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Summary
It grows louder, and there’s a visceral sense of urgency to free himself. His back ached, it was sure to bruise, and there was an impending serial killing on his waltz towards him. The walkie talkie crackles to life, and for a moment does he ponder asking for help - until the arrogance of not needing it chokes the request dead in his throat. They were all dead, anyways. Their souls to be returned to the manor and for them all to argue with one another on ‘who did what wrong’ before inevitably getting over it by dinnertime.
Philippe can do this. He can free himself.
Hands scrape themselves on the wall in front of him, palming themselves up against the wood in an attempt to reach the sill. Eventually does he get it, forcing a space between his torso and wood through effort alone. The tip of his worn fingers whiten - as does his own features when he hears such a candid voice.
“Philippe? Oh, Philippe. What a mess.”
Philippe gets stuck. He will do anything for his research.