Imi;

— Chapter One: Crawling Back to Hell

A grunt and a crack.

That was all it took to kill The Grabber. That was all it took to be free. That was all it took to put an end to it all.

The noises— those strangled, gurgling sounds, were the ones that plagued Finney Blake, an invisible weight on his shoulder. He couldn’t get away from the chaos, torture and agony. He and the basement became one entity. Neither could exist without the other. They had fused; they had mixed into a monster: a monster who murdered The Grabber, with a so, so simple-

Grunt and crack.

They were there on the sixth morning since his escape— the first night he spent truly alone. He had fallen from his bed, a grunt escaping the tight confines of his lips, and, when he rolled over to his back, his bones cracked as if broken. He could feel the wet stains of tears on his cheeks; he didn’t know, however, if he had simply cried the night before or had spent the entire night crying. Neither would be particularly good.

His legs shook violently as he rose from the tight space of his covers. They bundled him up every night like a coffin— he would never be able to sleep coverless again, nor would he rest in a room where the windows had free reign to let the sun- and any other unwelcome visitors- see him. He tried to keep the conditions in which he lived the direct opposite of how he ‘lived’ whilst in the basement.

It didn’t stop the terrors that came in his sleep.

His door was white, covered in stickers of space and the galaxy. When he looked at the sparkling lights of stars, he only saw the flickers of a white substance against the yellowing walls. When he looked at rockets, he only saw their tip, covered in blood, resting on top of a telephone box. When he looked at his life before, he could only see his life then. 

He opened it, a soft click echoing in the eerie silence of his house. What time was it? Nothing past six thirty in the morning: his sister wasn’t awake yet. She had school, and, as reluctant as she was to go, he knew it was her only refuge from the suffocating tension in the house— around him.

The softest trickles of daylight sprinkled in through their thin curtains, casting a dim glow over the kitchen. He could see into the corridor as he reached for a bowl and cereal from his cupboards, the toaster broken. He greeted the quiet with a rare smile; it was his friend when the only people to talk to him- except for Gwen, and his father occasionally- were the shadows he imagined in his room.

His eyes were heavy, and they felt like they may fall out of their sockets. He didn’t need a mirror to know that the circles under them would be dark; a pit of black against his deathly pale skin. His freckles weren’t able to hide how white he had grown over the past week: he wasn’t even able to remember the last time he had embraced the sun. The cold was familiar and cruel, though its icy hand was one of the only sure things in his life. Finn could always count on misfortune to be his continuous hindrance, no matter how much his life had changed.

His arm jolted, a random twitch, which made him lose his grasp on the bowl and cereal.

The cereal spread on the floor, the light taps of each grain shattering the peaceful silence, and the bowl clattered on the table. It panged a painfully loud sound, the noise ringing in his ears, ringing, ringing, ringing—

Ringing!

The phone. It was ringing. He drew himself from his spiral, taking tentative steps towards it. It glared at him, the colour smudging in his tired vision. It was threatening him, daring even. Why be scared of a red phone?

His steps grew more confident as he became aware of his surroundings: the light ticking of the clock, the hum from the radiator, and the chirp of birds outside. He swung his arms at his sides like a pendulum, long and heavy. 

When he reached the box, his hands were claw-like, harsh in the way they grabbed the phone and yanked the receiver towards him. He pushed it into the shell of his ear, ignoring the blooming pain from his harsh movements.

At first he was silent. Wary.

Then, he spoke in a hushed breath, his voice gruff and disused.

“Hello?” — he tapped a finger against the receiver, “is anyone there?”

There was a static, long and taut, and dread filled Finn like candle wax burning and dripping onto the dish that held it. A chill ran down his spine, but his entire world stopped when the voice spoke.

“Get to the basement,”

A moment passed. Another, and then Finn’s mind could not keep up with his lurching body.

He was tumbling, spinning mindlessly until he fell to the floor, and the phone plummeted from his hand, hanging itself up, but a singular, distinct thought gripped his mind, unable to let go:

Robin.

—

Get to the basement. Get to the basement. Get to the basement.

The words replayed in Finn’s mind as he rode down the street on his rusted bike, his hands shaking and his breathing shallow.

Robin was on the other end. Robin had called him, Finn, from the afterlife. Except this time, it hadn’t been from the black phone in the room where he died, but the phone that was in Finn’s own home. The blood-red phone that they had installed on their living room wall when Finn was seven. 

Their home was supposed to be safe. Not haunted, free from the delusions, craze and chaos from the world of ghosts which was slowly blending with his and his sisters' own. They were the rift between realities, he and Gwen: the ‘miracles’ they performed— the anomaly in the line of normal children with normal lives free of spirits and dreams. Finn hated that he could be considered special the way Gwen was. As much as he adored his sister, her abilities- her powers- had ruined her life, their mothers, and Finn’s. And now he would have to deal with the weight of his communication with those already passed, when he himself should be dead.

Finn was sure that it was his best friend's voice he heard. Who else had the adorable Spanish accent? Finn thought that the last words he would hear Robin say were going to be directed towards The Grabber, squirming on the floor of the makeshift bathroom, but he was wrong.

How was Robin able to call him? Hadn’t he moved on after The Grabber was killed? Was he not in Heaven?

The questions panged on the sides of his mind like a pinball, but one stood out from the rest: 

Where is Robin now?

Get to the basement.

So that was where he was going: the same place he had been taken and had tried so desperately to get away from. He was voluntarily clawing his way back to the place he had been held for a week, abused and raped, where he had witnessed a murder, almost had been murdered and where he committed murder.

The memory of the night after Griffin’s phone call cried for his attention. He had run, his legs screaming, his throat tight, his heart thrumming, for his goddamn life. He had prayed, in the moments his fingers were rubbing against the lock from their trembling, that The Grabber would not wake up. When he sprinted down the road, he hadn’t stopped to think, he was working on the pure, roaring adrenaline that had coursed through his veins, edging him on, to run, run, run.

And he was caught. 

He could still feel the cold, harsh metal of the knife at his neck, The Grabbers body rustling on top of him as tears fell from his eyes. The rush of fear and excitement swallowing his yells beforehand, his mind ten steps behind his rushing body, and how he had only been able to cry for help when it was too late. He had tried so hard, and the farthest he had gotten was twenty meters down the road. 

A car whirred behind Finn, which made him jolt his head around, his muscles tense. It was a white convertible. Newly cleaned. Its windshield echoed Finn’s own reflection- where he saw a greasy, exhausted boy cowering in front of him- but behind it held an old woman, her hair pulled into a bun, wearing a blue playsuit and neon green sunglasses. She was certainly not The Grabber. Why did he think she was?

What would happen when he got there? The reporters would be waiting for him. They would have microphones and cameras ready for his use; he had called in not long after he was told to–

Get to the basement.

Would he faint? Throw up? Get another flashback-memory? 

Would he see the house, its one story standing taller than any mansion, the windows dark and blackened, and realise that he had made a mistake? He could imagine it: him pedalling down the road in broad daylight, and then -when he caught sight of it- he would crash recklessly. His body would thump against the pavement where he had been thrown- knife on his neck- and then he would be back there, and The Grabber would watch him as he lay unconscious. The devil mask, the devil horns, the devil’s smile.

He rounded the bend. He could see the police tape now; it surrounded the entire estate. A little further down the road, another part was sectioned off, supposedly where he had been tackled. Bright and vibrant, the rolls stood out against the grey sky, the black text screaming warnings. The normality was long gone— before, the street would be civilian, just as regular As any other of the streets.

Get to the basement.

He caught sight of the house. His wheels jolted, but he didn’t fall. His biceps tensed, pulling at his shirt. A sharp inhale cut through the air, and yet his thoughts were still, his hands unshaking. An emptiness fell onto his stomach, similar to when he first emerged from the building. Numbness, as though he was in a block of ice, the rest of the world a smudged reflection. 

The walls of the house were rotting, green somethings growing from the corners. The roof slanted like any roof would, and the door was shut like most doors would be at seven AM. To any outsider, it was just another less-than-ideal suburban home on the edge of town. The owner was probably still dozing, their alarm clock ready to go off any minute now. Then, the owner would go to work, come home, eat dinner and go to bed, before doing it all over again.

Despite the police tape that made every other area look out of place, the house relaxed with the warnings. The colour blended with the yellow flowers behind it, the text similar to the house name, the drag of the wind on the paper identical to the way the sun-dial fluttered on the roof. As a crime scene, 7741 settled into its structure, and it wore its precautions like a model flashing its product. Why did the house look proud?

Vomit stirred in Finn’s stomach, and his mouth went dry. He had to hold himself together.

For Robin.

He continued to pedal, and once the reporters down the road, just outside of the house, caught sight of him, they squirmed like ants under Finn’s boot. Many of them called their cameramen and full on ran towards him, eager to be the one to get the infamous Finney Blake’s tell on the story. Their eyes were alight and ecstatic. Many of the cameramen who held high-tech machinery fumbled under the weight, a few tripping whilst partaking in the perilous crusade to get to him.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the basement without going through the hoard first.

He met them halfway, and before he knew it, he was seated next to a policeman who had knocked the news reporters away like flies. He said that this was confidential business, and that Finn’s information was only going out to a police report and one (lucky) news station, but that would be very limited.

They were inside of a van, but it wasn’t anything like The Grabber’s. It was more like a house than a vehicle, large and spacious, bright lights shining down on Finn, the police reporter- a middle aged man named Detective Wright- and a singular camera man, a blond named Felix. Detective Wright had told him that the camera was only there for evidence purposes, and that this footage wasn’t going to be shown on live television. Finn seriously doubted that, a twinge of distrust settling in his stomach that made him recoil into the back of his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at the men. 

Finn was relieved that he didn’t have to go in the house just yet, however— he couldn’t even see it from the tinted windows. Detective Wright held a clipboard on his lap, so Finn could see all of the questions printed out in black ink, but he couldn’t properly read them before Detective Wright raised the papers into his hands and sighed. 

The silence was harsh, unlike the solitude Finn so often enjoyed.

“Why aren’t we in a police station?” Finn asked, surprising himself and Detective Wright. The question had just popped up, and it was fired from his mouth before he had the chance to stop it.

“Ah- well, Finney, we thought that this would be a safer environment for you? We supposed your parents would come, but, um, well-” Detective Wright stuttered, but Finn interrupted him immediately.

“My dads a big softie. He couldn’t imagine coming here, where I was, y’know,” Finn said quietly, the lie rolling off of his tongue like cigarette smoke. Felix scoffed, and Finn heard him murmur something similar to ‘massive pussy’. 

“Right, well, let's get started, shall we? Just tell me if you need a break or anything, I won’t judge,” Detective Wright smiled and winked. His teeth were yellow.

Finn just nodded. His stomach felt numb again. This man really had no empathy, did he?

The first day after his escape, Finn woke up in the hospital around one PM. He had been thoroughly checked out, and the only injuries he had were on his head- where The Grabber had knocked him unconscious- and his arm. Apparently, he had torn something whilst killing The Grabber, but the nurses just iced it and told him he would be fine. She had avoided his eyes like he would be able to kill her with them. 

At least, those were the only injuries they had told him about. Gwen, however, had reported to him, through a wall of snot and tears, that he had injuries related to sexual assault. It was the first time Finn realised what had happened to him when The Grabber drugged him in the van.

In the afternoon he woke up, sympathy was endless. He had a tower of get-well-soon cards from his ‘friends’-his classmates that never even talked to him- and a box of chocolates from Donna, but Finn didn’t really care for that. What he did care for was that Robin was dead.

The coos and soft assurances wore off by day three. He was taken by storm by a barrage of snide insults, saying that he should be grateful that he was alive and he should just come back to school already. Boys don’t cry. That day was the hardest because the numbness had pulled away, and it was replaced by agony. Gwen had tried, even though she was sobbing herself every time a tear fell from Finn’s own eyes, to comfort him. They lay in the hospital bed together, and, when their father inevitably walked in, he had walked back home from disgust.

The look of ‘hold yourself together, you’re a boy,’ was evident on Detective Wright’s and Felix’s faces.

Wright picked up a pen, scrawling a few words at the top of the page. A light click sound fell from Felix’s camera, and a red light flickered, before the man cut a hand through the air to gesture to start. Finn had to muffle a flinch, Felix’s hand flickering into an axe in his imagination, before returning to its large, hairy state.

“Can you tell me about how exactly you were taken?” Wright began, his eyebrows furrowed inquisitively.

“I was walking home from school,” Finn swallowed. Why didn’t he think about how hard this would be before coming here? He hadn’t even told Gwen about the worst of it, how was he supposed to tell these strangers?

“He t-tripped from his van. It was black, had abr… abracadabra on it. The whole situation was…rehearsed,” The room grew stuffy, the air tense. When Finn didn’t elaborate, Wright prompted him, “Did you help him up?” 

Finn nodded. Felix clenched his jaw and shook his head slightly.

He hated that he was stuttering. Each word felt like a labour to get out, their syllables attached to a rope, which was, in turn, attached to his heart. They held a weight in his chest, pushing against his lungs and cracking his spine. He was telling these men- whom he had just met- how he had been taken. Drugged, raped and starved. Somehow, he felt like he was admitting to a crime. And the worst part was that he knew that it was his own fault.

 It was he that had helped The Grabber up, was it not? He had brought it upon himself, and if he were smart enough to realise that the suspicious black man parked not far from school whilst there was a serial kidnapper around should set off blaring alarm bells, he would not have been taken in the first place. Neither would have Robin, if Finn had learnt to be a good friend, for once, and showed up to the Arellano’s house so he could walk with Robin to the store.

Bitterness raised in his throat, but he swallowed it down, stammering out the next words like a gladiator fighting a lion.

