It was this again.

An oppressive feeling spread over the chest of the twelve-year-old.
He knew what was about to happen.
He hated it.

His steps were the same as then. The first few times he'd done it, he'd hesitated. It had confused him, still did, but it had become a habit.

A call.

But this time it was different. His strides, which were usually so much heavier and stiffer from his broken bones, felt better. They were lighter and didn't require as much strength as usual.

Then realization hit him.
His hand went to his neck in disbelief as he walked toward the phone booth.

The cut was open, it always would be. But it didn't drip.
No blood flowed from the cut that went so deep into his throat that his trachea was visible, which had almost completely destroyed his vocal cords.

But no new blood oozed out.

A realization gripped him.
His killer was dying.

His steps quickened, hope like never before burgeoned in him.

He knew the phone booth. He remembered little of his life before all of this.
But she had always been on his way. Always on the way to school. Always on the way home.

Even when everything came to an end.
He stopped, next to the old, slightly rusting phone booth there was a crack.

It was like a window into another world, the world he had left.
He saw the basement.

He swallowed, a sickening gurgle escaping his slashed throat. Normally this would have drenched his whole body in new blood, but that wasn't the case anymore.

Then he saw it.
The new Finn, as he had learned from the last victim, held him captive.

The killer.
The kidnapper.

His killer.

The cord of the phone was around his neck and Finn was pulling on it so hard the kidnapper of the six missing boys turned red and purple.

Griffin, Griffin was his name. Finney had mentioned it on a phone call.

Griffin grinned before turning to the phone booth and walking towards the receiver.

It wasn't normal here. It was the threshold between dead and alive. Restlessness and anger kept him and the others trapped here.
Each of them in their own moments that had brought them to this place.

Now, however, Griffin couldn't help but grin and giggle. He never had to dial a number, the only connection between him and the basement was the phone.

It rang.

Finn lifted the phone to the ear of the monster that killed so many children.

He heard the angry one, the one who was in here for months on end. He tried remembering his name.
Finn had said it once.

But the names of the others were something he always forgot, even if he didn’t want to.
Names were the first things lost. After you were tossed in an unmarked grave, just another body underneath the earth, you slowly forgot.

Some faster, as Paperboy for example, and other not as fast. But in the end, you always forgot.

"You don't have much time.” he taunted, smiling widely while looking though the crack. He could see the face of the man twist with horror and fear, his eyes widening at the realization that all those ignored calls were more than just static electricity.
That those calls were his victims.
Finns face showed nothing but determination.

Faces began to flash before the young boys eyes.
They all were boys.
The others.

Two only a year older than him, one with dark and slick long hair, his skin showing it once golden and warm color, the other with brownish hair and a big cut on his cheek.
Another boy was of Asian-decent, his dark eyes showing nothing but kindness.
The last one was the oldest. He had long blond locks and blueish eyes. But despite his pretty looks, his face was covered in blood.
All their faces were.
Or at least the most of them. Only one boy, he had either dirty blond or brown hair and brownish eyes. He wasn’t bloody.

He survived.

Then for a moment a girl appeared before his eyes, she wore a yellow raincoat.
He felt like he should at least know her a bit, but he didn’t.

The others chimed in, taunting their murderer.

And then there was the crack.

The boy never thought of anything filling him again with such a bright feelings. Such happiness.
But the cracking sound of his killers neck did.
It made the boy smile, even cheer.

“You did it! You killed the bastard!” he laughed, but he knew, Finn couldn’t hear him anymore. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that the phone wouldn't work anymore.
He never felt so light before.

His body was heavy ever since he died, his movements often something painful. But now he could run again. He could jump again.

He looked around the neighborhood, a place that represented his endless torture, forcing him to run away with every attempt to make contact with the other boys, with broken bones and blood dripping from his neck.

He'd never noticed how dark and gray she looked until now. It was like blowing a layer of dust off a book.

The leaves of the trees blazed with a golden light, the air around him began to feel warm.

Then there was the light. It wasn't a clinical, pure white, it had a yellowish tinge, almost golden in appearance.

He felt it whisper his name, though no words were spoken. It was like a melody that drew the boy in, inviting him to finally escape this place.

