Below the Surface

November 13, 1982

TRIGGER WARNINGS: ALCOHOLISM, 

You stayed up into the early hours of the morning, wondering when Al would come home. You hated to admit it, but you were worried about him. Sometimes, when he can't face his emotions in a sober state, he'd go to a bar... and he'd drink... a lot. He could've been anywhere if he went to the bar. He could still be there, or he could be sleeping on someone's couch, or in some girls' bed, or dead in a ditch-- the possibilities were endless. 

Around two in the morning, it came to you that you weren't alone in the house. Finney was (hopefully) still in the basement. You didn't want to check, in case he wasn't. Things in the house had gotten tense, to say the least, and maybe Al was over Finney. God, don't let that be the case. 

Quietly, you crept down the basement stairs, pausing in front of the solid iron door that lead into Al's dungeon. You prayed that Finney was still behind that door. 

You winced as it creaked open, bracing yourself to see an empty room. Much to your relief, however, it was not empty. Finney was sitting on the mattress, staring straight ahead. It was clear he'd been crying. 

"Finney?" You croaked. 

He looked up at you and then at the ground. "Why are you here? Why am I here?" 

You walked into the room and sat next to him. God, this mattress was lumpy as hell. How did anyone get any sleep on this thing? You sighed and looked at him. His eyes were dull, his lips downturned into a frown. You owed him an explanation. 

"You want the full story?" 

"No, I want the one about the mermaid who falls in love with a prince. Yes, I want the real story!" He snapped. You didn't blame him. 

"He's my uncle. Uncle Al is the Grabber. I moved in with him after my dad died, and I wasn't allowed down here until I was eight. Then, I was allowed to come down to bring his "friends"-- that's what he calls the boys he keeps down here-- food and water, and when the time came for them to leave, I was on cleanup crew. I haven't told anyone because he threatened to kill me if I ever did, and I believed it because... well, you know. After Bruce, I started feeling really wrong about it. I mean, I've always felt wrong, but it felt like I was going about my day after killing someone; that's all the guilt and anxiety I've been feeling. And after Vance, I started getting scared. Not of Al-- I've always been a little scared of him-- but for me. Vance attacked me. And the next day, he was gone. And I know he killed Robin. I just can't prove it because it didn't happen here. I think he killed him in his van. And after I came down here the other day, he said that he had kidnapped you for me. I don't know what that means, or why he did it, but that's the story." You sniffed and wiped your eyes. It was too much for a fifteen year old to handle, this business. It was too much for any sane person to handle. 

"Why don't you let me go? He's clearly not here, otherwise you wouldn't be down here, so why not just let me go, and we'll go to the police together, and everything will be okay." The hope in Finney's eyes was enough to make you hope, too, but you knew it was a fruitless idea. 

"Because he'll know I let you go. The door locks from the outside; there's no way anyone could bust through it, either, so it would be clear that it was me." 

You and Finney sat in a silence thick with despair. The room was too quiet, the concrete walls absorbing any extra sounds (and heat) that might be in the room. It was unsettling. 

"Then help me make a plan," Finney suddenly said. "Help me figure out a way out of here." 

Just as you were about to reply, you heard the garage door open. Al was back. 

"He's here. I have to go. We'll talk later." You rushed up the stairs and onto the couch, pretending you were asleep. You made it just in time, as Al walked in not even a second after you closed your eyes. 

You heard Al stumble into the house and plop his keys onto the counter. He's drunk, you thought. No way he's not. 

Al turned on the sink, but you weren't sure the cause. Maybe to wash his face, maybe to drink some water. But afterwards, he saw you. 

"Y/N?" 

Sorry, Al, can't hear ya. I'm asleep. 

He shuffled over to you and gently brushed the hair away from your cheek, observing the mark his hand had left. The bruise was almost gone, but if you looked hard enough, it was there. Now inebriated and emotional, he brushed his fingertips over the bruise, sighing. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice broke on 'so', but you still acted unconscious. You just wanted him to go up to bed so you could 'wake up' and go to yours. 

"I'm sorry about everything." 

You heard his footsteps fade as he went up the stairs, and silence altogether when his bedroom door shut. Thank God. 

You laid there for no more than five minutes, confused. Al had never shown this much emotion towards you before. It was as if in the past week, he had flipped a switch that allowed him to actually experience them at an inhuman amount. You had seen pure, unfiltered rage. You had just heard (and felt) deep sorrow. What was next? Unbridled joy? Panic attacks?

That's enough thinking, Brain. We have a test today. Slowly, as if you had just awoken, you rose from the couch and made your way to your bedroom. Truthfully, you wanted to stay awake and think of some way for Finney to escape, or at least get the police over here, but your brain was on overtime. Too much work, not enough compensation. Finney was safe. For now. His escape was a problem for tomorrow.