“When- when I got close enough… he dragged black balloons out of the van— the back of the van and I scratched his arm. H-he put some kind of drug down my mouth.” As he spoke, Finn’s throat became tight. He could feel tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. Boys don’t cry. His chest tightened, a knot tying around his heart. 

“I know it may be kind of hazy, but do you remember him raping or sexually assaulting you in any way?” 

Finn nodded again, despite not exactly remembering it. Felix swallowed hard and tutted.

He fought the tears from returning. God, he was pathetic.

“Were you starved, neglected or disallowed drink whilst in the basement?”

Finn nodded, the gesture the only thing he felt like he could do.

“How often were you fed?”

“I don’t know. I lost track of time,”

The next few questions passed in a haze. They were something about conditions, what the basement smelt like, if he ever went upstairs, et cetera. The emotions of frustration and guilt slowly started to wear off, each passing second drifting him farther away from the world and the detective and himself.

It was odd. Finn didn’t exactly feel the despair he felt when he told Gwen about The Grabber. Rather, he didn’t feel anything at all. He was hardly paying attention— or maybe he couldn’t. It was like he had retreated into the back of his mind as some kind of sick hide and seek, and he couldn’t find himself to make him aware of what was happening to him— the boy currently being interviewed. The icy-numb feeling had taken over his entire body; he felt like he was watching himself get interrogated, and he wasn’t Finney Blake. He was an anonymous spectator, invisible and passing, unable to interact with his surroundings or choose what the boy in front of him would say. If a thought came to his head, sometimes the boy would blurt it out randomly- perhaps an unrelated aspect of the basement or the blood on the wall- but sometimes the boy would say something completely different.

Maybe this was what it was like to be a ghost?

The feeling wore off when he described The Grabber’s death, conveniently leaving out details on the other victims final words. The media wouldn’t believe him, anyway, if he told them that it was not his own creativity and skill that led him to use a rope in the wall to trip up The Grabber. It was not he that used a pre-dug hole left by Bruce Yamada to trap The Grabber. No, not he who came up with the idea to use the window bars to break the monster's ankle. Not him who wanted to fill the phone with dirt to knock the guy's skull in. Not him who found the freezer and used the meat to lure the dog away.The media would never believe him if he told them that it was the spirits of dead kids. That if he were alone he surely would have died. The people of North Denver would always believe that Finney Blake used his clever intuition and resourcefulness to add up all of the loose cannons in the basement into one deadly weapon that destroyed The Grabber; they would always believe that the other boys simply didn’t see what they could do and didn’t use what they had available to them. The people of North Denver would never know that each of the five had some kind of input that led to The Grabber’s death, and Finn hated it. The boys had tried so hard, each of them, and they all killed The Grabber in some way. Finn was just the lucky one who was able to tip the scale. He knew he did the least and still managed to survive. He owed everything to those boys: they had saved his life.

Get to the basement. He was going to do it for them.

“Right, so. That’s pretty much it, Finney. Thank you for this, you held yourself together quite well.” Wright grinned. A tear rolled down Finn’s cheek, and he rubbed it away with the edge of his sleeve roughly, the wetness of it shocking him. It felt like fire against his skin, burning its way through him. The hairs on his neck prickled. 

However, a grumble sounded from the other side of the room, a few lost words falling to Finn's ears. 

“—six days… grateful— alive…. sulking? Bullshit,” Felix was packing his set away, but Finn could see the curve of his lips as he spoke. The wind roared outside, making a desperate attempt to hide the blasphemy that Felix cried. 

Finn’s eyes darted to him, and then to Wright, who didn’t seem to have heard him. 

Today’s the day you’re going to stop taking shit from anybody.

“Excuse me?” He said, a little louder than intended.

Felix raised a brow.

“I’m sorry?” Felix questioned, his voice croaky.

“Why the hell would I need to stop fucking sulking? Were you even listening to what I just said?” Finn yelled, his hands flying in front of him. He knew he was overreacting, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. All of his sorrows, his screams muffled by pillows, his endless intrusive thoughts that have raged in his mind— all fell from their compartment in his chest, coming through a filter of anger.

What did the man know about Finn? How could he possibly say that Finn is sulking? How dare he curse upon Finn’s troubles like an emotionless psycho?

Felix attempted to stammer out a response, but Finn cut it off. 

“No! I’m not grateful, I’m hardly relieved to be out of that shithole. They’re all dead! They’re all dead!” He cried, growing hysterical as he repeated the final phrase. More tears, perilous and merciless, fell like boulders from the sky, and he let the drip off of his face and onto his shirt, or neck, or into his mouth.

“I fucking murdered him! The bastard who murdered my best friend, my Robin—” He stopped abruptly, catching himself in his words. He exhaled, hands pulling at his hair as his eyes widened. His Robin? Oh, god, he sounded like a—

“How dare you scream at me, you fa-!”

“That’s enough!” Wright stepped in between the two. Finn’s breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Felix, pack up and go. I’ll talk to you later,” Wright commanded. Felix threw Finney a glare, stomping past him.

However, he stopped, and leaned in close to Finn’s ear. He could feel Felix’s hot breath on the crane of his neck, his tongue wet and slimy. Finn froze. Goosebumps arrived on his skin as he felt his entire body tense, his muscles shaking but alert, his mind stuck. 

“It shouldn’t’ve been you who survived. I’m glad your queer boyfriend died, actually, but the likes of Hopper would have been better to make it out,” he snarled. “In fact, if a pussy like you could have done it, it couldn’t have been that hard. Those boys deserved what they got, they were obviously stupid fucks- hardly men- if you killed Shaw and they couldn’t,”                          

The next moments passed in a blur. Finn had turned on the balls of his feet as he grabbed the nearest thing to him— a metal rod that had held up the camera, and whacked Felix across his jaw. Crack! He stumbled, a cry escaping his lips as his back collided with the ground. He was pathetic, and rage throttled the edges of Finn’s sight as the echo of steps, harsh and panicked, knocked onto the walls. His knuckles were white from his grip, his nails digging so deep into his palm that they threatened to break.

You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back, and swing! 

The man in front of him squealed, screaming and growling and—

The Grabbers' cries were animalistic, similar to the barks of Samson from the other room. The phone felt like a brick in his palm, and he wielded it like a deadly weapon. Again and again, he swung at the man in the ground, his legs moving quickly and his steps repetitive.

You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back, and swing!

Blood roared in his ears, his shirt drastically falling against his back like concrete. The Grabber’s face was fairly bloody; his nose ran red and his chin rosey. Finn’s hair fell in front of his eyes as he raised his arm again, the edges of the phone rubbing onto his fingers as they ached from his grip.

When he swung, his wrist fell into the grasp of The Grabber, who jerked him down. The heat of his body blazed like fire as he made an attempt to wrap his arms around Finn. Sweat fell from his brow- his hands wailed around frantically- his feet bounced against the floor—

His aching fingers found The Grabber’s mask as he yanked it off, throwing it forwards.

The Grabber howled and let go of Finn, who leapt back up and sprang away from the man. The monster screamed as he brought his hands to his face- unaware, unready, unprotected. Finn hit him again, sweat training down the receiver, and The Grabber’s back collided with the edge of the hole. He cried out loudly, his eyes wide between his hairy fingers, his hair wrapping around his face as it stuck to the sweat lathered there. 

Finn didn’t have time to think— all he saw as he wrapped the cord around his fists was an opportunity. Blood trickled through The Grabbers fingers, and Finn jumped forwards, hooking the wire around The Grabbers neck. He leapt over the man and dived behind him, pulling as hard as he could— pulling, pulling, pulling. His heart beat rapidly against his chest as his kidnapper choked and gargled; his hands having been removed from his face so he could claw at the wire. Finn bit down onto his tongue, and his intestines churned, the remnants of spit and tears clinging to his cheeks.

The phone rang.

“This is for you,” Finn grumbled. He glared down at The Grabber, who was holding on to the wire, pulling with all of his strength— but it wasn’t enough. The man hardly seemed to notice Finn had said anything, but he stilled when Finn pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Welcome to the nightmare end of your pathetic little life!” Billy spat, and Finn could imagine the ghosts huddled around the scene at that moment. The Grabber almost seemed shocked as he involuntarily spat out a tooth, which fell onto his chin, and a splatter of blood joined the rest. Finn’s face remained set and grim: he stared forwards with his jaw clenched.

A giggle fell from the other line. “You don’t have much time!” Griffin sneered. It was the same line he had said before his escape hours, maybe days, ago. The Grabber struggled beneath him, and Finn held to the wire tightly. A swirl of air, heavy and mighty, stomped by him, crouching above The Grabber’s pathetic face.

“Today’s the day, motherfucker!” Vance yelled, though Finn could hear the joy in his voice. He swore he was able to see the anger waving through the air, hot like coal.

“I can’t kill you hijo de puta, so Finn is going to do it for me!” Robin taunted, and Finn was glad that he could make his best friend proud; he watched as The Grabber’s eyes flashed with fear— this man, this monster, this murderer, was afraid of Finn, and it filled him with adrenaline that coursed through his veins and made his thighs weak.

“Finn's arm is mint!” 

In one, final, jolting motion, Finn hauled himself upwards, then his body cut through the air—

A grunt and a crack.

Finn felt dizzy. The edges of his vision swirled, shards of the basements slipping through. He couldn’t see anything; everything blurred together in one massive haze. However, he could make one thing out— a cascade of red. It covered everything in front of him like a large maroon carpet.

Then he could hear it- a wave of sounds fell at him from all directions. Yelling, a dog barking— and shrill, ear-splitting screams that filled the entire van like a flood, rattling the glass and making Finn draw back from the mirage of red below him.

And then he could feel hands on his shoulders, tugging— no, trying to tug him away from the red on the ground. Hands gripped every inch of his torso: his chest, his stomach and his waist quivered beneath the tight touch, and he squirmed helplessly, his mind begging for the presence to be lifted from his body.

When his sight regained focus, he realised that he was the one screaming.

Felix lay underneath him, and a third of a large metal pole had been lodged into his shoulder. Another third of the pole Finn held in his right hand- the end of it was covered with blood. It pooled on the ground underneath Felix’s head; his blond hair swirled with patches of it. Finn’s shirt was covered with it, he could feel it on his neck, his hands were drenched in it. Felix’s face was unrecognisable: bloodied and beaten— someone had attempted to gouge his eyes out, a large gash surrounded the area, his left cheek had been beaten to the point Finn could see the bone, and most of his teeth were knocked out. His temple glistened with red, a cut across the brow.

The tugging feeling didn’t stop. There were hands all over Finn now, but they hadn’t hauled him away. 

That’s when he felt the pain. It shot through the back of his right ankle, and he jolted his neck to look down.

The final part of the metal rod had been stabbed into his ankle- veins, flesh and skin pouring  out- and was lodged into the bottom of the van. 

—

When he regained consciousness, Finn was in a hospital bed. His eyes fluttered slightly; his limbs were numb and his vision was blurry. His head stung, stars covering his eyes as he brought a cold, shaking hand to them to shield out the searing white lights that stung him from above. He was cold: the sheet he was under was no thinner than a curtain, and goosebumps arose on his skin. A slight breeze wafted in from a window on his left, and in the direction he was facing was a large blue wall.

No, not a wall, a divider.

It was a sheet that was used in a hospital in order to separate two beds for privacy— there had been one when Finn first woke up hours after his escape. He remembered his last thoughts before drifting off in the ambulance: I’m free, and Gwen is here, and the last thought- the one that heeded no mercy with its fatal truth— Robin is dead.

Waking up in the hospital was the first time he had opened his eyes to something other than a grown man in a devil mask or blood stained walls— it was jarring, and he had leapt from the bed. He didn’t know where he was at first— he thought he was still in the basement. He had grabbed the male doctor that had been at his side by the collar when he woke and whacked him with the phone that was attached to the wall (a luxury reserved for the grandest patients, but Finn later learned he was considered under this category because of his ‘unfortunate circumstances’). Gwen had to get Finn off of the doctor, and only after did he realise what had happened: he had escaped, and holy fuck he just hit an innocent man. 

He apologised profusely after.

However, this room was couldn’t be a hospital, he wasn’t—

Oh.

The memories came flooding back like a reservoir flushing out of an open dam. The phone call, Robin’s voice, the interrogation, that bastard Felix: he had blacked out. He could feel the wisps of a flashback stirring in his memory: he caught glimpses of it, but it was faint. He got the jist of which memory, however. Finn also recalled that when he had regained control of himself, Felix was below him, beaten shitless; a metal rod was lodged into his shoulder and hands were attempting to tug him away, but they couldn’t, because—

He jolted upright, his head dizzy and his vision flashing slightly because of the quick movement, but he was able to catch sight of his ankle. It was bandaged: the wrapping was lazy and poor, and there were remnants of dried blood on it. He flexed the muscle, which caused a flash of pain to enwrap his entire lower leg- but it had been stitched. He let out a sigh of relief. Who had stabbed his foot? Why did it go all the way through, and then smash into the ground so that it wouldn’t move? Now that he thought about it, his muscle was probably torn— maybe the bone had been shattered.

Heavy and tugging, he swallowed the bile that arose in his mouth, which had become sourly dry. The room was spinning, and he blinked furiously until it was able to stop, but his body was shaking. Everything seemed a whole lot colder— he wanted to tug the blanket around him until he was wrapped into a cocoon, and then smother himself with the pillow that did nothing but make his neck ache. He truly hated hospitals. How could he not, after it was the place where his mother had been pronounced dead? The night squirmed in the back of his memory, but he squashed down swiftly, attempting to focus on his current situation.

