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It had been five months since Finney got out of the basement—alive. Was he barely alive? Yes, but at least he was breathing. Dissociated, not all there, but alive. Each boy had been thriving since escaping that hell—Finney more so. After two years of being abused and assaulted every single day, look at him now. The only problem? The old bullies. His gang of tormentors had tried to mess with him one day after he got out, and Finney went apeshit. He hadn’t even meant to, if he was being honest. They came out of nowhere, heckling him and spitting out awful shit.
Finney walked down the school hallway, clutching his textbooks tightly to his chest.
“So, how was it?” A voice came from behind — too familiar to ignore.
He froze. He recognized Matty’s voice, but hearing it now sent a jolt down his spine. Finney slowly turned around.
“Hey, did you hear me, faggot? I asked how it was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Finney muttered quietly, trying to walk past.
Two other boys stepped in front of him. One gave him a shove, slamming him against the lockers; Finney didn’t even grimace in pain. To him it was like a bee sting, barely hurt.
“Where you running off to? We just wanted to chat,” One of them said with a mocking grin.
“I have class. Let me through,” Finney hissed, his voice sharp with a rare, burning fury.
“Oh, look at you — acting tough. Must’ve been worth it, huh?” Matty sneered. “Maybe you liked what The Grabber did to you.”
The boys burst out laughing.
“Yeah… that’s probably why you’re still alive. Bet you enjoyed it, freak.”
Finney’s breath hitched. His hands trembled, eyes stinging with tears.
His textbooks slipped from his arms and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Then his fist came up — and crashed into Matty’s face.
A sickening crack. Blood.
Another punch. Then another.
Finney didn’t hear the screams or feel the pain in his knuckles. For that moment, the world blurred into red and rage.
And when the world came back into view—the red fading into the dull, lifeless color of the shitty world—he found himself in Vance’s grasp. The blonde was doing his best to soothe Finney while sneering down at the crumpled forms of the bullies on the ground.
“Vance?” Finney questioned out, confusion laced in his tone. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” Vance asked, his tone sharp but edged with worry. He released Finney, noting that the boy didn’t even flinch at his touch. Being kidnapped together really cements a bond of trust, he figured.
“No,” Finney mumbled, bending down to pick up his books and bag before turning to Vance. He didn’t even bother glancing at the groaning forms on the floor. “Come on.”
Vance hated being told what to do, but he knew they needed to leave the scene of the crime, so he followed Finney as he walked off—albeit reluctantly.
“You beat the shit out of them,” Vance said, gesturing to the boy’s still-bleeding knuckles. He grabbed Finney’s shoulder and steered him into the bathroom. He had a strange feeling that Finney allowed him to do so when he could’ve fought back. Damn the kid for making him care.
Vance slammed the bathroom door open, glaring at the only occupant—someone who had been washing his hands. The guy noticed Vance, then Finney’s bloody knuckles, and hightailed it out of there, not even turning off the water spilling from the faucet. Finney would’ve found that amusing if his knuckles weren’t stinging.
“Stick your hand under the running water,” Vance instructed gruffly.
Finney stared at his bleeding knuckles with a kind of curious wonder. When did he become able to fight? Maybe it was because he’d been fighting for his life for two years—that’s why he could fight his bullies now. People do crazy things when they feel threatened.
“Finn!” Vance snapped, trying to hide the concern in his tone but ultimately failing. Finney flinched slightly at the sharpness of it, looking up at him. He could see the worry in the older boy’s eyes, but his mind felt like it was a thousand years behind.
“What?” Finney mumbled, his tone slow. It was as if he were lagging.
“Stick your knuckles under the water,” Vance repeated, his voice as gentle as he could make it. He didn’t want to break Finney more than he already was. He felt like he did back in the basement—like if he spoke the way he normally did, he’d shatter Finn completely.
“Okay,” Finn agreed easily, walking toward the sink. Why was the water already running? He couldn’t remember. Methodically, he placed his hand beneath the running water. His eyes stayed fixed on the crimson swirling into the clear stream, pink rinsing down the drain.
