Chapter Text
Henri Dupont hated it in the basement. He hated the dank-ass mattress, hated the single soda and plate of eggs he was given to eat twice a day, hated the phone that constantly rang, but didn't seem to be actually connected to anything.
Apparently, he was the oldest of the Grabber's victims. The nasty ass old man had mentioned it in passing the first day after he had nabbed him. Said something about, 'I usually prefer them younger, but you... you're a special exception'. He hated being the exception. He was always the single exception. The only guy on the gymnastics team, the only foreign transfer student in school, the only guy in school who would rather be ignored than get a girlfriend or win a fight. It was what got him bullied, what got him kidnapped, what ruined his entire life.
How did this all happen?
He could distinctly remember what had happened in the weeks leading up to his kidnapping. Pinball Vance Hopper'd been missing for a couple months, meaning all his protection from his bullies had vanished, Vance having been the only one to give a shit about whether or not he was okay. In lieu of that, he had started taking a different route home from school and not going out much, pretty much becoming a total recluse. He only really left to go to his best friend (and slight crush)'s house, gymnastics practice, to get food, and to get art supply refills.
He thought he would be safe. He thought that as long as he avoided Mason Thomas and Carter Law, he would be fine. He was wrong.
He had been walking to school. He was taking the new route to avoid his bullies, peering around every corner to ensure they weren’t lying in wait for him. He didn’t see the black van driving slowly behind him. Not until it was too late.
The man had waited until he had stopped to root around in his bag for a pen to write a reminder on his arm (and for a ring and necklace he remembered being in there when he was looking for the pen). He found the ring and necklace , not the pen.
When his kidnapper struck, he had been cradling his bag in his arms, placing the ring and necklace on his person. They held fond memories for him. Little did he know how much they would serve to comfort him in the coming days.
The Grabber apparently had known that Henri was a nervous, distrusting person who wasn’t likely to stop to help a stranger in the streets for fear of some terrible thing befalling him, because he simply drove up beside the sixteen year old, parked his van on the curb where the teen stood, opened the back of said van, took out the bunch of black balloons the back contained and what he remembered to be a can labeled ‘Wasp Poison’, grabbed the boy by his shoulder, brought the balloons in front of him, sprayed the wasp poison in his eyes and mouth, and carted him off.
Oh, sure, he had tried to fight back, but the man had been much stronger than the teen (his specialty had always been speed and flexibility, not strength) and having wasp poison sprayed in one’s mouth is extremely nauseating. He passed out in the Grabber’s arms before they had even reached the back of the van.
Henri had awoken on a stained mattress. What it had been stained with, he didn’t know, wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted to know. His eyesight was blurry and green-tinted, probably the result of having wasp poison sprayed in them. It vaguely reminded him of the way one’s vision distorted when you looked through a Coke bottle, only much worse.
He didn’t bother sitting up. He felt too nauseous and faint to even consider doing so. Strangely enough, he could feel eyes peering at his sprawled-out form, as if someone sat not even ten feet away, just a-starin’. He found out how right he was when the mysterious person put a hand on his back and forced him to sit up. He still couldn’t see much, but he could make out a white blob that had to be the Grabber’s face. It was entirely too close to his own.
Somewhere, through the fog surrounding his head, he heard the watery voice of the Grabber speaking to him.
“You know… I usually prefer them a bit younger. But you, you’re a special exception, aren’t you? So smart and sweet, yet alone all the time ,” he had mused, tucking a strand of Henri’s hair behind the boy’s ear.
All he could think was, ‘Je vais mourir pour un pédophile… (I’m going to die to a pedophile…)’ . He would end up like all the Grabber’s other victims, buried in a hole somewhere (little did he know, the rest of the victims were much closer than he thought and had a perfect view of his current predicament). He would never get to paint again, never feel the smooth body of his colored pencils again, never hold his precious camera, never speak French while baking with his mother, never compete in another gymnastics competition again. He was going to die at the ripe age of sixteen, without even being able to hug his mother again.