And before he could walk towards it, it exploded. A wave of light knocked the boy over, but he didn't hit any ground.

It was like he was flying.
It was different than hanging in the basement, it was softer, warmer and gentler.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through the boy's body, who shouldn't have been able to feel. But he felt.

He cried. He screamed in agony.

His bones, it felt like breaking again.

He screamed as loud as he could, sobbing. But his cries of agony were muffled, his throat still torn open by the hungry monster that was finally rotting in Hell.

Then an agonizingly slow stinging, burning sensation across his neck.

He whimpered, howled for his mother.

He had no idea who that was.

Then came blackness.
--------------------------------------------------------------
He sat at a table, a woman facing away from him, leaning over a sink while softly humming a melody.

He felt numb.

Where was he?
who was he?

He just remembered the agony he had felt moments ago. Then the faces.

He stared at the table in front of him, a bowl filled with cereal in front of him.

He looked up, looked at the woman who turned her back on him and seemed to be washing something.

"Griffin honey, are you alright?" the woman's voice was slightly squeaky, but it made the boy feel familiar.

mom

She was his mother.

Griffins mother.
He was Griffin.
That was his name.
With his name came some memories.

They just popped up in his head.
He was invisible to all the other kids. He didn’t have any friends. He was alone for the most part. Making him an easy target.

He nodded, staring at his bowl of cereal.

Was that an in-between again? Was he caught in the space between life and dead again?

The thought made him shudder. Or maybe he was just in heaven.

It was strange. He knew he was dead. He didn't remember anything specific. Just that in-between thing and the faces. One of them wasn't a real face.

A mask full of blood.
His killer's mask.

Something inside him said it was him.
One hundred percent.

He should be dead. And yet he felt his lungs filling up with air.

he was breathing.
As if in a trance he touched his neck, expecting to feel the large and wet wound, but there was nothing but warm, soft skin.
And a pulse.

His heart was beating.

"Mom? What day is it today?" a stupid thought came to him. Was he caught in something like a time warp?

It couldn't have been a daydream. He was far too confused as to where and why he was here. And he probably wouldn't know what it's like to die otherwise.

"Did you forget that? Today is Tuesday the XX." The woman sounded slightly confused, but didn't turn around. She sounded tired.

Griffin had taken a spoonful of his cereal, chewing the still crunchy cereal before choking.

"W-what?"
That was only a few days, two at most, before he-er-.

Before he would get him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He couldn’t convince his mother to just let him stay home.
She said she had to go to work and couldn’t keep an eye on him if he’d stay.

So he had to go to school.
Wow. You rise from the dead and end up going to school the same day.
Griffin was sometimes a kid that liked to tell jokes that others found annoying or even inappropriate.
His mother worked long hours and was rarely at home.
She knew him but was rarely there.

Normally he would take his bike, but today he decided to leave it at home.

He sighed.
It was weird just being able to walk normally again.
His steps were careful, he feared that at any moment a stabbing and throbbing pain could shoot through his legs, but nothing happened.

His legs were healthy.
So either he was having the worst daydream of his life or he was... dunno to be honest.

The question of what he was doing here was creepy and frightening, so much so that the mere thought of it made him tremble.

He had decided not to show anything at school. But he couldn't get the six faces out of his head.
He shook himself as he thought of the masked man.

But the others, they were in his age group, the oldest maybe three years older. They would all be in his grade, at least a large proportion if they were in the same school.

His route to school was normal, even if it felt alien and damn familiar at the same time.

He only vaguely remembered the last moments in the old in-between, but he remembered the phone booth clearly.

But something in front of the school left him petrified. The crowds of students around him didn't even realize they were bumping into him while he just stared at the black vehicle in front of the school.

A black van.

He took a deep breath. Okay, he had no idea what his job here was, or if it was some hell again, but he didn't care either.

The only thing he knew was that this van and the driver were not to be trusted.

With quick and only slightly awkward steps, the boy mingled with the other students, who just walked past the vehicle in a normal way.
And although nothing happened as he passed next to it, he felt the driver's glare on him.

