Chapter Text
Frank remembers what dying felt like.
It was cold and lonely. He held a lot of regrets.
His kids, fuck; Tanner and Penny. How could he leave them? Leave his wife, Abigail? His Abby?
He would like to say it wasn’t his choice to die, not really. He didn’t mean to die. A fucked up cocktail of the medications he shouldn’t have been taking, along with the alcohol he shouldn't have been drinking. It had been a rough night at the E.R. and he had just wanted to feel… good.
Look where that got him. 6 feet under, in a box of wood that was too fancy for him, and a suit that was too tight.
Frank also remembers what coming back to life felt like.
The overwhelming urge to dig upwards, crack his way through the wood and push through the mounds of dirt and debris until finally, finally, he could feel the sunlight on his skin once more.
But he wasn’t himself anymore, not really.
The bullshit phrase they have him repeat at every group therapy session burns through his thoughts.
“I am a partially deceased syndrome sufferer and what I did in my untreated state is not my fault.”
No matter what they made him say, it didn’t take away what he did before he died and it sure as hell didn’t take away from what he did after.
He remembers bits and pieces of it, in his dreams or whenever they give him his dosage of Neurotriptyline.
The fighting, the gun shots that did nothing to stop him.
How he’d beat them against the ground until their skull finally cracked, giving way to the savory spongy flesh, fuck-
“Frank, you still with us?” Came the doctor’s steady voice.
Grunting, he felt pulled back to the present. “Involuntary recurrent memory, is it?” Dr. Shepherd asked, jotting something down on his notepad.
Shaking, Frank rubbed his hands over his face. “They’re… vivid.”
“Good. You’re responding to the Neurotriptyline well, then.” Dr. Shepherd was always blunt, straight to the point. “That’s a sign you’re ready to go back.”
That made Frank’s stomach twist. “I don’t feel ready.”
Dr. Shepherd gave him a weary smile. “Feeling anything at all is even more of a positive sign.” He clicked his pen, setting it down at his desk. “Do you think your wife will be happy to see you?”
Frank snorted at this. “No.” He looked down at his hand, conveniently missing his wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing anything except the long sleeve shirt and pants garbage they gave to every patient at the treatment facility.
“Why wouldn’t she be? Her husband is back.”
Frank wanted to argue. To say it wasn’t the same.
Instead, he was sent off to start getting his mousse and contacts to start practicing on how to look alive again.
°•¤•°•¤•°
“Who are you most excited to see when you go back, Frank?”
Group Therapy was mandated here in the facility. It was to help with their socialization skills to get them back into society or whatever the higher ups thought it would do.
They were in a group of about 8 with one therapist, the man looking expectantly at him.
Frank messed with his hands. Even dying couldn’t get rid of the ADHD.
“My… my kids. They were pretty young when I...” He cleared his throat, adjusting how he was sitting. “It’s been over four years, so I can’t imagine how much they… they’ve grown.” He feels like he’s going to cry, but he’s not even sure if he can physically.
The therapist nods, looking around the group. “I am sure you are all feeling a bit nervous about facing your loved ones when you go back.”
A member of the group scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure old Frankenstein's kids here are going to be real thrilled to see him.”
The therapist frowned. “Trinity, that is not how we talk here.”
Frank’s eyes flicked over to Trinity who had her arms crossed, scowl on her face as she leaned back into her chair.
“All I’m saying is that if my Dad died because he stole drugs from work and came back as a fucked up dead guy, I would-“
“Trinity.” The therapist said her name again, his tone making her snap her mouth shut. “You are all here because you are partially deceased syndrome sufferers. How you became one is irrelevant.”
Honestly, Frank agreed with Trinity. He was scared to face his kids, they would probably see him as a monster.
“But it seems like we have our next volunteer. Who are you most excited to see when you go back, Trinity?”
°•¤•°•¤•°
The ride from the main facility to the pick-up center made Frank feel like he was a prisoner. In a way, he would guess that he was.
They loaded them up in the back of a truck, everyone given a bag with clothes, mousse, and their contacts.
He saw Trinity sulking in the front, and a few others he recognized from therapy. Seems they went in batches, grouped together like bundles of crops.