Vance was worried, despite trying to hide it. Finn was acting off—worse than usual. What the hell had those bullies said to him before he’d interrupted? Vance wasn’t good at dealing with Finn when the boy got like this, and he hated it. He wished he weren’t as emotionally constipated as Griffin liked to call him. Would he mention that to the little asshole? Sure, when hell freezes over.
“Do I need to get Griff?” Vance asked, the worry clear in his tone. A shrug was all he got in response, Finn’s eyes still locked on the water running over his bleeding knuckles. He wasn’t present—his eyes hazy, his mind sluggish. Everything felt like it was underwater. Dissociation, he vaguely remembered his therapist calling it.
Vance was out of his depth. Bruce or Billy would’ve handled this better. Any of the boys would’ve. A sigh escaped him, frustration knotting in his chest. Then an idea struck. Without taking his eyes off Finney’s still form, he opened the bathroom door. He spotted a boy walking by and waved him down, suppressing a smirk when the kid looked like he might piss himself.
“Go find Griffin Stagg and tell him to come to this bathroom!” Vance barked. The boy nodded rapidly and ran off.
He only had to wait five minutes at most before Griffin came hurrying down the hall and into the bathroom. During that time, Vance had kept checking on Finn, who now just stood at the sink instead of washing his knuckles. Vance hated seeing him like that—so out of it. It reminded him of those last two days in the basement, when Finn had been so far gone he couldn’t speak and Vance had to carry him out.
Griffin burst through the bathroom door, slamming it against the wall with a loud bang. The sound made both him and Vance flinch—but not Finney. That was when Vance and Griffin knew Finn was trapped deep inside his own mind.
“You’re so lucky Finn’s not really present right now, or he would’ve flipped the fuck out!” Vance hissed, blue eyes narrowing at Griffin. Griffin winced slightly but covered it with a glare. Those two fought like angry cats half the time.
“Yeah, yeah,” Griffin muttered, rolling his dull blue eyes at Vance’s dramatics. Poodle-looking motherfucker, he thought bitterly. “I’m here now. By the way, I’m pretty sure the kid you sent after me pissed his pants.”
“I’d give away my quarters to see that,” Vance muttered with a huff, a mischievous spark in his eyes that vanished the moment he glanced back at Finn—still unmoving. “Fix him.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” Griffin snapped, eyes narrowing again.
“Whatever you did in the basement,” Vance said slowly, as if Griffin were too stupid to keep up.
Griffin flipped him off before turning toward Finn, his expression softening. “If I can’t get through to him, then you’re gonna have to carry him out of here like you did in the basement,” he said, not even looking back at Vance. Finn was stuck deep in an episode—Griffin could see it clear as day.
“Asshole,” Vance muttered, then went quiet. Griffin pretended not to hear as he stopped in front of the catatonic boy.
“Finn?” Griffin called softly, keeping his voice gentle. He knew how to talk to Finn when he got like this. “Finn, it’s me—Griff.”
He reached for the faucet and turned off the running water, hoping it might draw Finn’s eyes away from the sink—maybe even to his face. “Bubba, come back to me… to us.”
It felt like an eternity–though it was only a few minutes–as Griffin kept talking softly, coaxing Finn back. Slowly, the sensation of being underwater began to fade. Finn could hear Griffin’s voice again.
While he loved Vance, Finn was relieved Griffin was there. Griffin had been the first person he saw in the two years he’d been trapped with the Grabber. They’d been alone together for three months before Billy was taken, and that time had bonded them. Griffin was his safety net—someone who’d seen him at his absolute worst, and vice versa.
“Griff?” Finn mumbled, his words little more than a slur.
“Hi, Finn,” Griffin said gently. He kept his voice soft so he wouldn’t startle him. “Vance is here too.”
“Hi, Vance,” Finn whispered, leaning heavily into Griffin. The other boy didn’t seem to mind, holding him up with quiet care.
“Hey, dipshit,” Vance said in his usual gruff tone. Was there a flicker of softness in his voice—or was Finn just imagining it?
Finn just looked at him, too drained to reply. Even that one greeting had taken nearly all the energy he had left.
“Been a rough one today, huh?” Vance asked, a hint of worry flickering in his narrowed blue eyes.
