Chapter Text
It wasn’t like Finney didn’t remember being kidnapped. In fact, he remembered it pretty well actually.
The day he was kidnapped, it was sunny. Warm enough to wear a light shirt, but windy enough to send a shiver up his spine if the breeze blew too hard. The cold bothered him, but since he was almost home, he hadn’t dwelled on it too much. Granted, Finney didn’t really think that home was somewhere he wanted to be that night. Gwen had plans to sleep over at her friend’s house, which left Finney by himself to face his father.
Ever since Mom had died, his moods always fluctuated relatively quickly. Usually going between empathetic and loving to irritable and angry in a matter of hours. But as of late, Finney, and by extension Gwen, noticed that his angry moods were much more consistent and much longer than they had been in the past. Finney thinks it was because he kept getting in trouble at work for showing up drunk or hungover, but he supposed it didn’t matter much now. Despite this, Finney remembered still clinging onto hope that he was in a good mood. His day at school had not been easy, and he didn’t think that he could mentally handle angry bullies and an angry father in one day. Since Robin disappeared, and oh god he missed Robin so much, school proved to somehow become worse than it already was. The bullies had become worse without Robin there to stop them. And even though the two hadn’t been the closest in the world, Robin was still his best friend and his anchor at school.
Finney thought that what he was feeling must have been grief, but at the time he didn’t have the exact words to pin down what he was feeling. Regardless, Finney’s problems, about school and about his father, were about to feel a lot less important compared to what was about to happen. Not that he knew that at the time.
He kept walking, and as he turned the corner, a black van appeared in the edge of his vision. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, if not for the tumbling man that came out from behind it, spilling his groceries. Finney approached him, and the man laughed at his own clumsiness. Finney thought he seemed a bit eccentric, but he seemed nice enough. He asked if he needed any help, and the man asked for his hat, to which Finney obliged. Sensing his confusion, the man told him that he was a magician, and asks if he’d like to see a magic trick. He says yes, but as he does, feels his stomach drop. He spotted black balloons in the van. Black balloons that were the mark of the Grabber, who had been haunting the neighborhood for months. The same Grabber that allegedly took Robin. But before he could run, or shout, or do anything to save himself, the Grabber is blinding him with balloons and spraying wasp spray in his mouth. There was some satisfaction at the fact he managed to stab him before he passed out, but it was clouded by fear and disappointment he hadn’t managed to escape.
He remembers the day he was kidnapped like it was yesterday, can recite every detail with picture perfect accuracy, but everything from then on is a blur. Right up until the very day he was rescued, his memory had become finite and cloudy. He can recall important details, like the ghosts on the phone, his attempt at escape, and… killing the Grabber, but when he talked to the paramedics after the fact, he was shocked to learn that he had been in the basement for over a month, instead of what he thought must have been a week at most.
In the four years since his kidnapping, different terms like ‘dissociation’ and ‘hysterical neurosis’ had been thrown around by several different shrinks, several different times. And while Finney didn’t exactly like being called hysterical or neurotic, there wasn’t really any way he could deny it when couldn’t remember a significant portion of the basement. And frankly, the DSM II was a book Finney was tired of seeing, and a book that his father did not have enough money for various psychologists to read out of. After only a couple months of jumping between therapist to therapist, his Dad’s already little amount of money was quickly starting to dwindle, leaving Finney no choice but to quit therapy. Not that he was particularly upset about it. Finney really didn’t like to talk about his time in the basement. Even just thinking about the basement, especially the time gaps, still open up a pool of dread in his stomach whenever he thinks about it. If he didn’t remember it, then that meant it wasn’t Finney’s problem anymore.
He wishes Gwen would understand that. She’d been extremely overprotective of him ever since he got back, and even though it’s gotten better over the years, Gwen still had a streak of harping on him when she didn’t need to. Tonight was one of those kinds of nights she wouldn’t approve of.
