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Finney had worked up quite the sweat smashing up the wall. The jostling from each hit he threw against it with the toilet tank lid had had his bones aching and arms buzzing. It was not unlike hitting a metal baseball bat against thick concrete. A fruitless endeavour.
His chest hitched, and with each gasping breath he sucked in more and more mouldy, rancid air. He could taste it– so thick and heavy in the air that he knew that nothing would truly clear it away.
Never had Finney felt so truly hopeless. During the previous seven days of his confinement, he was driven forward by anger, adrenaline and desperation to see Gwen again. He didn’t want to leave her to take care of their dad twenty-four-seven. He was particularly harsh on her– and every moment he stayed locked up down there alone, separated from her, he thought of all the times he could have acted in her defence. All the times he should have. He wanted to go home, to make it up to her, to stand up for himself like Robin had said he should.
But it was too little too late for that.
Bigger, stronger and smarter boys had ended up in that basement. They’d tried the same things he had– and yet, what was there to show for their efforts? They hadn’t made it out, they hadn’t survived. They were wherever the Grabber had decided to put them, hidden from the police, from their families. They hadn’t managed to retrieve them– to retrieve Robin . Why would that change for him? Why would he survive, free himself and live another day when they hadn’t? Why would they even find his body ?
It was plain and simple– Finney Blake was going to turn out just like those other boys. Just like Vance Hopper, Bruce Yamada, Robin Arellano, Billy Showalter and Griffin Stagg… He would just be the sixth boy to disappear without a trace. A face on a sheet of paper, hanging on walls outside and in stores– someone who’d be whispered about amongst parents, used as a warning for their children.
Finney rubbed at his wet cheeks. He felt so filthy; he hadn’t showered in so long, his mouth tasted awful, and he was so, so dehydrated– his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. His entire body felt similarly, heavy and disproportionate. The idea of picking himself up and dragging himself over to that stupid fucking mattress was overwhelming.
What would even be the point? Crawling back over to the mattress, laying down on it. He'd spent so much time laying on that damned mattress, sleeping away time and waiting for something to happen. When he wasn’t pacing the basement or looking in vain for a means of escape, he slept. He’s sick of sleeping, of doing nothing.
But what else could he do?
Finney didn't want to die. It was the last thing he wanted– he wanted to go home, to see Gwen again, continue on the science project with Donna, to finally stand up for himself and Gwen against his father. He wanted a relationship with his dad– wanted to repair what his father had broken years ago.
There were a lot of things Finney wanted to do with his life, things he wanted to achieve. He wanted to move far away from this shitty little town, a town that only came onto the map because of the man who'd abducted him. He wanted to go to college, get a higher education. Perhaps it was a pipe dream, but Finney fantasised about working at Nasa. He'd design and build rockets– sure, going to space sounded cool, but he'd rather leave that to others of a more able body. No, Finney wanted to build, create and craft things to explore the stars and further man's knowledge of the universe.
That was just a childish dream, though. One he ought not to think about.
He'd like to talk to Donna again, to ask her out. There's something about being abducted and psychologically tortured that makes confessing to your crush far less intimidating. Would Donna accept his feelings? Would she be his girlfriend?
More than likely, Finney would never know. He'd have that question in mind till the day he died, which wasn't looking like a long-term plan.
Finney's lower lip trembled, and he dug his teeth into it, trying to push back his tears. Why was he even trying not to cry? Why would it even matter? He should be allowed to mourn his own death, even if it hadn't yet arrived.
Was this how Robin felt in the moments leading up to his death? Did he beg? Plead with the Grabber to no avail? Did he cry and mourn himself too?
No. No, Robin would have fought till the end. He’d never let that man see his tears, and he wouldn’t stop fighting until his heart ceased beating.
And yet it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to survive, to escape. Robin was the most fearless person Finney had ever met, and look how that’d turned out for him. How should Finney have any semblance of hope in his survival?
Finney felt the urge to vomit, his stomach gurgling and churning. His eyes grew wet, but for another reason now, and on shaking limbs he crawled for the toilet. Leaning over it, he wretched and heaved, but all his body expelled was stomach acid. It burned at his throat and left an awful taste in his mouth, one that would surely stick around for a long time to come. Possibly until he died.
His stomach ached so bad– The Grabber hadn’t given him much in the way of food and drink during his stay. Over seven days he’d only been fed twice, both being a measly plate of scrambled eggs and soda. It wasn’t enough to sustain himself on, only two meagre meals in a week had left him feeling lightheaded, and his limbs felt as though they had static trapped in them. At the rate he’s been going, the Grabber won’t even need to kill him– Finney will just end up starving to death.
Would starvation have been a preferable way to go, rather than what the Grabber had planned for him?
The sound of something smashing against the ground made Finney jump in place, looking up with wide, tear swollen eyes at the cause. Just as he’d expected, the Grabber had come downstairs. The tray he’d been holding lay forgotten on the floor, dropped in his surprise. The man was staring at the sheer damage he’d managed to do to his wall. He was going to be angry, beyond furious. He’d not only just tried to escape the night before, but he’d gone and wrecked the place afterwards. Finney pushed himself further into the corner, pulling his knees to his chest. Perhaps he hoped he could morph through the wall and escape if he pressed himself against it hard enough. A childish idea, but God, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? A child.
Slowly, movements calculated, the Grabber removed the upper portion of his mask from his face. All that remained was that grinning lower part. The mask hit the floor alongside the tray with a surprisingly loud noise. The mask looked like it should have weighed less.…
In that half mask, the Grabber’s eyes were visible to him. The emotions that passed through them, the pinch of his brow as anger overtook his expression. Finney preferred the masks that covered his whole face, that kept his expressions mostly obscured. It was dumb, wishing to plunge himself into wilful ignorance, to not be able to tell what the man was thinking through his face. Still, the wonder and mystery of it all would at least give him some hope that he wouldn’t react badly, that his feelings weren’t so obviously worn on his half exposed face.
