Chapter Text
Sunday, October 15th, 1978, 3:16 AM
Finney Blake always found himself back in that basement.
Red embedded in his hands, skin layered beneath his overgrown nails, a continuous snapping in his ears, Albert Shaw’s voice always haunted him, awake and asleep.
“Wanna see a magic trick?”
No, I don’t. Shut up.
“Why don’t you tell me your name?”
No, I won’t. Shut up.
“I know you’re scared.”
No, I’m not.
Shut up.
Shut up.
Shut the fuck up.
He wondered if the boys were still stuck in the basement with the Grabber, tormenting him every second in the afterlife or if he tormented them, or if they freely roamed the streets without a care in the world because finally, finally, he was dead and they didn’t have to hold their breath any longer. He wished he could hear the final words of the ghosts who helped him along the way, the way The Grabber did, wished he could see his choking face as everything settled in, wished he could see him realize that it would be the last breath he’d ever take.
But then again, he was glad those things never happened, because it would just make him despise everything even more.
The nightmares with the little sleep he managed when drifting off in class, the emptiness swallowing his chest, everyone’s eyes glued to his back as he shuffled down the halls, fragments of whispered conversations skimming past him, and being avoided like the plague—it was what he expected after almost immediately returning to school after nine days of captivity, but…ugh. He didn’t want to get into this right now.
He’d go back to Vance Hopper’s daily intimidation if it meant he could continue awkwardly assisting Robin with his wounds in the restroom. Could he have prevented it? Back to before Griffin’s death. Was there any way he could make up for it, or even go back? It sounded crazy. But if he was able to speak to ghosts over a disconnected phone and his sister had prophetic dreams, maybe he could try, just once. He only wanted to go back to before they were gone: was that so much to ask?
Sinking into his bed, Finney rolled over on his side, facing away from the door, pulling the thin blue plaid blanket over his head in an attempt to melt all the thoughts in his brain into the covers.
He shouldn’t be alive. He shouldn’t.
Not without them.