A bridge stood before him. Vast, Golden-gate in girth. He looked around. Behind him, a wall. Frank knocked on the wall.
“Ow, why the hell did I do that?” he asked his scrapped knuckles. They just bled. So, Frank turned and began walking down the bridge. It was black, smooth; Frank was cold. He walked for a long time. At one point he tried to walk and look over the side of the bridge, but the more he walked, the wide the bridge seemed to become. So, he went back to walking forward.
Sometime later he squinted.
“Hello!” he called, smiling. A figure up ahead stood still. A woman in a blue dress. Frank recognized that dress. He began to run.
“Sara?” he called. She looked up. Frank smiled, before his heart caught up with his face. Everything that stood before him was Sara, except her mouth, there was no mouth.
She began to cry. Frank reached in to hug her, but stopped.
“What is this?” he asked her. But she only shook her head. She lifted a hand, wiping the hair from her face and showing Frank her ears. Or rather she showed him where her ears should have been.
Frank reached out to touch them, she jerked her head away. Her eyes went wide, screaming. She flailed her arms and blinked wildly. A sound, a moan, was all she could make. She was pointing behind Frank, she shoved him in the chest.
He didn’t stop, he fell through the bridge, he landed in a room of nothing. it was dim, a light from somewhere came from nowhere. In the corner a man stood.
Frank picked himself up. He looked up but only saw darkness. He looked back at the man in the corner. Frank ran to the man. He grabbed him.
“What the fuck is going on!” he cried. The man turned. Frank stumbled back.
“What is going on?” The Man said. Frank choked on his breath. The man standing there was him, an exact image, naked, wrists slashed, wet. The man frowned.
“What is going on?” he asked, childishly.
Frank backed away. The man advanced. Frank found himself backed into the corner of the room. His heart pounded, his blood ran laps around his brain.
The fake Frank held out his hand.
Frank looked at the hand, then up at his own face.
The fake Frank pulled his hand back, lifted it to his mouth, bit down. Blood ran. He smiled. He held the bloody hand back to Frank.
Frank stood. The bloody hand shoved him back to the ground. The Fake Frank crouched down. He grabbed Frank by the shoulder and pushed the bloody hand into Frank’s mouth, it was wet.
He hit Frank in the jaw. Three fingers came off in Frank’s mouth. Frank tasted the blood.
Then his vision absorbed itself. He was standing above his wife, Sara. She looked up at him.
“It was your fault,” he said. He reached down and grabbed her by the shoulders, picked her up. She cried harder. “Frank, stop it, you’re scaring me.” But Frank was blind, his mouth was dry.
“It was your–”
Then, suddenly he was back in the blank room with his own face staring down at him. Frank stared up at himself. Horrified, wide eyed.
“No,” he whispered.
The face stayed placid. He held out his hand, three fingers down.
*Okay, so this might come across as a bit confusing. I realized that after. It is my fault. For anyone who is curious, this hell is based on a very short article I read on Zoroastrianism. (As with most Frank stories, it is not exactly the hell depicted by the religion, but my ideas based around it.)
I hope that helped a little,