Finn just nodded, his own eyes dull with exhaustion. Griff had an arm slipped around the boy’s still-scarily-small waist. He knew Finn ate. It was a rough few weeks after getting out of the basement. Finn could barely stomach anything. The poor boy still couldn’t even look at scrambled eggs unless he wanted to throw up. Food became a hardship for Finn since his escape. Sometimes he’d forget to eat and the other boys would have to remind him.
“Here, splash some water on your face. Maybe it’ll help,” Griff said gently.
Finn didn’t respond—just stood by the sink, staring at the stream of running water.
“Let me help…” Griffin murmured softly.
“No!” Finn snapped, not looking up. “I’ll do it myself.”
The cold water hit his palms, mixing with blood, droplets spattering across the white tiles. Finn gritted his teeth as it stung the torn skin of his knuckles.
“Now they’re just like my father’s…” he whispered through clenched teeth, staring at his hands.
Griffin stopped beside him, silent, watching as Finn carefully rubbed his palms—as if trying to wash away not the blood, but the memories.
“They were always like that on him,” Finn continued, his voice quieter now. “I only ever remembered them like this… in my blood. And I always wanted to understand why… why my father did this to me.”
“Finn…” Griffin murmured, barely audible, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Every time I got out of that basement—out of that bedroom,” Finn went on softly, “the Grabber gave me an answer… so I wouldn’t forget.”
He hated remembering it—hated that out of fear and loneliness, he had reached for the Grabber’s attention, tried to please him, even sought his approval.
Griffin stood silently, glancing occasionally at Vance, who had stepped back and was now leaning against the cold wall, head bowed.
“He used to say I brought it all on myself,” Finn said, voice trembling. “That I was too pure, too innocent. That’s why my father was so ruthless… and why he treated me the same way. He told me I was guilty. And I believed him… maybe I still do. There’s something wrong with me, Griffin… really wrong. And I just don’t see it.”
“Finn, you’re not guilty of anything,” Griffin said firmly, squeezing his forearm. “That bastard lied to you—manipulated you. Do you understand?”
“Then why?” Finn finally tore his gaze from his hands, water and blood dripping from his fingers. His tired eyes searched Griffin’s face for answers. “If the Grabber’s words weren’t true, then why did this happen to me?”
Griffin released his forearm and instead covered Finn’s wet hand with his own, the gesture steady and grounding.
“Every one of those cruel people had their own reasons for doing what they did,” Griffin said softly. “I’m sorry you never had a father who protected you—and that you ended up in that basement. I can’t give you the answer you’re looking for. Only the man who hurt you knows it. But if you ever want to understand… you’ll have the chance to ask him yourself. And I know you have the strength to take that step.”
Finn didn’t know how to feel. How does someone feel after being locked away in a basement for nearly three years? He had lived through unimaginable horror. His life had become a psychological nightmare—and even though he’d escaped, sometimes he still felt like he was trapped down there, the Grabber’s shadow just above him.
His hands trembled—uncontrollably, endlessly. It was almost constant now, something he wished more than anything he could stop. But he couldn’t. It was as if his hands had a mind of their own. He tugged his sweater sleeves over them, trying to hide the shaking. He was fine. Everything was fine.
Then why was his body betraying him like this?
He was fucking fine.
His mind was running a mile a minute, the memories of the basement looping endlessly. Some nights he woke up screaming, which sent Griffin and his mom, Celia, rushing in to calm him down. Celia never had much luck, but Griffin could quiet him in just a few minutes. Griff had become his lifeline—the person he turned to when he didn’t know how to feel.
Trying to fit back into a society that hadn’t waited for him was difficult. Everything felt different. How was he supposed to act when he felt fake? Was he even a person anymore, or just something the Grabber had molded?
Maybe that was why he found himself here.
Was this really a good idea—visiting his dad in prison? Finney didn’t know. But he needed answers. What he wanted was an apology—for his whole life, basically. He’d kept the visit a secret. He knew Gwen and the boys wouldn’t approve. Griffin might’ve understood, but Finney felt he had to do this alone. He’d relied on Gwen and the boys for five months. Now, he needed to face this himself.
