

He's dead.

I smile.

"We did it," I say.