It was about one in the morning, and while his father was fast asleep, Finney was awake in the back yard smoking weed. It was a habit that Finney only picked up a few months ago, but one that very quickly became a part of his daily routine. He was never not thinking about the basement, but there were times when how hard he was thinking about it was worse than normal. Times when it consumed his every thought and weighed down his bones, sinking its foul teeth into him and sucking out his will to live. Before he started smoking, these episodes seemed like attacks from God that were specifically designed to torture him that left him crying for hours. But ever since he’d done a favor and beat up some kids for a dude that was nice enough to hook him up with a dealer, his nights of endless sobbing had turned into something much more calm and relaxed.
He’d been outside for a couple hours now, which was an occurrence that was becoming increasingly rare because of Gwen. Normally, after about an hour, Gwen would come stalking outside and check the backyard to see if Finney was awake. Usually he was, and every time Gwen would find him she would give him some lecture or another about how his smoking habits weren’t ‘healthy’. Which was a sentiment Finney could agree with on some level, considering he was physically putting stuff in his lungs, but it wasn’t like he was smoking cigarettes or anything. But another she was insistent on was the fact that it wasn’t ‘mentally or emotionally’ healthy, which was something Finney didn’t understand at all. Would she rather him be in his bed sobbing every night?
He tried to explain to her once that it was better than the alternative, but Finney didn’t quite think that Gwen agreed. Thankfully though, tonight Gwen had gone out with her friends, leaving Finney to do as he pleased. He knew that she thought that what he was doing wasn’t right, but he knew that Gwen didn’t really think she could get him to stop any time soon. Despite their differences in opinions, Gwen hadn’t gone through his room to try to look for and get rid of it. That enough proved to Finney that she wasn’t quite serious about it, at least not yet. But just in case she did get serious about it, Finney made sure that she probably would never find it.
Inhaling another puff of smoke, he quietly thinks to himself that it was somewhat unfair for Gwen to be so judgmental. He felt ashamed to admit it, but there was an angry part of him that thinks that if she had been in his position, her opinion would be a much different story. Finney doesn’t wish that what happened to him should have happened to Gwen, in fact he wouldn’t even wish it on his worst enemy, Grabber not included. But Finney is painfully aware of the fact that no one, including Gwen, could fully conceptualize what happened to him, or how deep its affects really ran. Hell, apparently even Finney himself couldn’t conceptualize what happened to him-- he didn’t remember an entire month’s worth of the basement. For years after, Finney felt helpless when all he could do was sob while remembering the basement. And the last thing Finney wanted to feel was helpless. He would rather die before ever being that weak again. If weed was what helped him not feel like the world was crumbling around him, then he would smoke the damn weed all day long if he had to.
It wasn’t like their father cared either. He would be a hypocrite if he did. He’d gotten somewhat better since Finney returned from the basement, but he wasn’t perfect. There was still always at least a pack of beers sitting in the fridge. The beatings had also pretty much stopped by that point, but Finney thinks that was more so because the last time he tried, Finney hit back. And for all that his father was, he was not an idiot. He knew what the papers had said. Finney killed the Grabber-- choked him to death with a phone cord to be more specific. Once Finney hit back, it had finally clocked in his head just what Finney was capable of. And that scared him. Which was also another reason why he thinks his Dad didn’t say anything about the weed. Finney didn’t fool himself into thinking that he didn’t notice his habits. He knew that his jacket reeked. But it wasn’t like they had the money for more therapy, so they left it at that.
Pushing away his thoughts, he sighs. He’s had his fun without Gwen around, he figures he can probably sleep normally now. Stood up, he throws the small amount of what’s left of the weed on the ground and steps on it.
As he quietly opens the door to go back inside, he sees a silhouette on the edge of his vision. The Grabber, he already knows by now, standing on the edge of his yard. Finney turns to face him, and a ball of anxiety still clenches in his stomach, despite being used to the routine by now.
Already knowing what he’s about to say, he mentally parrots to himself ‘If you touch me, I’ll scratch your face.’ To which the Grabber, on time, gestures to his mask and responds
“This face?”