The prison gates loomed ahead, intimidating and cold. A shiver of discomfort slithered down his spine, but he kept walking, ignoring the feeling. He’d gotten good at ignoring that particular kind of fear.
Inside, he approached the man at the reception desk. The security guard gave him a curious look, and Finney couldn’t blame him. A fourteen-year-old walking into a prison alone would make anyone look twice. Besides, everyone in Denver knew his name now—the boy who escaped.
“Can I help you?” The guard asked, his tone curious but tinged with confusion.
“I’m here to see Terrance Blake,” Finney managed, his voice quiet despite his effort to sound steady. Men always made him tense—who could blame him? A grown man had kidnapped and imprisoned him for two years. And before the Grabber, there had been his father.
“Sign here,” the guard said, sliding a clipboard across the counter.
Finney picked up the pen and quickly scribbled his name before handing it back. The guard filled out a visitor’s pass and pushed it toward him. Finney noticed how the man set it down instead of offering it directly, maybe sensing that he wouldn’t take it from his hand.
“Stick this somewhere visible on your shirt,” the guard instructed. “Someone will come get you when Blake is ready for visitors.”
Finney clipped the pass to his sweatshirt. He always wore long sleeves now—hoodies, sweaters, anything that made him feel a little less exposed. Sometimes it felt like he’d never be warm again.
He sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs, picking at the skin around his nails as he waited. The habit had started in the basement. He couldn’t stop it.
“Finney Blake?”
The sound of his name made him flinch. He looked up to see a man standing by the door. Why is it always men?
He stood, tugging his sleeves down over his hands before following. The man led him through a corridor into a room filled with metal tables and plastic chairs. In the far corner—farthest from the door, of course—sat Terrance Blake.
Finney’s stomach churned. Gwen would’ve been satisfied with how their father looked, he thought numbly. His body moved on autopilot as he crossed the room and sat down across from him.
He stared. Silent. Taking in the man’s appearance.
There was no way Finney was going to speak first.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to.
“Hello, Finney.” Terrence’s voice was just as he remembered it: hoarse, slow, weary.
“Hi… dad.” The boy replied softly, his gaze fixed on his fingers, which nervously tapped against the table.
Finney felt awkward; his stomach twisted, his bones ached, and it all hurt together, as if someone were tearing open a wound that had barely begun to heal.
“You’ve changed so much… my boy. I never got the chance to really see you after… you know, after they found you.”
Finney swallowed hard, shivers running over his body at the way his father spoke to him so “gently.” Before, Terrence might have turned away, treated him as not his own rather than admitting him as his son, saying “mine.”
Finney remained silent, gathering his strength; all the words he wanted to throw mercilessly into his father’s face vanished as soon as they formed in his mind.
“How are you?”
“Fine.” The boy said coldly, almost detached, trying to make his voice sound steady. He knew it was a lie.
“And Gwenny? Why didn’t she come?”
“Busy. She’s busy.” Finney repeated, feeling each word weigh him down. He couldn’t tell the truth: his sister had no idea where he was, or that he wanted to speak to his father alone — about things that belonged only to them.
“Well… I’m grateful, and I’m glad you came. Despite… thank you, Finney.”
Finney hesitated, then lifted his eyes to meet Terrence’s.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son. What is it?”
Finney shook his head, as if trying to wrestle his thoughts and feelings into order.
“Why? Why did it all happen?” he began quietly, his voice trembling despite his best effort. “I worked hard at school, I obeyed… but I was still doomed to suffer, no matter what I said or did. I just want to know the reason… anything that could help me understand.”
Questions spun in Finn’s mind, questions that might never be answered. And yet, he dared to ask. Because if not now… then never.
“You have your mother’s eyes, son…” Terrence looked at Finney as if he wanted to peer into his very soul. “The same melancholic look she had… as if they can see everything hidden inside.”
Finney stayed silent. His hands on the table slowly clenched into fists, his heart pounding. Inside, everything twisted with confusion, and he didn’t know what to say.