That’s when his thoughts were cut off as a doctor walked into the room. She had brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail and was sporting goggles that sat on the lump of her nose awkwardly, and her entrance caused a bustle of clatter and noise to spill into his room. He swore he heard his name bellow from someone’s mouth, followed by the word murderer. Finn was glad that she was a woman, he didn’t want a repeat of last time–

Two officers, both flanked with guns on the hips and one with a taser in his hand, followed behind her. The larger officer glared down at Finney, his mouth slightly open as if he had seen a fatal accident. He was angry, his face red from the way he had squeezed it, and his eyebrows were furrowed until they almost touched. His jaw was clenched- as well as his fists- and his glare reminded Finn of that feeling of being watched. Specifically, by a ghost. The other refused to meet his eyes, instead hiding behind the safety of his gun- his hips leading his walk as though he was flashing the firearm- but instead he looked stupid.

“Ah, Finney. I see you’re awake!” The doctor exclaimed, although her eyes cautiously flashed over to his injury, and then back to his face. He said nothing. The look she had given him reminded him of how the detectives stared at him from afar after visiting the basement: astonished yet horrified. Astonished that the malnourished child in front of them managed to murder a full grown man. He was astonished, too. However, the detectives from his escape also entitled him to pity. These officers' gaze held nothing of the sort, instead nearing something of disgust, or, rather, hatred. The first officer‘s eyes darted to Finn’s face, alive with rage that he could not explain.

“So, these kind officers have heard about your— ah, circumstances, and they have decided to let you off. You’re just going to have to wait in the station with them until someone comes to pick you up, alright?” She cooed, as though she was speaking to a baby. However, a tinge of confusion ran through Finn— why on earth was he going to get arrested in the first place?

“What? Why?” He asked, moving himself in a way that shot a stab of pain in his leg.

The hip officer stepped forwards, and recited Finn his rights, which only made him more confused. He then continued with—

“Pal, you are coming with us for charges of alleged assault. You’re lucky Felix Frothman is alive,” 

Finn’s mouth dropped. A moment passed as his mind was on pause, and then it whirred to life, and a million thoughts grasped at him at once. This had not happened before, he hadn’t tried to attack anyone, let alone get caught for something like that (par The Grabber, but he has yet to be put in court for it). His face must’ve mirrored this, as the angry officer took a half step forward. 

“You will be spending time in the slammer until your parents pick you up, kid,” 

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Mr Blake, you attacked Felix Frothman, an American Citizen!” The glaring officer yelled, his voice alive with anger that made spit bubble in his mouth, “From reports, it has been said that you tore a metal rod in thirds using some kind of levydevice- then stabbed Frothman in the shoulder with one third, and used the second to- to beat him! You then used the third to stab-” his coworker swatted him down, hand covering his mouth as his eyes widened. 

Finn couldn’t breathe. 

His heart hammered in his chest, he didn’t do that, he couldn't have. He didn’t attack that man. He didn’t attack that man. He gasped, but it felt like no air went into his lungs. The last part of the officer's sentence swiftly hit him, and it did so like a truck.

He had stabbed himself so the officers couldn’t tug him away.

A wave of nausea fell over him like a boulder, pulling him under debris that squeezed his lungs until he threatened to pop. Mostly, however, he felt guilty. Not of attacking Frothman, no, but of attacking himself. How could he do that? After all the other boys didn't keep him alive, he just goes and hurts himself anyway? He was helpless; a self-sacrificing idiot! His chest raised and fell shakily, his inhales long but his exhales stuttered and staggering. His face flushed, and he could distantly make out the unhappy looks from the adults in the room: they’d be disappointed in him, too.

Bile poured in his throat, the threat of vomit preying nastily on him. The man had- and he had—

Today’s the day you're going to stop taking shit from anybody.

Finn gasped, as though Robin’s memory allowed him to breathe. His eyes felt like they were ready to cry, but he blinked furiously and regained his composure, straightening himself in the bed. His vision cleared slightly, and as his moving chest became more and more stable, Finn allowed himself to think. Felix had deserved it; he had called Robin a—-

He didn’t want to think about that. The man had said that Robin deserved to die: Finn was not going to let him get away with that. His best friend had told him that Finn had to stand up for himself. He had done that when he killed The Grabber, and he will continue to do that, because that was Robin’s dying wish. Felix Frothman fell under the category of people he was not to take ‘shit’ from.

He would honor that god damned wish- if that would be called so, if not an order- until the day he died. Which, following his track record, would be pretty soon.

Finn stood abruptly, ignoring the protest of the doctor as pain shot through his injury. He muffled his grunt as he fell onto his left leg, and limped towards the officers. 

“Am I free to go, Doctor?”  He spared her a side glance, but it was not really a question— Finn was going to leave, whether she liked it or not.

He yanked a crutch from the corner of the room, and pushed out of the wooden door.

He walked out of the hospital, adorned with two police officers who followed him like wary bulls, and into the cop car that waited outside: ignoring the outright stares of horror as he passed through the corridors.

—

The police station was nicer than Finn thought it would be. When he got into the police car, he was half-expecting to be attacked by both of the officers; they wore the same set, grim face that made Finn squirm under his own skin. But, just as the car had been, the station was neat, ignoring the smoke fumes of cigarettes and brand bottles, it was well hosted, which confused him. After all, this was the place criminals went, why put in the effort to make it ‘nice’?

He wasn’t put behind bars, but it was most likely only because the holding cell of the station was full of grown men (and some women) racked in gang tattoos, a few morons drunk out of their minds, a couple of nazis screaming fascism and the one or two prostitutes thrown in the mix. Finn was terrified that he was going to get put in there once he first arrived— but the officers only spared it a glance, grunted and then hauled him to one of their desks, practically throwing him onto the seat. It was leather, torn and rugged. Whenever he moved, the wheels squeaked uncomfortably, and every jolt made him scared that he was going to fall flat on his face.

After about half an hour, a new officer approached him- a woman with thick auburn hair pulled into a tight bun- with a notepad and a stern look on her face. Finn gulped, sitting up straighter and pulling his crutch towards him. She reminded him of Gwen. She dressed tightly, her clothes pulled around her body as if several sizes too small, and her eyes certainly had seen things. His mother always said that the eyes were the door to the soul, and if that were true, this woman’s soul had been beaten and bruised, and froze over to protect itself. Gwen said that he was always good at reading people— said that that was the way he was special. Having talked to ghosts, he wasn’t so sure. However, he had to reconsider when he saw this woman, laid out in front of him like an open book. 

“So. Boy,” she spat, pulling a chair in front of Finn and somehow magically stopping hers from squeaking. She squinted at him, pouting her lips and furrowing her eyebrows. She was an older woman; a couple wrinkles covered her face as she spoke. She scared Finn. She was trying to intimidate him, yes, but unlike most people, there was a genuine bite to it.

“I’ve heard about your little mishap in the police van,” She flipped a page in her notebook, averting her eyes to glare at the paper as though it killed her mother. Finn nodded, drawing her attention back to him. Her eyes drew into slits, as though she were a cat. 

“As well as your kidnapping and your murder of Shaw,” she said matter of factly. She didn’t shy away from the truth, a circumstance was useless to her, Finn supposed. However, he didn’t know this Shaw. He killed The Grabber.

“Who?” He asked, the confusion in his voice evident. She raised a brow.

“Albert Shaw. Galesburg Grabber. Y’kow, you snapped his neck. Clean cut, as the officers say,”

Finn paused. 

A moment passed, then he chortled with laughter, snorting into his fists. The woman shot him a glare that could cut glass. 

Of course he had a name. He couldn’t have just been The Grabber. What was he thinking— that he went about his day to day life with people calling him that? T.G? The one that’s in the papers, y’know, Suzan— he likes kids.  

That was ridiculous. Albert Shaw was his name, and he was the one who took Finn, who took Robin, who took all of the boys. Albert Shaw did that. 

So why did giving him a proper name feel so sickly? To put a name on a monster would make them human— someone with feelings, thoughts, dreams. Albert Shaw would be able to go about his day in his normal house, where kids weren’t stashed away. Albert Shaw could sleep at night with the blissful serenity and safety of his own bed. Albert Shaw was someone with a family, friends, a job, a life. 

The idea that his kidnapper had a life sent a shiver down his spine. Monsters didn’t have lives. The Grabber did not have a life outside of his constant torment and the pleasure he took out of it. The Grabber stalked kids, drugged and then raped them, brought them to a basement to trick and kill them. Naughty Boy. The Grabber was The Grabber, nothing more, nothing less. The Grabber could not be Albert Shaw.

The officer snapped her fingers in front of him, drawing his attention.

“If I were working on that case, I wouldn’t have left you so easily. But here we are,” she commented, almost to herself more than to Finn, and then flipped the page again. Had she even written anything on that, or was it just for dramatic effect? If so, it worked.

“We need someone to pick you up. Did you think you could stay here all day?” She waved a hand about, which made Finn notice her name tag attached to her blazer— Lt Joan Cutly. The name fits the personality. Her dismissal of Finn, however, struck him as rather rude. But he had learnt not long after his mother’s death to keep his mouth shut if an adult was reprimanding him— it was better that way, and he probably deserved it. 

When Finn said nothing, Cutly looked at him hot-headedly, urging him to speak.

Finn weighed his options. He could give her Terrence’s phone number, but that would probably mean he would receive some sort of chastisement. He could see that his dad was trying— he really was! But, day by day, he could see the gentle gaze fall from his eyes, slowly pulling back into the familiar anger. He had even caught himself mid-swing after he almost hit Finney (he dropped a plate, causing it to smash). Gwen was out of the picture. She didn’t have a phone to herself, Finn would just end up reaching his father. The Arellano’s would be his next option, before Robin’s death- his chest ached at the reminder- Ms Mary Arellano was a second (or only) mother to him. She may pick him up, but he didn’t want him to bring her out of her house. Especially since she would be grieving her son's death, which Finn currently was trying to undo, or whatever would happen when he got to the basement. So, who—

He didn’t need anyone to pick him up. He had to get to the basement.What was he thinking? Get to the basement. That's simple.

“No one,” he said simply. After all, what was the point in acting the good guy if he was getting Robin back? Nothing mattered if Robin came back.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll just walk home,” he stated. 

“No, you won’t. You need an adult to pick you up,” she sassed, glaring daggers at him again.

“I’m really sorry but I really have to—”

He jumped out of his seat, grabbing his crutch and speeding towards the exit. He could hear Cutly scream something behind him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t draw much attention. He was an injured kid, so no officers even blinked an eye. The cries of Cutly were ignored; someone had told her to shut the fuck up, but he kept running, adrenaline roaring through his veins.

He had learnt how to run on a crutch when he broke his leg in fifth grade and had to get away from bullies. He was practically a pro. The air-con whirled in his hair as he took the swift strokes through the air like a swimmer through a pool, his eyes flickering open and shut. He couldn’t help but sport a dorky, dumb grin that made his teeth flash. He was sprinting away from cops, giggles sprouting from his lips, choking on air, and he had never felt more alive.

As he darted out of the door, the wind hit his face and the sun gleamed in his eyes. His broken ankle swelled and throbbed, but as he walked onto the road and signalled a taxi, it was numbed away by his rushing thoughts. 

He was going to get back to Robin. It didn’t matter who stood in his way— Felix Frothman, Detective Wright, the doctor, the police or Cutly, or even himself— he was getting back to Robin.

The universe had given him a chance, apparently, and he was going to take it. To stop taking shit from anybody, he had to stop taking the shitty life that God had given him. 

Fuck that shit, he wasn’t taking it!

—Chapter Five: Stumbling and Fallen Heroes

He had to be crazy. He had to be a madman.

But he remembers it all, he remembers what he should. He could remember how he had been kidnapped, drugged and loaded into the back of the van like a pig for slaughter, and he knew he could remember being thrown through worlds: Robin’s memories, the black abyss and the Purgatory in which he had been tortured. He knew the truth, that meek, horrifying and abysmal truth.

He knew that had happened, but he also knew of events that… overlapped.

He was stiff whilst walking back from Robin’s house. He wanted for everything to go back to normal. But that wasn’t possible. There was a cold, numb feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked ahead, his eyes as blank as a canvas.

He knew that on the twenty-fourth, he was kidnapped. In his world. But he also knew, that on the twenty-fourth, he had gone home and gotten beaten for being too pussy to fight against Matty’s gang. In this world.

He didn’t know which story to believe: the one where he had experienced boundless terrors, or the one where nothing happened at all?

But he knew he had been tortured, just half an hour ago. Which lined up with his original mindset.

He also still had the broken ankle.

So why, how, had those things both happened at once? Why could he remember both?

He arrived at the front of his house. The door loomed over him, threatening him, intimidating him as it had always done since his mother’s death. Since the death of himself and Gwen, in some ways. The dark wood cast a shadow against his face, and he returned its evil darkness with this blank stare. He was too tired to even care, too tired to bother with the rage of his father. He was so fucking tired. Not even two weeks ago, he had been kidnapped, and then he killed a man. A week after that, he had received a phone call from his supposedly dead best friend. Then, he beat a man, got tortured by an evil spirit in the house he was kidnapped in, broke into a morgue, revived Robin, witnessed Robin die, killed himself, got tortured again and was blasted here.

When will he get a fucking break?

He launched his hand towards the door handle and yanked it down, before throwing it open like it was a canon launcher. He was met with the face of his furious sister, and the even more furious Terrance Blake. His good-for-nothing father, who, as far as Finn could tell, cared jackshit for the well-being of his children.

Terrance’s jaw was locked and he held his belt- conveniently the one with extra metal- in a closed fist: he held it so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and his hand began to shake. He knew this had to be a different world from his own. If he had been kidnapped, then his father would be less violent. But this— he had been thrown into the time in which he was beaten at home and at school. The ‘benefits’ of his escape would’ve been that he wouldn’t get attacked anymore: he knew Matty’s gang wouldn’t do it now that he’d killed a man.

