Michael Afton's desperate desire to be saved never really went away.
It started when he was small. He didn't even know what he was missing– he didn't have the context for that– but the aching hole in his chest that grew with every moment of normal, necessary nurturing he was denied hurt, and he wanted it to go away.
As he got older, he understood bits of it. He wanted to be hugged and asked about his day like Charlie was; he wanted someone to ask what was wrong when he cried like he saw on TV. He wanted his dad to look happy to see him.
When Evan was born, even as Michael was steadily growing to dislike being touched, he was jealous of how often the baby was held. He knew it was stupid; he knew babies needed to be held, but something about it still hurt. He imagined what it might feel like to be picked up, since it never happened anymore.
He was only six years old.
As Michael got older, and things at home got scarier, his mindset shifted. He stopped wanting things to change, and instead wanted someone to take him away.
He daydreamed about being rescued. He daydreamed about being stranded on a faraway island, and whoever lived there taking him in as one of their own. He daydreamed about some tragedy befalling his father, and of being taken in by someone else.
That last one made him feel guilty.
His dreams settled in that state. The theme persisted throughout his life.
They sometimes twisted after the Bite. Sometimes, he'd imagine that his rescuers would hurt him; punish him for what he'd done. He'd turn on the news to see another disappearance, and some part of him hoped that he would be next.
At its core, though, all he wanted was to be taken away; taken out of that house that was empty and cold and filled with broken glass.
He grew up, he moved out.
His daydreams remained the same.
In his apartment, he'd sit and imagine someone coming in the night to take him away from his dad's house.
In the security office– as he watched the clock and locked Bonnie out for a third time– he imagined someone waiting for him outside, asking why he'd been out so late and offering to drive him home.
(He'd save them. Nobody could save him, but he could save them.)
(They could have saved him. Countless people could have saved him.)
With the scooper staring him in the face, he humored the idea of someone barging in and demanding to know why he would do something so reckless, so stupid.
They'd pull him out of the way.
They'd wipe the blood off his chin and tell him that everything was going to be okay.
When he opened the pizzeria, Mike pretended that Henry's recordings were just that: somebody saving him. Henry had sometimes been the face in his dreams, but it had hurt too much to imagine other times. After all, Henry had never believed him.
And, as the office burned, he turned his head to the doorway. Smoke filled his lungs, and, if he squinted just right, maybe, maybe he'd see someone show up to save him.
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