Chapter Text
The basement was a tomb of damp shadows, the air thick with the scent of mold and despair. Bruce, his heart pounding like a drum against his ribcage, pressed his ear to the cold concrete wall, straining to catch any hint of movement. He could hear the faint drip of water somewhere in the dark, an eternal reminder of his isolation. The grabber had left him alone again, but Bruce knew it wouldn’t last.
“Think, Bruce. Think!” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. Panic clawed at his throat, but he forced himself to focus. He had spent days plotting his escape, tracing the outlines of the room in his mind, visualizing every possible route. He could almost feel the chill of the outside air, the freedom it promised.
He turned away from the wall and scanned the room. Dim light filtered through a small, barred window high above. It cast long shadows that danced like wraiths across the floor. “If I can just reach that window…” he thought, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
A sudden noise broke the silence—a sharp clank, like metal meeting metal. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat. He crouched low, heart racing, and listened intently. The sounds grew closer: footsteps, heavy and deliberate. The grabber was back.
“Stay calm,” Bruce whispered to himself, his fingers twitching against the cold stone. “You can do this.”
The basement door creaked open, and the grabber stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the faint light. Bruce’s stomach churned as he caught sight of the man’s dark eyes, glinting with a predatory hunger. The grabber was tall and imposing, his frame cloaked in shadows, his presence suffocating.
“Time to come out, boy,” the grabber said, his voice a low growl. He stepped forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Bruce’s pulse quickened. He had to move—now.
With a burst of adrenaline, Bruce darted to the side, dodging past the grabber and sprinting toward the window. “Get away from me!” he shouted, the words barely escaping his lips. He could feel the grabber’s breath on his neck, hot and foul.
“Stop! You think you can run?” The grabber lunged, but Bruce slipped through the narrow space between the wall and the old wooden crate that held dusty remnants of forgotten memories. He reached the window, grasping the iron bars with both hands, pulling himself up.
“Help! Somebody help me!” Bruce screamed, his voice echoing in the confines of the basement, the sound barely reaching beyond the walls. The grabber cursed and charged, but Bruce was already halfway through the window when pain shot through his shoulder.
“Let go!” Bruce cried, the grabber’s fingers digging into his flesh. He twisted and kicked, desperation fueling his movements. “I won’t let you take me!”
But the grabber was relentless. With a savage yank, he pulled Bruce back into the darkness. “You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed, eyes narrowed in fury.
In that moment, Bruce’s thoughts raced to his family. His mother’s warm smile, his father’s quiet strength, and the laughter of his little sister, Amy, echoed in his mind. “I’m sorry,” he thought, tears blurring his vision. “I tried.”
The grabber’s grip tightened, and Bruce felt a surge of despair. He was losing. “No! I can’t give up!” he yelled, trying to fight back, but the world began to dim as the grabber’s hand tightened around his throat.
“Silence,” the grabber whispered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Bruce struggled, vision narrowing, the edges of his consciousness fading to black. The last thing he heard was the grabber’s laughter, cold and mocking, a sound that would haunt him.
-
The air was thick with grief as Finny paced the length of the dimly lit room, his fingers brushing against the peeling wallpaper. The muffled sounds of the party outside—a distant clink of glasses, laughter that felt like a mockery—drifted through the cracked window. He paused, staring at the framed photograph of Bruce on the mantelpiece. A wide grin, the sunlight catching his tousled hair. It had been just over a year since Bruce had vanished, and every day since had been a desperate attempt to hold onto the memories, even as they faded.
“Finny, you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Amy said, her voice breaking the heavy silence. She sat at the small kitchen table, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. The dark liquid swirled, mirroring the chaos in her heart. “We should just go outside. They’re all waiting for us.”
“Waiting for what?” Finny snapped, turning sharply. The anger bubbled up, a mixture of frustration and loss. “What are we celebrating? Bruce is gone, Amy! He’s gone, and we’re just pretending everything is okay!”
A soft sob escaped from Gwen, who sat curled up on the couch, her head resting on her knees. “I just… I can’t believe he’s really gone. He wouldn’t leave us like this. Not without saying goodbye.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Vance said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back with a shaky hand. The weight of his words hung in the air like smoke. “Maybe he’s still out there, and we just haven’t found him yet.”
“Or maybe we’re just holding onto a ghost,” Finny replied, his voice low and filled with bitterness. “I’ve spent every waking moment searching for him, Vance. Every single moment. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing.”
“Stop it!” Amy shouted, her voice cracking. “Stop pushing us away! We need each other right now. We’re all hurting. Bruce wouldn’t want us to fight.”
Finny’s shoulders slumped, the fire in his eyes extinguishing. He glanced at Vance, who stood there, a shadow of the boy who had laughed effortlessly beside Bruce. “You… you’re right. I’m sorry.”
The atmosphere shifted as Billy stepped into the room. He had been quiet, lurking in the background, but now his presence commanded attention. “Listen, I know this is hard,” he said, his voice steady. “But we can’t keep living like this. Bruce wouldn’t want us to drown in sorrow. We need to remember him, not just mourn him.”
\
“Remember him how?” Gwen whispered, her eyes glistening with tears. “How do we do that when we’re all falling apart?”
“By sharing stories,” Billy suggested, moving closer, his expression softening. “Let’s talk about the things he did that made us laugh, the memories that made us feel alive. Let’s celebrate his life instead of just mourning his absence.”
Finny opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the look in Billy’s eyes made him hesitate. The idea was radical, almost blasphemous, but maybe it was worth a shot. “Okay,” he said slowly, “I’ll start.”
The group settled into a circle, the tension easing slightly as Finny began. “Do you remember the time Bruce tried to teach me how to skate? I fell so many times, I thought I’d never get up. But he just kept laughing, telling me I looked like a baby deer learning to walk.”
A chuckle erupted from Vance, the sound warm and nostalgic. “That’s right! And he fell too, right after you did! Landed right on his butt, and he just lay there laughing with you.”
“Yup, and then he tried to get up and slipped again,” Amy chimed in, her eyes sparkling with memories. “He ended up in a pile of snow, and we all couldn’t breathe from laughing so hard.”
As the stories flowed, the room filled with a bittersweet warmth. Each memory shared was a tribute to Bruce, a way to keep his spirit alive. Laughter mingled with tears, and for a brief moment, the heaviness lifted.
The air was still as the laughter faded, the group realizing they could never make anymore memories with Bruce.. He's gone.
Bruce is dead...