But, if he were never kidnapped, then Gwen would have never gone through what she did. She wouldn’t have had to storm out of the house at night to look for him; she wouldn’t have had to take part in countless police interviews with the likes of Felix Frothman. Would she still have the horrid dreams she told him about? Did this world’s Gwen know of it all— did she see it when she slept?

He glanced over to her. Her expression was that of worry. He recognised it immediately: it was how they looked at each other before their father beat them. She doesn’t know. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked back to his father, fixing him with a hard glare.

“Hi, dad,” he said stiffly. Terrance’s nostrils flared and his eyes went alight with fury.

“The kitchen. Now,” he snarled, his teeth gritted. Finn exhaled, trying so hard not to punch his father, and walked into the room, turning his back to Terrance. He didn’t want to deal with this, and if he had been less tired, he may have known not to turn away from the belt. But he did. The idiot that he was, he did.

Thwack.

The sound echoed through the room. Finney had no consciousness to react. He just stood there, frozen. He slowly turned back around, his hands shaking, and looked up to Terrance. He had hit him with the belt across his back, just below where his neck joined his shoulders. The sensation burnt, but it was nothing compared to what he had undergone in The Grabbers kitchen, or the Purgatory, or when he shot himself. It was hardly a scratch.

But that didn’t mean that he would put up with this bullshit. He was too fucking tired to deal with it, too familiar with the bite. He had had enough of being kicked around like a puppy. He wouldn’t have to fight people if they’d stop fucking pissing him off.

“No,” he whispered simply. Gwen’s eyes widened to plates and she brought a hand to her mouth.

“Excuse me?” Terrance demanded, his voice low and shaking. He sounded like he could begin to yell any second now, to hit him again. Did he not understand? Finn wouldn’t deal with it.

“Fuck off.” He walked past Terrance, who had tightened in on himself, and marched up the stairs. He heard the patter of Gwen’s steps as she ran after him, obviously not keen on being the target of their father’s rage.

Finn went to his room and slammed the door, locking himself in. He ignored the way his space decorations were hung differently, the way the jersey was hung proudly on his closet, the way there was a newspaper on his desk and walked over to his school bag. He always kept it packed in case he needed to run from Terrance and live on the street for a day.

He hauled it over his shoulder. He was in a state of numbness: he didn’t quite feel anger, or sadness. He just didn’t feel anything. He was too exhausted to.

He emptily walked into Gwen’s room and opened the door.

“Come on,” he said flatly, gesturing for her to get up.

She looked confused at first, but quickly nursed her expression into solemn agreement. She obviously didn’t know what happened to Finn to make him refuse a beating, but yet she understood. She understood that something happened, and now, he just couldn’t deal with Terrance. She understood his emotions better than he did: she showed him that she was there, even if she didn’t know the full truth.

Gwen scattered to her feet and followed him through the hallway and into the top floor bathroom. There, they opened the window and threw the bag into a bush below, before sliding down the drainage pipe. Finn went first, ignoring the whistling wind in his hair as he dropped down, and then he helped Gwen to the floor. He put his hands under her armpits and gently released her from the pole, then placed her onto the spot in the mud next to him.

They knew this procedure better than they knew themselves. They had to do it a million times, in a million different situations, in a million different physical and mental states. They’ve had to do it at least once a month since their mothers death- on the fifteenth, most times. That was the day she had killed herself- January fifteenth, to be exact- and on each monthly anniversary of her death their father was the worst.

It didn’t help that January Fifteenth was also Gwen’s birthday.

Finn hauled the bag from the bush and the pair silently walked away from the house, embracing the winds upon their skin. Mostly, they would go to Robin’s whenever this happened, but that was certainly out of the picture.

The night was pitch black, only illuminated by the streetlights and full moon. A shiver ran down Finney’s back, but he muffled any unwanted memories of night streets With his mind’s cold hand.

“Where are we going?” Gwen asked, turning to him. Her eyes were full of sadness, yet it comforted Finn in an odd way. He needed some continuance: her eyes, full of despair, were probably the only thing in this world that had remained the exact same.

He looked forward, refusing to meet her eye. He knew he was the one to fuck it all up for her: he had enraged their father, he had insisted that they leave. She didn’t deserve a night spent in the cold. He didn’t have the strength to deal with their father. She had to have the strength to deal with him.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. He was either about to burst into tears or disappear: he felt lightweight and empty. Like a ghost.

They settled on a park bench about twenty minutes from their house. Finney took off the jacket Gwen had given him earlier and placed it over them both as they laid side-by-side. Finn let Gwen cluster closer to the backrest, and even though she insisted that he have the jacket, he subtly moved it onto her. He strung one of his arms over her protectively. He had to lay on his side: if he were on his back there wouldn’t be enough room.

A muffled sob came from Gwen’s mouth, and Finn ached. He ached until he could feel something again.

He hated that he couldn’t give her a safe space. He hated that they had to sleep on a park bench. He hated that he couldn’t give her food to eat or a bed to sleep in.

He hated himself for letting it happen.

He didn’t sleep that much that night.

He wondered who would prey on them next if he did.

—

The next morning, Finn woke up- alone- on the bench. It took him a moment to realise that Gwen was gone, but when he did, he shot upright. Crack, and then, somewhere a few meters away, a grunt.

He whipped his head around, and, alas, there she was: sitting on the grass in her nightgown, fishing through the school bag full of supplies. He looked down to his watch. 8 AM.

“What day is it?” He asked roughly, his voice cracking. He hid an embarrassed blush.

She snapped her head up to him, eyebrows quaking in surprise.

“Wednesday.” She looked back down to the bag, before fishing out a protein bar and tearing off the wrapper and digging her teeth into it. A crumb fell from the bar, landing on the hem of her nightie. As Finn looked around, he saw nobody else in the park: it was still quite dark, and ruthlessly cold. He could see a port-a-potie about twelve paces down the path.

“You’ve missed school,” he stated.

“We have, dipshit,” She replied, her mouth full of granola. Shit. He forgot: if he hadn’t been kidnapped in this world, then he would still have to go to school. And see Robin.

For some reason, that- being in Robin’s vicinity- filled him with dread.

“—Right. I guess we’re not going in,” he added. Had anyone seen them on their way to school? Most kids would have began to walk in about an hour ago. He gulped. If they were seen, Matty’s gang would have a right grand time with that. Gwen dug her greasy fingers back into the bag, and retrieved a bar for Finney. She gestured to it, eyebrows up.

“No thanks. Not hungry.” He thought that if he ate he might just throw up. She grabbed her clothes from the bag next (a rainbow long-sleeved top, jeans and underthings) then put the green jacket they had used as a blanket back into the bag.

“Whatever. I’m getting changed, don’t die,” she ordered, then pranced up and ran towards the port-a-potty.

Slowly, he moved towards the bag and reached into it, grasping the hairbrush. It was old, and it opened up into a mirror and the brush part. He ran it roughly through his tangled hair. A sense of unease dawned upon him. He swallowed and pushed it down, but the nagging feeling remained like a pest. The park was eerily silent and still, like a photograph. The Grabber… what if he were here? His intake of breath after that thought was shaky and small.

He let himself think.

He knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He knew that he was in a different world. He knew none of the boys had been kidnapped, and that Robin had forgotten everything.

And he didn’t know just about everything else: how had he gotten here? (he could recall touching his and Robin’s combined souls, then exploding). Did The Grabber remember? If he still had the broken ankle, was his body that of the original world? Had his mind mixed with that of this other-world him? Did he have the body of original-him, but the mind of both of the Finn’s?

Where was his father right now? Where was Robin? Where was The Grabber?

He seemed to know so little, yet he was grateful for what he did. He was also grateful that the other boys had been given the chance to live: Griffin never deserved to die, he was just lonely. Billy had a purpose in the world: his newspapers. Bruce was the kindest, most heart-warming person he had ever met. Vance: he had… spirit.

And Robin? Robin was the most loyal person in the world. He could kick ass. He was friendly. He cared for other people; he protected them. He was strong-willed and full of dignity. He would never give up on a friend.

Robin was his closest companion. Finney felt bad he never had the chance to tell him that.

But now Robin was alive, Finn was scared.

He wanted to tell him. He wanted to explode all he ever thought of him, everything he loved about him, and everything he hated (like how he insisted on the more gory horror films to watch). He wanted to talk and talk and talk about him to him.

But he knew that if he did, he would be rejected: just like he had last night.

That scared the shit out of him.

The door to the port-a-potty slammed open and Gwen strutted out, flinging her hair over her shoulder. Finn sighed and dove through the bag for his clothes and threw them out. If Gwen hadn’t caught them, they would have landed on the floor.

“Here, dummy,” she offered, extending her armful of clothes to him. He snatched them from her, earning an offended gasp.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” He mumbled. He almost felt self-conscious as he walked through the park in his pyjamas, taking the brush with him, yet he had done this so many times before, as had Gwen. And, there should be no one watching.

This world him probably did it more: depending on the date- if it was the same as his world- another two weeks worth of their father would have passed with him beating them. The original Terrance obviously couldn’t whilst Finn was in the basement, and he doubted that he beat Gwen during that time, and then there was the week after his escape where his father hadn’t laid a hand on either of them. If he hadn’t been kidnapped in this world, how many times did they get beaten? It wasn’t often that they had to sleep at the Arellano’s or on the streets, usually just the Fifteenth. Which, in the original world, Finn did have to spend on the streets: he was kidnapped nine days later.

When he closed the door to the port-a-potty and stripped off his shirt, he realised that there was something horribly wrong.

Something very, very wrong.

There: on his chest, in the spot of his heart, was a light pink slither. It was right where his heart would be, and a thin layer of crust surrounded it on the rim of the spot. Parts of it were a bright red, whilst most was the rosy hue of pink.

Stabbed in the heart.

His eyes widened.

He scrambled to look lower, and, yes, there was also a larger spot across his stomach. It convulsed and palpitated oddly as he moved his stomach muscles and when he touched it, it felt moist and squishy. Just below this spot were several thin lines of red, reaching lower and lower then disappearing beneath his pant leg.

He gagged as he shoved the pants off, then realised that the thin lines ran down his thigh and stopped around his knee.

Gouged through the stomach, acid pouring over himself.

Holy shit. He had the scars from the Purgatory.

Where else had he been injured?

The axe had been stabbed in the abdomen right after he called out to Robin.

He shoved his hand down to the spot and was met with the pink, pudgy scar that stuck there. He surveyed his body for more of the injuries: he couldn’t remember the whole thing quite that well. He found several scars on his waist, as though The Grabber had been trying to cut him like a tree trunk. As he pressed on the wounds, he could feel his own insides pushing against the skin. He continued to run his hands lower until he landed on his hip: a large scar, this time like The Grabber had stripped the skin off of his bone instead of stabbing him. There was a similar gash across his left knee, and on the soul of his right foot.

Hands shaking, he felt for scars on his neck and face. There was one on his collarbone: a thin line. If they go any higher, I won’t be able to cover them.

There was a long line below his chin. The Grabber had slit his throat.

He felt higher. A scar of his lip, which trailed up, up, up.

His face morphed into horror as he realised that it didn’t stop.

It traced a line over his right eye and disappeared under his fringe, went up his forehead, and he felt it go through his scalp and ended around halfway across his skull.

Shit.

How had Gwen not noticed it?

He whipped out the brush-mirror, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was hardly visible: a light shade of pink that fit into his skin tone. When it went over his eye, there was a slight part of it that could be seen on his eyelid, yet he supposed you needed the right angle. No, he was worried about the stark line that split his hair down the middle, almost like a bald patch. He pushed a few of his strands to cover it, yet it still appeared awkward.

He huffed, suddenly becoming aware of how small the space was. He quickly changed and stormed out of the port-a-potty, briskly jogging over to Gwen, who greeted him with a small smile. He hated this, hated knowing that he carried scars, and hated feeling the weight in his chest of them.

“Where are we going?” She asked, bringing the bag over her shoulder. He looked down to his chest, refusing to meet her eye.

He was so tired. It was like he had gone back to his state before he had the phone call. In the basement, he had a goal: get out. After Robin sent him on the supernatural journey, he had a goal: revive Robin.

But now, he doesn't have anything. Not a chance to bring anyone dead back: they were alive. He should be happy, but he wasn’t. He felt empty.

Those seven days between escape and the phone call were like a cracked and blurry television. He knew that there was something happening. But all he wanted to do then, now, was to lay in bed, a shell of what he had once been. He didn’t even think during that time, just slept and slept until his eyes couldn’t take anymore. And then when he was awake, he stared and stared at his wall, trying to escape the endless whispers of The Grabber over his shoulder.

He hated phone calls now. He couldn’t eat eggs without retching. He couldn't even look at soda. He couldn’t be near an axe, couldn’t stand balloons, hated magicians and locks. He couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.

What was the point of living if he neither had a reason to nor the ability to do it? Why should he stay here, if he had done everything he needed to do? Why live on if he had fulfilled his goals?

He felt selfish. Robin was alive- fucking living and breathing- and all he could ask for was more. He couldn’t even stand the idea of talking to him, seeing the corpse with a bullet wound or a neck gouge, walking. He knew he missed Robin like fuck when he thought there was no way of getting back to him, he knew that he felt the yearn to be with him again in ever inch of his body, but now that he could? He didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t want to.

He was just a pathetic, selfish boy, who had no real reason to live. He had lost his strive to bring his best friend back, he had lost a loving father, he had lost the protection his reputation would have earned him at school.

What was the fucking point of staying alive if he had lost all reason to?

Fingers clicked in front of him.

“Dummy. Where are we going?” Gwen asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Gwen.

There it was. If he were dead, she would be alone with Terrance. He needed to stay alive for her.

“Uhm, we’ll—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “let’s go to the treehouse.”