He saw him.
This was what set him of.
He speed walked into the school, ignoring each person he walked into.
He kinda felt like he knew the way, though it was strangely unfamiliar . It didn’t feel like he was making the steps knowingly, he just followed what felt right.
And eventually, this feeling lead him to a classroom.
English, advanced class.
He was good at English, or at least he supposed he was.

He carefully entered the classroom, looking around, till he his gaze landed on a certain boy.
He was looking around the classroom but didn’t see Griffin. But Griffin saw him.
It was one of the boys whose faces he saw.

It was the one without blood.
It was the survivor.
He felt himself freeze.
Maybe he actually had a purpose here.
Maybe it wasn’t a hell or in-between.

He didn’t care if it was possible, or whatever it meant.
He’d search for the other boys.

Maybe they also remembered.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
“Kill that motherfucker! Kill him!” he screamed at the top of his lungs while leaning with all his might over the seats of the abandoned police car that represented his prison.

Since he'd died, his only connection had been through the car's intercom. Nobody heard him. It had driven him insane. He had only gotten angrier.
And the the new boy came.

The one that could hear them.

The one that had planted a little plant of hope inside of the blond one.
The boy once said his name, telling him how afraid he once was of him. Now nobody was afraid of him anymore. Or at least in a manner that he preferred.
Now he was a bloody and fucked up corpse.

He wanted to kill him. And now it was the end of the monster's life.

Hearing the satisfying sounds of the struggle of... what's the little guy's name again? Blake. Finney Blake, yes.
It made him grin, wide and almost mad as his body felt excited and happy.

"Welcome to the horrifying nightmare end of your pathetic little life!" he laughed into the system, hearing the kidnapper's labored breathing.

"Today is the day, motherfucker!" he could not refrain from humiliating his tormentor. It gave him a kick.
It made him forget how miserable he felt.

And then came the crack. The crack that signaled it was over.

He looked at the system. He hasn't looked out of the windows for a long time. They just kept bringing him to that awful place. The place where his battered body was buried underground.

Disgust filled him.

He wanted to kill him, but he couldn't do it anymore.
He was jealous. He hadn't been able to escape. He couldn't have killed him.

That's why the boy did it

Vance looked up. He would expect the vehicle he had been trapped in for so long to stop, but it did nothing of the sort.

To his horror, it even got faster.

"Hey! W-what the damn hell! Stop!" Panic dripped from his voice while the blond tried to somehow get out.

He fell back on the back seat, tried to open the damn doors with panic movements, but it didn't work.

He jerked his head up, his curls falling around his face, covering his eyes.
The last thing he saw was the wall of the cursed brick building where his body was supposed to be buried.
-----------------------------------------------------
He had destroyed his room. A wooden chair war broken and it’s remains were scattered all over the floor.
Papers and books were teared apart.
Feathers of his pillow were flying trough the air, some landing in his curls.
He was panting, his heart racing.

He was alive.
His hands were covered in splinters, his knuckles bleeding slightly.
He was alive.

He screamed.
Anger and devastation was running through his veins, his head filled with dark clouds of fear and confusion.
He knew, he was supposed to be dead.
He remembered the devastation, the fear and the helplessness. The disgust when ever he thought of whoever did this to him.
To others.

If he was alive again he would be too.
The world was this fucking cruel. But he wouldn't let himself get killed again.
No.

He was going to kill him.
He would bash his head in.
Rip open his arteries!
He-He’d pick up a fucking ax and decapitate him!

“Vance fucking Hopper what the hell do you think you are doing here?!”

“What the hell happened here?!”

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

The folks supposed to be his parents were screaming at him, it only made him angrier. He didn't recognize them as anything but a threat.
He felt small against them.

He knew, they were his parents. His mother had the same blond curls, though shorter. The older man had the same face shape as him.

He ran away that night, only a backpack with some of his money, that he probably stole from some younger kids., a jacket and a black eye.
Oh and his fucking memories back, some at least, though that wasn’t something he was glad about.
He didn’t belong here.
And he didn’t know where he ever would.
-------------------------------------------------------------
It was still night, as he walked cautiously through the streets of Denver, especially eyeing the streets and avoiding those.