When they got to the center, he was taken to a room so he could get ready.
How could he get ready when he didn’t feel ready?
It was strange, the process of applying make-up. His skin-tone wasn’t quite the same, the mousse a tad darker than his natural tone had been before his death. His hands shook as he placed in his blue contacts, blinking as he adjusted to the feeling of them settling on his eyes.
The clothes the workers had picked out for him were alright. Just a plain white t-shirt, dark blue hoodie, and pair of blue jeans. Regular socks and a normal set of shoes.
Frank was just happy to be in something other than the standard issued patient set of clothing.
Sitting on his bed, his leg jumped up and down. God, would Abby bring the kids to come pick him up? He didn’t know if he was ready to face them yet.
The door opened behind him and he clutched the bag holding his things (the mousse, more contacts, and those stupid patients clothing).
“Frank, your mother and father are here.”
He turned at this, looking at his therapist with confusion. “My... what? But my wife-"
His therapist gave him an apologetic smile before cutting him off. “Come on, Frank. I’m sure they’ll explain everything to you.”
Clutching his bag tighter, Frank stood, walking with carefully timed steps.
When he finally spotted his parents, in that empty hallway, they looked older. Of course, years had passed, but it was the type of aging that wasn’t natural. It showed the stress that the years had held.
His father’s Adam’s apple wavered and his mother clasped her hands over her mouth when she saw him.
Frank stood like a child, clutching his bag.
“Oh, Frankie.” His mom managed, tears already streaking down her cheeks.
“Uh, Hi. Mom, Dad.” He nodded towards each of them. “I thought, well, I thought Abby was picking me up.”
His dad sucked in a breath, hands in his pant pockets. “Right, about that son…”
“She didn’t - oh Frankie - she didn’t know what you would look like.” Patricia’s hands moved to tug at her husbands arm as they looked at their boy. “But you look good! Isn’t that right George, doesn’t he look good?”
George gave a nod, his eyes watery in the light.
“They give us make-up.” Frank admitted, embarrassed. “And contacts. So we don’t look…” His voice trailed off, eyes wandering to the 'We understand Partially Deceased Syndrome' posters plastered about, with models who had no make-up on. Dead was his unsaid word.
“So, Patricia, George, we have some discharge information we need to discuss with you.” His therapist butted in, sensing the lull in the conversation. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”
°•¤•°•¤•°
During the car ride home, Frank sat in the back, head lulled against the seat as he watched the trees go by – the pick-up center had been deep in the woods, though he figured the core facility had been deeper.
“Frankie, I’ve already arranged for someone to come help with the medicine. She’s a sweet girl, I just know you two will get along.” Patricia commented, turning around in her seat to look at Frank while George drove. “She’s already been by the house twice and she is excited to help you.”
It felt like when he was a kid and they were arranging a babysitter for a weekend getaway.
“It’ll be at home, so you’ll be more comfortable.” His mom continued, “We already got your old bedroom all set up, too.”
This made Frank look over to his mom, eyebrow quirked up.
“My old bedroom? Why would you need to set that up?”
Patricia turned back around at this, getting sheepish.
“Patty, we have to tell him.” George grunted, hands clenching at the wheel before relaxing again.
Frank sat up, held back by the seat belt, feeling a bit betrayed at being left out of the loop. “Tell me what? Am I not going back to my fucking house?”
“Language, Frank!” His mom snapped, dropping his nickname, before pressing her hand to her lips, as if shocked by her reaction.
George sighed. “Look, Frank. Abigail… Well, she doesn’t want you to be around the kids because of your, uh, condition.”
The car is silent before he continues. “So your mom and I said you could move back home. So you’d be close to family for your… recovery?”
It felt like there was a ringing in Frank’s ears. He should have expected this. He couldn’t blame her, fuck, he could never fault her for this.
He had died, leaving her behind with their two young children. Then he’d come back and fucking eaten people. No wonder she didn’t want him around their children.
“Oh Frankie, it won’t be forever.” Patricia stated, looking out her own windows now. “She just needs some time to adjust. I’m sure once she knows you’re good with your medication, she’ll come around.”
Frank didn’t really believe that.