It felt childish to say, but Gwen nodded firmly and set off, Finn following closely behind.

The treehouse was their sanctuary that they built a little into the winds when they were just younger than eight, with their mother, Elda. She had picked them both up, one Saturday afternoon, and simply brought them for a stroll. They stumbled through the woods until they eventually came upon an area of thick shrubbery, and, in the middle, a moderately sized tree with climbable branches. Elda first carved the path to get to the tree- avoiding the thorns and brambles- then began to build it. She worked as an office woman in some comic company (marketing-or-whatever) but in her free time she built.

Her toys and woodworks were always littered around the house, freshly glazed over. Terrance got rid of them after her death. But she was good, more than good, actually, and they toiled away that afternoon and a month's worth of afternoons after building and carrying logs and laughing. They never did tell Terrance about it, but it became their safe space, holding candy and comics and memories.

The siblings were quiet for a while as they ventured to the woods, avoiding their home street, but eventually Gwen spoke up.

“You gonna tell me what happened with Robin?”

Finn, caught off guard, almost tripped face flat onto the concrete, but regained himself.

“What?” He peeped, eyebrows up.

“I do have dreams, you know. I saw you running all the way to ‘is house…” she trailed off, growing uncomfortable as she shifted under the bag's weight. He thought of taking it from her, but then he remembered the gloves and jacket.

“So, how come these,” He gestured to the green gloves, “were necessary?”

She turned back to the road, swallowing in a way she did whenever her father brought up the investigation. She wouldn’t have done that in this world.

“Dreamt you were so cold, that you— just collapsed.” She gestured to the space in front of her and laughed. Liar. “That doesn’t matter though. Why did you and Robin fall out?”

“We didn’t—”

“Liar,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she wasn’t lying two seconds ago. He was quickly getting more frustrated.

“We just— why do you even care?” He snapped, but Gwen seemed unbothered.

“Because. You’ve been friends for how long now? I’m still fucking pissed at you for nottelling me you were friends with Robin fucking Arellano, but you were friends for ages,”

“Three years,” he countered.

“That’s a long time!”

“It’s hardly—”

“Listen,” she interrupted, looking at him with narrowed eyes. He gulped, the deep fear that arose in him every time his sister got serious taking a stand. “You value your guy’s friendship, right?” 

He blinked.

“Uh- I mean—” he almost began to ramble when Gwen gave him a pointed look, as to say, answer the fucking question.

“I— yeah.” He laughed nervously, scared to open up, even if it were to his sister.

“Then whatever happened couldn’t have been that bad. If you want it enough, then you’ll fucking fix it.” She dawdled further down the path, ahead of him.

“And I know he means enough to you for you to really want it,”

—

When they arrived at the treehouse, it was half-past nine. Gwen, desperately confident, had led them astray from the correct path and they consequently got lost.

He had led them to the correct spot and cursed under his breath. When was the last time they had visited the treehouse? The last few times their father had gotten extremely bad they had gone to the Arellanos, but before that they came here. ``that meant that they hadn’t darted to their sanctuary in the woods for over two years.

His eyes trailed up the wooden, rickety stairs that they had built from tree branches: they were attached to the structure (which Elda had built herself, as she knew how to do it) with rope and moss. The steps were cut off by a temporary landing, which was connected directly to a crevice in the tree, then resumed upwards until coming upon the ‘house’ part.

It sat on a plank-and-log base which was situated in the cross section of the tree. There was a fence built around the outside of the base but there were several sections where a gap was looming, threatening the tumble of anyone who came too near. The house was made of planks of spruce that Elda cut and refined with her saw (which she named Plankie) and they were piled atop each other, connected by rusty metal screws. It wasn’t too tall- hardly three metres or so- but a large window (a hole in the wall, covered by a layer of cloth they had stolen from home) was situated about half-way up. The roof was made of timber and was held together by rope. 

The brambles below had slightly grown onto the path and they avoided it with as much concentration as they could manage, but Finn still ended up with a tear in his pants.

They climbed the stairs, barely hobbling and almost tripping and one rolled, but managed to make it to the house without incident. For some reason, Finn held his breath as he opened the door.

A wave of coffee and timber hit his senses, enveloping his nostrils like weed. He turned away, nose scrunched, and Gwen pulled her shirt over her face. She wafted the smell outwards into the air, then dragged Finn inside, retching. He had scrunched his eyes shut and tried his best not to use his nose to breathe, but Gwen swatted him and he looked forward.

It was the same treehouse it always had been. In the middle of the room, an old, plastic, toy table that Terrance threw out when they were eight and nine, which they adopted to use in the treehouse. It wasn’t even that small, around half the height of Finn, but the chairs were tiny. It was rimmed with dirt and grime, and rusted with age. On the far end of the room sat a longer table, wooden, but it was covered by a thin, checkered sheet. Beside it stood a stool and atop of the table was a toy first aid kit: he and Gwen used to play ‘doctor’ and perform fake surgeries (Gwen being the surgeon, as she couldn’t sit still for too long). One of Finn’s old baseball bats was leant against the wall in the corner, and, on top of the window sill, was Gwen’s old tarot cards, and Elda’s Scrabble set, which they could never beat her in.

She sighed, plonking herself down onto the table, facing him with her legs swinging.

“So. What are we going to do?”

They spent the next few hours playing around with their old stuff, specifically Scrabble. Gwen seemed delighted that she could finally understand it, but most of her words became some sort of cuss. For example, upon the board was an ‘after’. To that she put ‘fucker’ off of the ‘f’, instead of the logical, and far more diligent, ‘truck’. However, it almost felt like closure seeing the adult words on the set, as though their childhood had finally come to an end. And with that, obviously, their mother could get cut from the memories too.

Gwen messed around with her tarot cards as well. She actually wanted to help Finn with a ‘reading’, because, apparently, he had been acting ‘off’. She had ended up with ‘the hanged man’ card. He didn’t like the sound of that.

But, inevitably, their enjoyment came to an end.

It was around quarter past three in the afternoon, by Finn’s watch, when they heard the voice.

“Hey! Finn! Are you out here?”

Robin's voice.

His eyes widened as he suddenly dove from his space at the ‘surgery’ table, dragging Gwen down with him. They tumbled and collided with the cold floor, Gwen cursing as he pulled her hair.

“What the fu—” she began, but Finn slapped a hand over her mouth and gave her an angry glare.

“Shut up!” he whispered. They were laid so that Gwen was partially underneath the table on her side facing Finn, who was also on his side but exposed. The sheets were closed: Robin wouldn’t be able to see through the window, but he probably wasn’t going to give up that easily. Why had he come looking anyway? It wasn’t like he came knocking on his door every time he missed school, but considering the previous night, there may have been aroused concerns.

He cringed internally, recalling his actions. God, he really had attacked his best friend- for all he knew, didn’t remember anything- and started spouting nonsense.

“Let me talk to him,” Gwen muttered, narrowing her eyes. Her hair fell in front of her face like crowbars, and her cheek- her right- was squished against the floor.

“What? No!” He whisper-shouted. Why should she talk to him? She’d probably go rat him out!

“Relax, I won’t tell him you’re here or anything. Just let me explain why we didn’t come in,”

He was still worried. He hesitated, before asking:

“What if he asked why I didn’t take the beating?”

Gwen seemed to genuinely ponder this, but then her face returned to its resting annoyed state and she met his eye with a curious glint.

“Why didn’t you?”

He had had enough of taking shit from his father. But he assumed, in this world, he was still as submissive as he had been before The Grabber, which meant that he’d bend over and let his father ring his belt; he’d let Matty’s gang knock him to the ground, he would have refused to fight. Gwen was most likely curious about the sudden switch— if he had truly traveled to a new world like in the comics, then he would have seemed to stand up for himself out of nowhere. Robin would be more surprised, but most likely proud of him. What would it feel like to make him proud? He’d fucked up so much as of late. What was the point if he could make Robin proud of him?

He pushed that away.

“That- that doesn’t matter! Don’t speak to him,” he pleaded.

She ignored him.

Gwen pushed out from under the table, clambering over Finn’s awkwardly humped body and rising to her feet, her bones clicking. She didn’t even have the awareness to spare him a glance before she was gone, descending the steps of their flimsy tree house.

He lurched into a crouching position and angled his head so that he could peer from the window (hole in the wall) from behind the red cloth. He saw robin then: hair falling around his shoulders, shiny and silky. His eyes were searching, not having landed on Gwen yet. His mouth had formed a pout and his eyebrows furrowed: like an annoyed puppy. He almost snorted at that. Yes— Robin Arellano was a lost, frustrated puppy.

Gwen’s feet made a series of loud crunches as she stepped through the brambles. Robin was on the path where the dirt met the one their mother had carved out. Perhaps he didn’t think they owned the treehouse?

Robin would know now— their sanctuary in the woods. He would know about it, and would be one of the new three: Finn, Gwen and him. For an odd, unknown and scary reason, he didn’t seem too upset about that.

But there was the feeling in his stomach again. Prevalent, cold, yet invincible, appearing whenever he was alone. He only truly felt safe when he was alone, but it still made him check over his shoulder, clutch his knuckles, and be on guard. Because there was some part of him, a part that was locked deep within the rotten crevices of his brain that was afraid of The Grabbers axe.

Robin's eyes lit up when he saw Gwen.

—

Robin Arellano was a fighter. He always had been: since the day his family had moved to North Denver, he had been kicking and biting and scratching at anybody who came looking for it. He’d take up his fists and beat someone up. He would please the crowd and their seemingly never-ending yearn to watch someone bleed, he would satisfy their insatiable hunger for pain. Unless it was their own, then they wanted out of that. He’d experienced firsthand kids he didn’t know- literal strangers- begged him to help them if they’d gotten in the wrong with the wrong people. Usually, he would. That was what the respectable army soldier would do; what his father would do. For the most part he could pity those who did virtually nothing to deserve their beat-downs: the small ones, the scary-cats and the ‘fairies;’.

He protected Finn for none of those reasons. He was hardly even protecting him. No, Finn wasn’t a weakling; he wasn’t so small that his bones would bend with the guy’s boot. But he wasn’t a scardey-cat either. That’s why they were friends: Robin fought, and so did Finn. Just in a different way: whilst Robin took up the confrontation, Finn faced it chin up, but fists down. Whilst Robin threw punches and kicks, Finn took them from other people, but never, not once, had he given up. He always got back up, always came in, always kept his dignity close to his heart. (As for the kids calling Finn a ‘fairy,’ Robin could knock their lights out.)

Which was why, when Finn didn’t come into school, after acting odd, Robin was stumped.

Okay, odd was an understatement. Finn had shown up to his house before even the sun came up. Then he—

Robin swallowed the guilt that raised in him at the memory. He shouldn’t have pushed Finn away like that. He shouldn’t of. Finn was obviously- drastically- upset and Robin turned him away like a stray dog. He acted all weird about it: he had acted like Finn touching him was the worst of all war crimes. Hell, men in the trenches had to touch all the time, hauling each other in training or clumping together in the trenches or laying together, and he was acting weird about a simple hug. It wasn’t like that even, not how girls embraced each other. Finn really just collapsed onto him— he was probably tired!

He shouldn’t have pushed Finn away like that.

But he did, and then Finn didn’t come into school, and obviously not because of bullies (because, as he stated, Finn would never pussy out from them. Yes, he may run, but he would purposefully stay away like that) and it was his fault.

So now he had been trudging through the woods for at least thirty minutes, and was now faced with Finn’s sister, mini Blake, who had appeared from nowhere. Her hair was disheveled and she wore crumpled and old-looking clothes. He looked over it beforehand, but she came out from a treehouse. Robin had seen it a couple months after they first moved here. Did it belong to the Blakes?

“Hey, mini,” Robin greeted. He knew her name was Gwen, yes, but often failed to use it. He pushed the memories of patching her off one night and locked his eyes on hers. They were glassy and cold as ice. He gulped.

“Hey, Arellano,” She replied, looking over his shoulder then back to his face. She also failed to use his first name.

“Do you know where Finn is? He didn’t come to school…” he really didn’t care for her right now if she didn’t know. Finn had told him to treat her like he would any other fifteen year old girl.

“Ah, right. He’s ill, cold I think. Got a really bad cough.” She chewed on her lip.

Finn was sick? He felt a wave of relief wash over him like the tide coming over the shore. Of course he was! Finn could never really be mad at him. But if he was ill enough to stay with Terrance all day cooped up in that beer-smelling house then Robin was concerned, too.

“He’s sick? Is he alright? Does he need anything?”

“Oh, uh, he could probably use some cough drops. He says it’s hurting ‘is throat,” she stammered. He watched as his nostrils flared.

“Right. Well, I’ll get them then!” He smiled joyously.

Her eyes widened as she stuttered for an excuse, but failed to reach one. When she looked to the ground, she appeared guilty. He felt a swell of sympathy wash over his chest but knocked back into a cage in his heart then turned away, placing a few metres between him and mini.

But then, he had a thought. He swivelled on his ankles.

“Why’re you out here?” He asked curiously.

“Oh, just enjoying the trees. Spirit,” she replied, nostrils flaring again. He made a non-committing hum in the back of his throat then waved her goodbye. His feet felt heavy as he headed back up the path, in the direction of the Grab n’ Go. How much money did he have in his pockets, anyway? It should be enough.

It should be enough.

—

As Robin rounded the bend to the Grab n’ Go, an odd feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, close to how he would feel before a fight. He tensed up, arms squeezing into his torso as he felt his jaw lock. The air had a compact notion- like, in any moment- it may close in on his neck and suffocate him.

He heard the yelling before he saw who had delivered such noise.

The slowed down his pace, careful not to be noticed before he could fully assess the situation.