“You…” His voice was low, gravelly, angry. Finney felt like he was going to be sick, dirty the shirt he’d been wearing the last seven days straight with his vomit. He sucked in a long, shaky breath, tempering down the whine that so pitifully wanted to escape him. Tears didn’t stop beading up in his eyes as the Grabber finally turned his eyes on him, looking down at the boy shivering and shaking in the corner, not only with fear, but exhaustion. With how tired he was after all that, there was no way he’d have any chance of fighting back. On a good day with full strength Finney would be completely useless against a grown man, but now? He might as well just lay down and let the man kill him.
The Grabber’s eyes fell on him, and once again he seemed to be struck with surprise. His eyes darted to and fro, analysing him. The Grabber had eyes that watched– looking eyes, eyes that observed. He always felt so incredibly watched when in the room with him. Gwen had eyes that spoke, eyes that could say so much while simultaneously saying nothing at all. In a way, the Grabber’s eyes spoke too. They said a lot, but not the way Gwen’s did. Gwen’s spoke calming reassurances, excitement and delight. The Grabber’s whispered sinister promises, told him exactly what he thought of him, how he wanted to hurt him. How he’d already hurt him. The way his and Gwen’s eyes spoke was so incredibly different.
“You…” The man's voice shot up in pitch, dropping the anger entirely. He approached him swiftly, and Finney scrambled, not upwards or away, nothing smart like that. He foolishly tried to scramble further back into the corner, like he’d just phase through, like he was already a ghost like the other’s. Like Robin. “Why are you crying? Don’t cry, please don’t cry…”
The Grabber swooped down to Finney’s level, cupping his face in his hands, rubbing away his tears. A sob forced its way past his lips oh so traitorously, and he clenched his eyes shut, blocking out the sight of his watching, speaking eyes. He tried to duck away, turning his face away and pulling his arms up to guard his face. The Grabber clicked his tongue and grasped Finney’s face just a little bit tighter, thumbs swiping insistently below his eyes. Finney’s breath hitched as he tried to suck in some air, shuddering as he tried to gain some sort of control over himself. But it was hard– the Grabber was right there, touching him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Oh gosh, kiddo, look what you’ve gone and done down here…” The Grabber sighed, and Finney winced. The grip the Grabber had on his face tightened, becoming painful as he presumably surveyed the damage. “You went and destroyed the damn place.”
Finney didn’t respond, swallowing thickly as he avoided the man's eyes.
The Grabber sighed, hands smoothing down his neck to rest upon his shoulders. They dug into the flesh uncomfortably, keeping him firmly in place. His voice became high and wispy once more, leaving Finney reeling. Once again, he was struck by the fact that tracking this man's mood is damn near impossible. “Fuck, kid. I only got this place fixed back up a few months ago. Cost an arm and a leg too. I oughta kill you for that.”
“Look at me.” Mutely, Finney shook his head. He fixed his eyes upon the shoulder of the Grabber’s shirt– not looking him in the eye, but keeping him within his line of sight nonetheless. The Grabber huffs. “ Me , Finney, not my shirt .”
“I wanna go home.” Finney mumbled shakily. His tears had begun to dry. He imagined that they’d washed a small amount of the grime no doubt covering him– or, more likely, moved it around. “Let me go, I… I don’t want to die, or s-stay here…”
“You know I can’t let you go. All you boys say the same things– it’s the one thing about you that’s predictable , Finney.” The Grabber released his left shoulder and poked him firmly in the chest a few times, as if to enunciate his words. “Most boys don’t play like you do, Finney. You wouldn’t play my game– I let my guard down around you. You took advantage of that, didn’t you?”
In reality, Finney had taken advantage of the Grabber’s complacency. Griffin had warned him about his lack of sleep, that he was asleep upstairs waiting for Finney to try and make an escape attempt. Finney wasn’t any different than the other boys– if he hadn’t had their guidance through the phone, he’d have fallen victim to Naughty Boy much earlier.
Voice thick and wet, Finney mumbled, “N-no…”
It was a pointless denial. They both already knew he had– there was no point in trying to lie. Still, Finney didn’t want to give in; admitting he’d tried to trick the Grabber felt like a sure death sentence.
The Grabber grabbed Finney by the chin, hands deceptively gentle as he guided his face upwards. To look him in the face. Finney felt his chin wobble in the man's hold as their eyes met, sniffling.
“You’re a liar, Finney Blake. You made that clear to me early on. Do you know what happens to liars?”
His grip tightened minutely. Finney just barely managed to force out a stilted reply, “I’m s-sorry… Please don’t. I won’t lie anymore.”
He thought he could hear the smile on the Grabber’s face despite his frowning false face. A hand that had remained on his shoulder slid down to grip just below his knee, thumb rubbing circles on his kneecap. The touch made him want to squirm– it was different than his dad patting his leg, or Gwen punching him in the shoulder. It felt wrong. Invasive.
Finney knew what everyone said about the Grabber. What he was supposedly doing to the boys he snatched up. The man had even referenced it before. Exhaustion weighed his limbs down, but he refused to go down without fighting.
Robin wouldn’t have given up like that. Wouldn’t have let the Grabber do those things without having fought like hell. If Finney could preserve just a fraction of his dignity despite the Grabber’s plans, then maybe he could face Robin again. To say he at least tried– after all, between the two of them, he’d never been the fighter.
The Grabber chuckled, and Finney’s stomach curled.
“I already told you I wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t
like
, right?”