“And it’s not just the eyes…” Terrence continued, letting out a heavy sigh and running a hand in front of his face, searching for the right words. “You’ve always resembled her… in every way, one could say.”
Finney furrowed his brow, looking at his father with confusion. What did he mean? What does “in every way” even mean?
“But you loved her…” Finney whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “You… you did love her…”
Terrence closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled deeply, as if the heavy words required enormous effort.
“I still love her…” he finally said softly. “And at the same time, I hate her… for leaving us. Every single day, I saw her in you, in your smile… like she was mocking me.”
A shiver ran down Finney’s spine.
“When you smile…” Terrence continued, carefully choosing his words, “I see her there. Enjoying that I lost her… enjoying my suffering.”
Finney couldn’t look away. Inside, everything was boiling.
“And that’s why…” Terrence’s voice lowered to almost a whisper, “I make you… suffer with me. Because otherwise… I couldn’t… I would have been left alone with what happened.”
“That doesn’t excuse you,” Finney said dryly, averting his gaze as tears welled up in his eyes.
“Of course, son…” Terrence replied quietly, pausing slightly, “but this… this is the answer to your question.”
“I… I was a child… I kept begging you…”
“I know…” Terrence replied softly.
Finney lifted his eyes and asked in a monotone voice: “When I disappeared… did you even care?”
Terrence shook his head firmly.
“I did care, my boy, I did. All of it… it became even harder. Unbearable. But I think… my pain now is nothing compared to what you went through.” He sounded believable but Finn swore to never believe anything that came from a man’s mouth. Men lie.
“I was in hell… at home, and there… in that basement.” His voice was monotone, low in pitch. Anytime he spoke of the basement, it was as if a switch inside him shut off and a mask was put on. Funny, seeing as the Grabber wore masks.
“I constantly blame myself for what happened. It’s my fault… only mine. And I ask your forgiveness… for everything, Finney.”
A single tear ran down the boy’s cheek, and he hurried to wipe it away with his sleeve.
“I don’t know… if I can forgive…”
“I know,” Terrence said gently, “but I want you to know: I realize I ruined everything. That I am at fault… and I’m truly sorry.”
“Are you?” Finn asked, his anger getting the best of him. He’s suffered through horrible things his whole life and here his father was, excusing his abusive actions. “Or are you just saying sorry because you know that’s what I want to hear?”
“I’m truly sorry, Finney,” Terrance said, eyes sad.
“It’s Finn,” the boy snapped, glaring at his father. “I haven’t been Finney since I escaped that hell of a basement.”
To be honest, Finn didn’t know why he even decided to come here. He wanted answers; he got them but he didn’t feel even a smidge better. None of the boys knew he was visiting his dad, neither did Gwen. If they did, they would've talked him out of it or demanded to come along and he felt like he had needed to do this himself.
“Alright, Finn,” Terrance said quietly, nodding ever so slightly. He tried to force a friendly smile, but he knew it never came out naturally.
Finn coughed lightly as a heavy, suffocating silence settled between them — one he could no longer bear.
“I should go,” he said, the chair creaking under him as he stood, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Thanks again for coming… I really do miss you both. Seriously. Tell Gwen, and give her my apologies too,” Terrance added, his voice trembling slightly.
Finn froze for a moment. His gaze darted from one corner of the room to the other, finally landing on his father. He felt a lump rising in his throat and tears stinging his eyes, but he forced himself to hold back. Crying in front of Terrance, showing just how broken he felt, was the last thing he wanted.
“Okay,” he whispered softly before turning his back to his father and slowly making his way toward the door.
Gwen would say that it was a waste of time—wasting his breath on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Finney, however, didn’t think so. There came relief as he walked away— relief that he didn’t do anything to cause his father to act the way he did. Relief that it wasn’t his fault. There was a smidge of guilt for feeling relief but the positive feeling outweighed the negative one.
Yes, the Grabber was dead and couldn’t suffer the consequences of his own actions, nor could he answer the question he so desperately wished he could ask the monster. The question was: Why? Why him? What made him so special that he was grabbed and held for two years? He couldn’t ask those burning questions so instead he went to visit his dad. He wanted some closure, some explanation. And he got it.