There wasn’t a crowd: the voices belonged to two boys, roughly his age. One had a maleficent edge to it, like it could prance forwards and strike at any given moment. The other, however, was shaking as the boy sputtered out a few words. Robin couldn’t hear exactly what the two were saying, but he knew that it couldn’t be good. The one that was closer was the bitter one, and his voice was gruff and almost animalistic in its tone.

He rose from his slight crouch position as he turned the corner. He then saw them: two boys, whom both had a reputation for severely different reasons. He knew why he couldn’t hear the crowd now: they were behind the glass window of the shop, smooshing their noses against the glass in order to get a better look at the scene.

The first boy- the gruff one- was facing away from him, and over his shoulder Robin spied the second boy. His face was painted with worry and defensiveness was overgrown there. His eyebrows were knitted together and his hair was slightly disheveled, though his left fist was clenched around a baseball bat. He wore a baseball jersey as well, which was white, with the text North Denver on the top half, followed by two circles, ruminant of glasses. And underneath Optometrist.

This was Bruce Yamada.

Robin knew him as one of the ‘popular’ kids that went to a nearby school: he caught his name through giggling chicks and sports fliers. He was the captain of his baseball team- hence the bat- the lead in his school plays, the smartest in his class, played for a band, had a reputation for brilliant first dates, and was the brother of Amy Yamada, who also had a reputation, but for being a horribly merciless prankster. He had also heard a rumour that they were filthy rich, and owned at least five mansions. He doubted that was true, but it did so happen that his father, Steven Yamada, owned a major car dealership company.

Robin could hear what he was saying now, but Yamada’s eyes hadn’t landed on him yet. Robin didn’t think that either boy had noted his presence; he was a couple meters away from them now, but his steps were loud enough (which he pioneered them to be, because sneaking up on your opponent was cheating) that they should have heard him.

“Listen, man, I’m not going to say anything!” Bruce was reasoning, his right hand outstretched in front of him. His bat swung at his side like a pendulum.

“Nah, I’ll knock your fucking teeth out so you can’t!” The other boy yelled.

Vance Hopper.

His curls lay flat against his back, covered by a denim jacket, and his leg muscles strained against his also denim jeans. His arms were able to be seen, and they were dirty, covered in grime and blood. His knuckles bled onto the concrete floor.

Robin readied his stance and the sight of him. There was only one person known to be stronger, a better fighter, more violent, then him. And he was right here. Whilst Robin fought bullies, Hopper was the bully. Whilst Robin played fair, Hopper only went dirty. Whilst Robin fought with kicks and punches, Hopper threw knives.

He wasn’t scared of him. Soldiers couldn’t be scared.

Nor was this any of his business. But Robin had to make it his business, because he had to stand up for those being picked on. He wouldn’t make friends with them, no, but he would help them despite that. It was what his father would do.

He took several long strides in order to be in between them. He stood in front of Yamada, knuckles clenched, and stared at Hopper. He felt the burning gaze of the crowd on him, and relished in it.

Yamada took a slight intake of breath. He met Hopper in the eye, and immediately saw the rage that was roaring in them. His lips were red and bloody, and his hair was stuck to his forehead by sweat. His cheekbones jutted outwards and his neck muscles were straining, bulging in his direction.

“Who the fuck are you?” Hopper growled fervently.

“Arellano,” he replied simply, gritting his teeth and un-trapping his thumb.

He saw the glint of recognition in Hopper’s gaze and knew that the boy knew who he was.

“Get out of the way, Arellano, or I’ll carve that fucking name into your skin,” he threatened. Robin wasn’t scared. He really wasn’t.

He faked a laugh. “Fight me, all I care. Unless you’re scared?” He teased. He knew the punch was coming, this man wasn’t a pussy like some of the other kids he fought. No, he could, and would, snap his neck right here. Better than the innocent kid behind him, he supposed. He wasn’t scared, Yamada was supposed to be. Not him.

Hopper approached quickly, shoving him in the shoulders and then getting right up in his face.

“Fuck off, Arellano. Y’know the crowd,” he said, quiet enough that only Robin would hear it.

Robin took a step back, and lunged at Hopper.

 His right hook caught Hopper’s jaw and a thick crack echoed through the wind. Robin heard Yamada gasp but then he was being tackled, and his back hit the ground with a thud. Hopper sat up and punched him in the face, again, and again, but then Robin rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet.

I’m not scared. The thought ran through his head like a mantra as he leaped away from another blow. Hopper was big; Robin wouldn’t be able to out power him, but he could be able to outrun him. I’m not scared, he repeated, then duped out Hopper and sent a whistling punch into his side.

Hopper would punch, Robin would dodge.

They were drawing into a stalemate, and, soon enough, Robin would lose his ability to keep up. Hopper hardly had to move, he just stood and swung. Once in a while he’d attempt to tackle Robin, though the boy continuously dodged. Would he grow tired of punching?

“Hey! Stop!” There came a voice behind him, sharp and angry as a pair of hands yanked him backwards, away from Hopper. The person had olive skin and was tightening their hold like Robin could very well phase through them.

He looked up at the person, and saw Yamada struggling to keep Robin upright.

His head darted back to Hopper, who was standing in front of them, his nose bleeding. He felt Yamada tense up and then throw him backwards, stepping between Robin and Hopper.

“Stop fucking fighting. Vance, I won’t say shit,” Bruce turned from Hopper and looked at Robin, “Arellano, I appreciate it man, but mind your business.” He ordered, a stern glint in his eye that reminded Robin of an angry parent. What the hell. He didn’t even know the dude, and he was threatening him? He’d just fought Vance Hopper. What the hell.

Robin churned and spat blood onto the sidewalk. He spared a glare at Hopper, then looked Yamada up and down. What did he know about Hopper? Why did it cause such an uproar? And why, for heaven's sake, had he just walked in on it?

He huffed and then stomped past Yamada. When he walked into the shop, he was met with the stunned gaze of a dozen or so teenagers, all turned away from the window, but several still latched onto it. He grabbed the medicine from underneath the counter and slammed it down, before paying and walking back out.

Hopper was gone. Yamada attempted to thank him, he supposed, but he pushed straight past the boy and back down the road.

—Chapter Four: Lost Sight, Lost Way 

Light. 

Blinding, sun-blazingly bright light. It filled the entirety of Finn’s vision, creating stars against his eyelids. He tried to raise a hand to cover his eyes from it, but found no strength in his limbs. They fell at his sides like wet rags and were terribly heavy. He was also very fatigued, and he fought to stay awake, instead of dropping like a log in the middle of the bright abyss. 

It was blinding him. Why wasn’t it going away? He felt the ache and yearn for sleep in every one of his bones, dragging his eyelids further down. He forced them back open, but squinted at the glean that was so very keen on making him fall into the warm embrace of rest. 

He didn’t want to do that: he always heard it in the films. ‘I see the light,’ the character would say, in the midst of taking their last breath. ‘Don’t close your eyes’ someone else would say, often pleading. 

Deranged.

All of a sudden, the light blocked out— instead, a fairly large shadow obstructed its gleam. It was the shape of a man, but it may have easily been mistaken for a beast. Black as the night, the shadow turned towards him. He could see the outline of a few curls, something dripping off of them, hitting the glistening ground with an echoing tap, tap, tap. Then, on top of its head, two distinct shapes crawled out of his skull.

Finn’s mouth fell open in horror. He gasped and tried to get away, but found no strength in his legs to flee. The shapes grew more and more from the shadow’s head, lurching outwards in a curved line. They looked solid and triangular, and were attached to the beast like they had been there the whole time. 

In another moment, the shapes stopped growing. They slanted on a line awkwardly, almost parallel. The figure began to move towards Finn. Its steps were agonisingly slow, and every time its weight was placed on one foot, it pitched forwards- as though it were about to fall- but regained itself and continued. 

Why did this beast have the consciousness to move? How did it withstand such awful temptations to close its eyes?

It was growing closer by the second. Finn needed to get away: there was something about this being that made his stomach fill with unease. He squirmed under his own skin; his heart began to beat faster with each moment passing by, and his face morphed into a sick grimace.

Another shape began to grow from the beast’s body— it came from its hand and extended further downwards, edging outwards in a long line. Then, when Finn swore the stick would begin to scrape against the ground, it extended to the right and then squared off. The edge of the second part sharpened, glimmering from the light.

Its hand had morphed into an axe.

Finn attempted to stumble away, desperately screaming at his body to move— but it wouldn’t listen. Another step: Finn could take in the colours of the beast from its ten metres away. Its hair was blond, but it was matted with a sick red. Its face was deathly pale. The nose— it was horribly deformed, with edges of it screwing outwards and angling towards its bloody cheeks. Its forehead was covered in crimson, bones and muscle weaving together above its brow. 

This was a monster.

It was so close— too close. 

And then, before Finn could even blink, it was standing before him. Its eyes were trailing into his body, pupils dragging over every inch of his skin. Finn gasped and tried to jump backward, but his feet were stuck to the ground.

He held his breath. This thing, beast, monster, man or all three, was horrifyingly ugly. It was the kind of thing your mother would tell you about in children’s tales; what you were afraid to be under the bed. Its eyes were a dark, sickly green: the colour of puke. Now that it was closer, Finn could make out the details: his long wrinkles, chapped, white lined lips, disproportionate ears- with one lower on his skull than the other- and a disfigured nose. Someone had beaten this thing, but that wasn’t the most interesting part. There was a thick, dripping bullet wound that leaked out of the side of its head, the blood mixing with the other yellow fluids that fell from its ear.

The monster raised its non-ax hand to Finn’s face. He wanted to jolt back, he wanted to get away from the wretched thing. He needed to throw up from its very sight, from its gangly and dirty, broken nails upon his skin. However, Finn couldn’t do anything. He was frozen to the spot, with those pale fingers on him. He wanted to tear off the very parts of himself that the monster looked at— he wanted to destroy each piece of flesh that the beast could see and could touch. 

Get off, Get off, get off!

 His thoughts never left the cell of his mind.

The beast opened its mouth, and a stench fell from it. Its teeth were yellow and crooked, and a white substance kept part of its mouth stuck together. Its tongue was black and flailing from its lips to its broken teeth.

“Hello… Taylor,” the beast growled. That name— Taylor…

Finney knew who this was.

This mortifyingly horrid being was a man he once hated- still hated- yet no longer lived on for him to express his rage. This being was right here, where dead people were, as that was what Finney was: 

The Grabber.

A realisation drowned him. 

This monster had been trailing him ever since he retrieved Robin in the basement. It had tortured him, and left the house with him. Why didn’t he realise sooner? It followed him back home, and into the morgue: it probably saw its own body. And, when Finn recovered Robin’s corpse and watched his memories, did The Grabber follow him there? Was that why it was in the nothingness? Its words had been in Vance Hopper’s mouth, and it had used Vance Hopper’s hand to shoot Robin. And then Finn shot himself. 

Why was it here, where the deceased folk were?

He swallowed his fear: he was not afraid of The Grabber. Not anymore. 

He was afraid of what he didn’t know.

“Are you dead?” he asked, his eyes narrowed at the monster. Although he couldn’t move its beastly hands from his face, he could glare at him with all of the loathing he had no chance to release, even in killing him.

The Grabber chuckled, its horns wavering over Finn’s head.

“…yes, I am. As are you.” Its voice was serious.

Finn assumed it was jealous of how he killed himself. 

He remembered it all. He remembered the way his heart dropped when he saw Robin’s body— shot in the skull instead of stabbed in the neck. He remembered the pure, electric pain. It wasn’t as harsh as it had been in The Grabber’s kitchen, but it still burnt his senses and left him reeling.

“Why?” He asked fearfully, reaching out for the truth like it was the last drop of water.

The Grabber exhaled and its features hardened.

“I’m stuck, Finney. Stuck because you fucking killed me.” It glared. He could feel The Grabber’s tongue: hot and writhing. The pleasure of its acknowledgment- that he, Finney, a teenager, was able to rise up and kill him- almost made him smile.

“Stuck where?” Finney pried. He was demanding answers— pushing too far. He knew what happened when he pushed the limits whilst he was alive: The Grabber would just leave. But now they are both dead…

The monster had no consequences if it hurt him. 

“Between,” The Grabber moved its claws down to Finney’s neck, “It’s been restless. I’ve only been able to think about… you. And then you showed up, so I followed. It was nice to see Arellano, he looked well with his scars. Shame he didn’t see me. Guess I hid too well.”

Finn went rigid. The Grabber had been watching them? He shifted beneath the touch, finding the strength to move his fingers. He felt nauseous. 

“When you decided to go and bring him back— I had to follow. You gave me the chance.” It smiled, a wicked, toothy grin.

“…what?”

“You went and watched him in the little tapes of his head. I followed. And then… I found a body, because you showed me I could,” it said, as though it were speaking to a toddler. 

Finn raised his chin, hardening his face. “I didn’t show you shit.”

The Grabber snorted.

“You showed me potential. You showed me that I could wander on Hopper and take a gamble. It didn’t last long, they… kicked me out.”

Finn’s eyes widened. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t have— he didn’t do that. He didn’t let The Grabber in. He didn’t give it the idea: it wasn’t his fault.

His strength was quickly regaining itself, and he pushed the corners of his mind. His leg twitched.

“What now? We’re both dead. We’re dead,” he spat.

He was slowly beginning to regret shooting himself. He couldn’t imagine what Gwen would feel. He could imagine what she would do, though.

She would raise a fucking storm for him.

Perhaps he did know what she would feel. He did lose Robin, after all.

The Grabber scowled, its mouth opening and allowing Finn to see its disgustingly grotesque teeth.

“I am going to kill you,” It whispered, “Even if you’re already gone.”

Finn froze. The strength he was so quickly gaining was immediately lost from his body. The Grabber stepped back and scowled. It raised its ax-hand to Finn’s chest.

His eyes widened. 

“W-what are you doing?” He stammered. His voice was shaky as the realisation hit him: The Grabber- even after death- would be able to hurt him. Angels- or devils, whichever Finn was- could feel pain.

He could feel pain, and never die.

The Grabber laughed, a sick, ominous cackle and Finn shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. Would this be his fate— an eternal suffering? A personal Hell?

The Grabber raised its axe to Finn’s temple. It dug it into the skin, a shallow cut, but pain bloomed through his head. A drop of blood trickled down his brow.

Then, as swift as a phone ringing, it pulled its arm upwards, then swung down.

A grunt

Crack.

He gasped, a cry escaping his lips. That hurt. Shit, that hurt. He almost fell to the ground, if it were not for the way his feet were fastened into the abyss, but his knees buckled, and his eyes fluttered shut. He struggled to get them back open. If he did, he knew he would see the stars that were slowly taking him. A slow, agonising noise came from the back of his throat, almost like a groan. He hoped that an angel could hear his plea.

He knew God never listened to his cries. 

There was blood everywhere.

He could feel it all over his face, and when he opened his left eye a veil of crimson enveloped his sight. His other eye was gouged out, somewhere on his feet or resting on the hem of his shirt. There was a twisting, slimy texture sliding down the side of his cheek. It formed a trail from the tip of his hairline to his chin, writhing and squelching with blood.

In a jolt, he realised it was his own brain.

He tried to open his mouth; tried to scream, to release the pain that engulfed him— but no noise came out. 

His ears were ringing. His vision became clouded, the expanse of light tipping into darkness. He only saw the monster's face- grinning and sinister- before he slipped away. 

And came back.

The blood on his face remained, but everything else returned to its original state. His brain crawled back into his head- stitching the cut through it- and the bones in his skull weaved back together. His vision returned as the right eye floated before him, then slotted into its socket like a puzzle piece.

Within thirty seconds, Finney’s destroyed body had become as it had been before. His groaning ankle still remained; as did the bruise on his head, but the skin torn by the axe was pulled together. 

He had become the afterlife’s sculpture: it blended him and gave him shape, and he was reduced to a lump of clay that this whiteness and The Grabber fought for.

“Ah. We’re going to have so much fun, Finney,” The Grabber purred, its nostrils flaring. The stench of blood reeked in the air. Why did Finney ever think death could be an escape? Wherever he was, The Grabber would be able to follow. Finney may have killed it, but now it had him right where it wanted him. And— 

It could torture him for centuries, and the world after, until the very day that The Heavens exploded.

Finn cried, pouring all of his despair and desperation into the sound that fell from his lips. 

The Grabber struck his stomach next. 

His guts fell onto the white expanse, this time fully visible. He watched as his stomach and blood splattered over his feet, and as the acid dripped down his pant leg. The world was spinning, but his body didn’t tip or fall: it simply remained frozen to the spot. 

He watched as the contents of himself were recovered and placed back inside; watched as this great miracle was performed, and wanted nothing more than for it to keep its heavenly claws away from him. He desperately wanted to die, he wanted it to all end, he wanted to die again.

He was so dizzy. The Grabber didn’t even give him a chance to recover before he stabbed him through the chest, cutting its axe straight through his heart.

The only thing that hurt more than this torture was The Grabber’s disgustingly ugly face.

“Fuck… you,” he panted.

He hated this man: this monster or beast. He wanted to kill it again and again and again and he wanted it to never end. He wanted to hurt it; to punish it for everything it did to the other boys, to him, to Robin. He wanted to hurt everything that it ever loved, its family, its friends, even its neighbours. He loathed every inch of everything to do with the Galesburg fucking Grabber, and he knew he had the right to destroy everything to do with it.

He would. He swore on God and His evil, healing, Heavens that he would.

When his heart rejoined his chest, he opened his mouth before he could endure another blow.

“Wasn't the five times enough for you? Didn’t you kill enough?”

Its eyes were ravenous and greedy.

“No. No, I did not.” Was all that it said before it stabbed Finney again.

He lost track of every blow after that. The pain grew used to him; and he did it. He knew it well- he knew it from the first day of school, the weeks after his mothers death. He knew pain better than anybody in the world, and not because of the times he had been beaten or bruised or outright tortured. But because of the times that he sat on the floor, crying until he threw up, because of how familiar he had grown to grief. It hurt him; made him rock backwards and forth on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor because of how much his heart ached. Robin’s words: I’m not coming back either, were true. They were unbearably true, because even when God pulled His strings and gave Finn the chance to reverse the sinister acts that it had committed, death still remained the fate of Robin Arellano.

Perhaps agony was the fate for Finney Blake.

His mind slipped away, becoming part of the background which played the miseries of his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.

Finn had no idea how long it lasted. His memory was fading away, the earliest blows a smudged reflection, but he had no idea whether that was because of how much time had passed or the pain of it all.

He found himself misremembering events that happened simply moments before, or forgetting wounds entirely until they were actively being healed.

There were only three thoughts that ran through his head:

Robin.

Gwen.

A grunt and a crack.

The Grabber was saying something into his ear. Finn couldn’t hear it, though. It was plugged with blood.

The Grabber jerked its normal hand to the side of Finn’s face and tugged him sideways. The maroon dripped from his hearing canals quickly, and he was hauled back up and forced to look the beast in the eyes. 

It felt good to be able to stretch, even if it were a coerced movement.

“Can’t you hear me, boy?” It demanded roughly. Its pupils reigned with rage and a lust for blood. Finn knew from the way The Grabber looked at him that they were long from over.

“Suck a cock,” he hissed, making sure that the spit, bile, vomit and blood in his mouth was splattered over The Grabber’s face.

He couldn’t even scream before it cut a long line across his collarbone. It wiped the fluids from its face and scowled at him. Finn exhaled slowly and gritted his teeth. He refused to let him win. Even if he was tortured, depressed or despaired, he was more stubborn than he had been in the basement. The only thing that had made him give up in there was the loss of hope: he had tried, been inches away from freedom and failed. That was why he lost belief in himself. 

How could he do so if he never had hope in the first place— if he hadn’t a chance to escape?

He would keep trying. Because he would never lose the will to do so.

“You’re pathetic,” he sneered. 

The Grabber growled, lashing out at Finn again.

However, this time, he was interrupted.

There was a stillness that was brought over the white expanse and it was broken when footsteps were heard in the distance. 

They were faint. They were hardly there, really. But that didn’t stop The Grabber’s ugly face from paling, nor did it make Finn refrain from yelling like Hell.

“Is someone there? We’re here! I’m alive!” He screamed, although the last part wasn’t exactly true. The Grabber’s eyes widened in panic as they darted to Finn, and it quickly dug the axe into his abdomen. 

He was covered in blood now, the crimson dying his clothes into its red reign. He could feel it drip and smudge every part of his body, tipping down his wide back and falling into his mouth.

Finn groaned, eyes squeezing shut. 

The footsteps quickened, and before Finn could comprehend- as his wound healed itself- they were no longer alone. His heart lightened and he gasped.

Robin was here.

He stood to Finn’s side, and Finn had the strength to turn his head and look at him. He no longer had the bullet wound (this boy could really die twice and still have perfect skin?) And he appeared more alive than he ever had been. He still wore the hospital gown, the scars white and prevalent underneath. Finn’s eyes darted back to his forehead, and, as white as powder, there was a mark where he had been shot. It was slightly covered by Robin’s fringe- as he no longer wore a bandana to keep it bound- but it was a stark contrast to his glittering skin. 

Finn was filled with relief. His stomach twisted and jolted, and his shoulders hunched.

The Grabber choked, taking three steps away from Finn and into the whiteness. As Finn looked between the other two there, he couldn’t help but notice how truly ugly The Grabber’s beastly figure was compared to the angelic form Robin had taken up. 

Finn probably looked more like the former.

“Robin!” he gasped, his voice airy. The boy turned his head and locked eyes with him. He stared at Finn— most likely at the blood that he was covered head-to-toe in. Perhaps, his wounds were glowing like Robin’s were? 

“Holy shit, Finn,” Robin muttered. His eyebrows were furrowed and laced with concern.

“I— The Grabber.” Finn quickly turned his attention back to the beast that stood two metres away, who had gone white as a ghost.

Robin turned, and when his eyes landed on The Grabber, they immediately filled with—

Fear.

Robin was… scared. Of The Grabber. Finn’s mouth parted slightly.

How was Robin afraid of him? Had he not faced him, fought him to the grave?

Perhaps he didn’t know his best friend as well as he thought.

He had the instinctive urge to protect him. This urge was what finally willed his legs to move, and he tore from the light on the ground he had been stuck on. He pitched- almost collapsed- but regained himself and stepped between Robin and The Grabber.

“Fuck off,” he spat. He glared at The Grabber, stronger and more strong-willed than he ever had in the basement, up until the moment he killed the bastard. Would this even work?

The Grabber almost headed. 

But Finn never got what he wanted.

The beast charged forwards, tumbling through the blood and light on the floor with the strength of an ox. Finn yelped and stumbled backwards into Robin, and the two boys fell to the ground. 

The world exploded.

It happened as their skin touched- Finney’s wrist to Robin’s arm- that the lightness overtook their surroundings. 

It blasted them through the air, an army of beams hitting them off of their feet. Finney lost The Grabber in the fest, but he clung to Robin like it was the last thing he could do. The brightness tipped over their heads, between their legs and through their ears. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his ribcage squeeze in on itself and his jaw tighten.

He was flying. This time, he truly was.

Robin, the angel, became Finn’s wings as he soared through the landscape of light. He could feel something- similar to when he had been lifted from Robin’s body in the first memory- that made all of his senses spring and leap and scream. It wasn’t a physical part of him, but something that lay deeper within. It was the very core of his being—

His soul.

It was being sucked through the layers of his skin, escaping the captivity of his mortal flesh. What could he have done to stop it? It was free, yet afraid— afraid of the unknown.

This was who he was.

He looked over to Robin, and saw his inner being, his core, his strength, leaving him as well. His came out a pure, blistering yellow. Finney’s was red.

Being without a soul left him feeling rather empty. He still had his emotions: his fear, his warmth and his despair, but something in him was missing.

The two continued to blast through the bright world, never daring to let each other go. There was a rushing in Finn’s ears, spreading a ringing noise through his mind. From the ball of red light that was his soul- he could smell his favourite things: daffodils, soda, Gwen’s perfume, Robin’s cologne and a scent he had smelt in years— his mother. She loved to bake; she smelt of cookies. He could also smell some horrid things too, things he never wanted to be near again: the basement, the boy’s toilets and blood. These were the aromas that made him up.

Robin’s was too far away for Finn to be able to smell it.

Then, blocking out the ringing, he heard people speak from his soul. The crimson faced him, and glowed extra brighter with each word: “I love you, Finney,” came his mothers voice. It was unfamiliar and distant. “Your arm is mint!” Bruce’s words hurt. “My dreams are just dreams!” Was this to be the last time he heard his sister, when she had been angry and broken? “Yeah, he’s a friend from school, why?” Hearing his own voice stunned him, but he knew where it was from. “I am a part-time magician!” —God that stung. “Say one fucking word and I’ll gut you like a pig on this street,” When would this stop? “Hey, Finn, what’s happening?” Robin’s voice was sad. Then, there was a series of familiar, evil noises: a grunt and a crack. And, finally, “Get to the basement,”.

The maroon soul was revealing the very aspects of his life that made up who he was. Smell, hearing, and now:

Sight.

Like a crystal ball, Finn watched as his soul reflected some of the most important moments of his life. 

The first was at one of Gwen’s birthday parties. It was the day his mother had killed herself. His father had gotten a call, and they rushed to the hospital, where she was already pronounced dead. The doctors gave him a note, which read: I love you, I’m sorry. They were watching me. I knew too much. It haunts me. Goodbye.

The next memories were of his first meeting with Robin, the day his father beat his sister that they had to go to the Arellano’s, the day he met Bruce, the day his father beat his sister about the investigation, the day Robin was kidnapped, the day he was kidnapped, when he tried to escape, when he killed The Grabber, and when he received the phone call.

By the end of it, tears had run rivers down his red cheeks, a few dripping down his neck and splitting the blood there.

Robin was in no better condition, his hair tousled, eyes red and lips parted. He looked disheveled and mortified. His eyes were broken and empty. Had he been shown his own death?

He was forced to look back to the balls of light when they drifted close to one another. They were compelled to one another like magnets, slowly drifting forwards and reaching out to each other.

Were they to merge? Is this what soulmates mean?

They were magnetised, electric and free. They needed each other; wanted to become one. If their souls combined, would they disappear, or become one, too?

Then, in the distance—

 Another ball appeared.

It was a horrible, dreadful, putrid green. It reminded Finn of the colour of puke— almost mixed with yellow, but not bright enough to fully be considered that colour. It was littered with flecks of black and other disgusting colours and Finn wanted nothing more than it to be out of his sight. But the worst part was—

It was coming towards them. He and Robin’s souls were slowly combining, the edges barely touching and leaking into one another, turning a brilliant, bright orange. But the green soul was too fast, too swift, too quick.

It was there before Finn could even point it out.

He tried to swat it away; he wanted to protect he and Robin’s souls: they were precious.

But this ball of light evaded his flailing hands, dipping beneath his blood stained arms and darting before the orange ball. Robin seemingly caught on and tried to reach out.

 His fingers graced the edges of their glorious orange light, and he latched onto it. He- with his large muscles- climbed atop of their souls—

—and leapt onto the putrid green one. He pushed it away, threw it as far as he could. He kicked and he shoved and it fell far, far in the distance. Robin, successful, turned and grinned broadly at Finn.

Oh, he did look like an angel.

The orange light expanded. 

Robin’s eyes darted to it, but, before either of them could react, they were getting tugged towards it, pulled into its impenetrable orbit. 

And, seeing as Finn was closer, his face squeezed tightly and his heart tight, he touched it. 

Everything disappeared.

Finney John Blake woke up in his bed, alive, safe, and with a familiar ache in his ankle.

Gwendolyn Elda Blake paced the length of her bedroom for the fiftieth time in the hour, reciting what seemed to be the only words she knew in her head.

My dreams are just dreams.

How late was it? She glanced over to her alarm clock- which was still the purple cat with the analogue for a stomach- and read that it was almost two AM. 

Fifty-one paces.

Her slippers slapped against her cold floor, digging into her toes. She wore a nightgown that extended to her knees, and portrayed another purple cat. Her hair was loose around her neck and fell just below her shoulders, thinned out and brushed until the strands broke to pieces. 

Fifty-two.

Her eyes glimmered with frustration as she glanced towards her bedroom door, which had her name written out on it in large, playful letters. She knew that she should have them taken down, but it was a gift given to her on Christmas from her mother, Elda. She missed her. She wouldn’t take down the letters. 

Her paces grew in speed. She had reached sixty by the time that minute ended. 

The bed was ruffled and unmade. It lay in the middle on the far side of the room, pressed against the wall and window. There was a distinct gap between the rest of her furniture and her bed, because if she went tumbling from her duvet in the middle of the night- as she often did- it wouldn’t be ideal to clean the blood off her ragged furniture. 

The blankets and pillows were strewn across her mattress, discarded within the endless prison expanse of the night. 

It was awfully dark.

She walked, trying to get her mind off of her vision. She thought of her life: everything was good. She was safe at home, Finney was safe at home, everyone else she knew was completely safe. Galesburg would be the last place on Earth for evil to approach. This bored her, and her thoughts eventually landed back on her predicament.

She had dreamt until she startled awake from the horrors she saw. She knew it was one of her ‘dreams’, and certainly not a nightmare. Because, in her nightmares, she always was the one who ended up maimed or dead. She hadn’t even been in this one.

This one hadn’t been the past, nor the present. 

She knew it wasn’t the past because something like that would land national news. Not the present either, because the culprit of the terror, the one who had starred in it and took up the evil acts, was asleep in bed in the room next to her. She wasn’t so sure about the other person though.

She dreamt of her brother darting from his room. He had woken up in bed, with a look in his eyes that was almost inhumane and so, so unfamiliar. He stared at the room like a rando would: there was no light, no recognition, nor any warmth in his gaze. His eyes were cold, and the way they searched his room, analysing every detail, was something Finney would never do.

He had also appeared afraid. And terribly shocked. His skin was white as pain, as though he had seen a ghost. He looked frail and misguided, like the very body he was in was a stranger’s.

She hated seeing him like that.

After a moment or two- five minutes at most- passed, Finn darted out of his bed with the speed of a griffin, soaring through the air, leaping and jumping, like he had wings. He glided like a bird, hardly touching the ground, like he didn’t need it. He still looked jolted at that point, but he also had a yearning for something. Or rather someone, because when Finn flew through the door, he went straight for somebody's house. 

It was home to a friendly neighbourhood, and, seeing as it was a dream, the journey passed swiftly by. Soon enough, Finn stood at the front door of a smaller house. When he rang the doorbell, he was greeted by a stubborn-looking Robin Arellano. That’s who the house belonged to! She knew that house: it was the one Finney had brought her to after a certain night with their father. She remembered the kindness of Robin’s mother and how he had smiled caringfully at her after he had patched one of her wounds. He welcomed her into the house and accepted her as his sister. She would be forever grateful for that.

But the dream Finney was acting oddly. 

He launched himself at the dream-Robin, tackling him in a hug.

Really fucking odd.

She may have called him a certain word, had she not sworn off it after reading through her mothers journal that she left behind, full of thoughts, ideas and declarations that Gwen worshipped like Jesus.

One of these ‘declarations’ was that her mother, even with a gun to her head, would never prod at anyone for who they are, who they choose to love or whether or not they respect the Lord: she believed in the Gospel down to each syllable, and took ‘Love thy Neighbours’ to heart. She- despite her fathers protests- refused to sign the petition to outlaw everything that wasn’t Straight, White and Christian- normal- from Galesburg. She took measurements against it; and Gwen loved her mother dearly. She knew Elda was against her father in her views.

Gwen didn’t really know what was right. But she would Love her Neighbour, just as her mother had.

Therefore, she would not be calling Finn any words.

But the way he had leapt at Robin, and how he held him reminded her an awful lot of how the lovers on screen would touch each other. He didn’t have the glint in his eye; the one that suggested love or adoration, but the way he touched Robin…

Boys didn’t touch each other like that. She probably just wasn’t used to it— she hugged Suzie all of the time: that didn’t make them queer.

Her father would beat him for it, and tell him it wasn’t right. Finn probably agreed with him; this thing he did to Robin was mostly likely the resort of some nightmare (perhaps Finn dreamt of Robin getting hurt, and that’s why he jumped on him as though he would die?).

Nightmare.

What happened next in that prophecy seemed awfully like a nightmare. Because, as soon as Finn touched Robin- skin to skin- there was something that she couldn’t explain. It was unlike the gore she saw on the horror shows the boys would watch, or the red that smudged her walls when her father beat her. It was animalistic in its crimson purge.

Because when Finn touched Robin’s skin with his finger, Robin died.

It took a moment: there was a gap of time between their touch and what happened after. There was a trickle of blood, stark against the boy's skin, that glistened in the moonlight. It fell from the top of his brow, drooping down his eyelid. Finn’s face at that moment was full of absolute horror, like he knew it would happen- he knew- but headed to the fate of it. 

After his temple came his throat. This was the start to the real bloodfest: his skin tore open like an invisible knife had struck it. His throat was torn, blood splattering from the wound, as Robin fell to the ground- screaming- and several more cuts sliced on his neck.

More, more, more were ripped into his skin, and so much blood poured out, gushing like a waterfall.

Then, the wound upon his forehead ripped open- like it had been waiting for the right moment- and there was a terrible squelching noise, before Robin thumped to the floor: dead.

My dreams are just dreams.

But what if they were not?

She had lost track of her pacing. Her hands raised to her hair and her fingers clawed at the locks, which were already frayed and damaged.  Her feet tapped against the ground, her slippers digging into her toes. Her purple cat clock ticked on, tick, tick, ticking and she yanked on her hair harder. She was growing frustrated, annoyed at the so-called prophecy. She knew that was impossible, she knew it.

But she also believed in God, and she knew His wrath. She knew His power and how, without even the slightest click of His fingers, He could diminish everything she loved and owned into objects worth no more than the devils and creatures in Hell. Could He do the same to Finney? But what had her brother done to anger Him so? And, even more confusing, was the fact that she knew it was Jesus who sent her these dreams. He had chosen her and He loved her enough to reveal everything about her world to her, so much of His everlasting knowledge, passed down. Did that make her a prophet? It didn’t matter, because if this vision were true, then The Lord was to make Finney kill Robin. And she loved both of the boys dearly- Finn more, obviously- she didn’t want that for them. But who was she to step in between God and His plan?

She was stuck in a conflict between her love for her brother and for God, and it made her reconsider her visions ever being a gift at all.

She sighed.

And then, louder than the ticking or her very thoughts had become, there was a giant bang from the other room—

Finney’s room.

He had slammed the door open, bashing it against the back wall with such a force that the whole house had shook. She could practically sense her father’s rage if he had been woken up- which he definitely had- but the pounding of doom was undercut but the sprint that Finn had adopted as he darted through the house. 

Fucking shit. 

Her head snapped from her door to the chest of drawers beside it, then back to where Finn was running. She didn’t have any time— what would happen if she betrayed God? What would happen if she snitched on Jesus? She couldn’t think, it was now or never. With a slight nod to her dollhouse, she dove forward. 

She ran towards her drawers and flung one open, and, in her haste, grabbed the nearest pair of gloves and jacket she could find. All she caught was the flash of a dark green as she took off from her room, opening the door with a ferocity that far outweighed Finn’s. She kicked off her slippers aggressively, not catching where they landed. 

She flew down the stairs- almost tipping over from her speed, missing several steps- and ran towards her front door. Had Finn even put on his shoes? She ignored the cry of her muscles and the sting of the frosty air as she bolted down the front path of her house and passed the car, before she finally saw the shape of her brother several paces down the road.

The wind swirled in her hair as she ran faster than she ever had, and she opened her mouth to call out for her brother. “Stop fucking running you dick!” She cried and her lungs heaved. Her feet were stinging and the harsh concrete dug into the soles. Finney had finally stopped- or rather slowed his pace to that of a run instead of a dash- and she was able to catch up to him. 

She shoved the clothes, gloves and jacket- into his arms, before giving him a pointed glare and muttered a small, “I’m so fucking mad at you, but you trust me on this,”. She gestured to the garments, and his eyes lit up at her. He would put them on, she knew, because she knew her brother believed in her visions, Christian or not. 

He nodded tightly, then turned away from her and continued to dart down the cold night street.

Terrance was going to be so fucking pissed.

Air.

He had so much of that shit he wondered why he had ever wanted more of it.

It smacked into his face with the force of ten men, forcing him to close his eyes in order to bear it. His fringe had been blown from his face, exposing his forehead, and he could feel the wind on his exposed skin. Luckily, he had heeded Gwen’s advice and put the garments on, but it had wasted so precious time. 

He had no idea what had happened. Last thing he remembered he was approaching the orange orb and then…. He woke up in his bed. Somehow, he had come back to life, like Robin had. He had teleported to the most pleasurably useless place on Earth, as though he had just woken up from a certainly nasty dream. But he knew it wasn’t a dream: his ankle was still as broken as it had been the moment he stabbed a pole through it.

The weirdest part was the odd sense of indifference to the world around him. He knew the room well, its space stickers and burnt out bulbs, but somehow he didn’t know anything about it. It was like when he had had the walls of his room painted to a different shade of blue: he didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew that there was something.

It was altered: he had a baseball jersey that was still hung proudly, wherein this morning it had been shoved away to the back of his closet, because it was the last thing he wore before Bruce was kidnapped, and, well, Gwen always said he was superstitious. He knew that he had been hidden so well that not even the vulture eye of his sister would be able to spot it, so how had it moved?

It was all so weird.

He needed to get to Robin. He had been running for a while now: attempting to arrive at his best friend's door and find him, hopefully, alive. If he had been taken here, wherever here was, would Robin have too? Has he noticed how everything was different? Did he know of the horrors he had been through, in the basement as well as the morgue?

He gulped down his fear and finally arrived at the Arellano house. He almost stumbled to the ground when he halted so abruptly, his knees locking.

His lungs were constricting and his face was red. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then set down the path towards the house. It was a detached, smaller-than-usual home that was well-lived-in, with decorations and plants hung up all around the front garden. He could see Robin’s window from the front of the house: his yellow curtains were closed. 

Finney shifted in the green jacket Gwen had given him, which was hers. It was a bit small for him, and the fluffy green gloves squeezed his hands. He was sweating onto the fabric, but couldn’t seem to care as he rang the doorbell. 

Why had Gwen given him these? Did she have a dream?

It took a while for somebody to open the door, seeing as it was one AM, but when they did they slowly pulled it inwards, the hinges creaking.  

Robin’s head poked through the crack.

Finn eyebrows shot up and he let out a sigh of relief. Of course Robin was alive. The fucker was too stubborn to die. 

He didn’t exactly tackle him like he did in the morgue, but he shoved the door backwards and embraced his best friend. Robin stiffened and Finn could feel his slight intake of breath, but he only buried his face into Robin’s shoulder. His cheek came dangerously close to his neck, but they barely avoided the touch.

Robin was alive, alive, alive. He had done the hard part: actually gotten to this point, through a long length of painful tasks, but here his friend was.

However, Robin wasn’t relaxing— no, he was shifting on his feet. The boy gently raised his hands and pried Finn off of him by the shoulder, stepping backwards. He had his shoulders hunched inwards and his face was laced with confusion and discomfort.

“Uh, Finn? You alright, bud?” He asked awkwardly. He covered his pajamas with his arms and bunched his eyebrows. Finn gulped. Shit.

“Robin. You- you… you do remember, right?” He pleaded desperately. He had to remember. Finn wasn’t on his own in this. 

“Remember what? Why are you here? It’s like, two in the morning,” he questioned, and Finn deflated. 

What had happened before they exploded? Finn had touched the orange orb, and Robin was behind him—

Oh no. 

If he were the one to touch it— and it had sent him to this place; where he still hung his jersey proudly and Robin was alive, but Robin didn’t come into contact with their combined souls.

No. 

No.

Robin had tensed away from his touch. 

The new Robin- the one who had died and knew the value of affection, and is no longer afraid to give or receive it- would never turn away from Finn. Fuck, they had only been together for less than twenty-four hours and he knew that.

But this Robin… he had never died.

Because the Robin from before was afraid of touching another boy, afraid of showing affection to his friend. The old Robin didn’t know how much it counted for, because if he were in the basement, he would have given anything to hold another person. And after he would never take it for granted again. The old Robin didn’t have that experience; to learn and take advantage of it. 

He knew because he and Robin were one in the same. 

This Robin, the boy who stood before him, had never been kidnapped. Neither had Finn, because of his lack of lock on his door, and neither had Bruce Yamada because the jersey was hung up. The others: he looked back at what he saw before he darted from his room. He’d sat there for a minute or two, just taking everything in. What did he see?

A newspaper on his desk. Grape soda. English report.

As it all clicked into place, Finney realised that none of the boys had been kidnapped here.

Which led him to wonder, where the hell had that orange orb: the mixture of his and Robin’s souls, actually taken them?