His head was filled with questions.
Why was he alive? He knew he was dead. That was the only thing he remembered beside -well it was stupid but better than nothing- his emotions.

He groaned, kicking a rock on the street.

He for certain knew that he was murdered. He was angry. He wanted revenge.
But he didn’t know what fucking guy did it.
He’d kill him.
He’d castrate him.
He’d slit open his fucking throat.

Vance Hopper was going to be a murderer.
Not surprising anyone, but he felt weird thinking about it.

He always had beaten others up, threatened them.

Vance sighed and started playing with one of his curls while walking.
He wouldn't go back to his house.

His parents weren’t the best, he felt no connection towards them. Maybe that last straw was finally cut when his damn blood was oozing out of his body.

The walk trough the streets was exhausting but was doing wonders for him. He could keep his mind off of these questions.

The neighborhoods changed on his walk.

Vance knew, he had grown up in a rather shitty neighborhood. Nobody even cared when his parents were screaming after him.

He gritted his teeth.
It was still dark, still kind of freezing,

It didn’t make sense.
He was supposed to be dead.
Murdered by a creepy bastard. He didn’t even remember anything about the guy, just the feeling of being powerless against someone stronger than him. And the disgust that came along with it.

But now he was here. Alive and.. he was alive.
Again he kicked a rock, while roaming behind houses.
It wouldn't be surprising if anyone thought he was here to rob or beat some kid up. Maybe he did that.
Yeah he for sure did this at least once.

The neighborhood around him had slowly evolved from the almost sad picture of neglected houses and overgrown gardens -because the fuckers who owned them were too lazy to take care of them- to almost noble and expensive houses.
The gardens were trim and tidy, some fenced while others were not.
And even the fences were fancier than anything Vance had ever had in his room.
He snorted.
Maybe that wasn't quite true, but after his freak out he certainly had nothing of value left in that room.

He woke up and sat at his desk scribbling something in a book before a synapse snapped in his brain. Emotions so much greater than he'd ever felt hit him like a wave, suffocating his breath. fear, anger, shame. Hatred greater than any he had ever felt. blood lust.
Agony.
They had suddenly surrounded him.

He shook his head, now walked between some of the backyards of the fancy houses before throwing another stone somewhere with full force.

He hit a bush, making it rustle.

"Ahh!" a surprised whoop made him stop. He knew that voice, but couldn't imagine a face or a name there.

But an emotion.
A strange mixture of security and something like being overwhelmed. And a portion of devastation. Like the other boy had suffered a similar fate.

"Hello? I-is anyone there?" that voice again. Then a light went on, albeit a small one. It had a more golden tone.

Vance grunted, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Don't piss your panties. It's me." he sighed and stepped up behind the nicely trimmed bushes of what must surely be a fairly wealthy family.

A boy stood on a porch wearing nothing but his sleeping clothes and a jacket slung over his shoulders.
He held a baseball bat in his hand as if expecting a threat.
Although, many would certainly count Vance as a threat.

For a moment the both of just looked at each other, confusion painted in the slightly tanned face of the black haired one.
“..Vance?” he asked, lowering his bat.
It didn’t just sound like a question of “what the actual fuck are you doing here” but more like “that was your name, right?”.
It made his skin crawl.

Something inside of him told him, that there were more than just him.
After his name was said, he nodded.
“The one and only. What about you?” the other boy, whose name just laid on the tip of Vance’s tongue. But he couldn't place a finger on it.

The raven-haired boy laid his bat down on the wooden porch.
“You don’t remember me? Bruce. I’m Bruce.”
Vance looked at him.
Bruce. Bruce Yamada. The baseball teenage prodigy of Denver.
The one Vance secretly formed somewhat of a friendship with. If you even could call it that, others would maybe call it an alliance.
But Vance saw Bruce as someone kind, someone who he felt safe with.

He walked closer, only now realizing how cold it was. He knew it was cold, but he didn’t feel it. Only now.

“The fuck I do, how could I forget the living prodigy?” he crossed his arms, forcing himself to grin.
He had stepped closer to Bruce, now recognizing his appearance a little better.
It was strange. He felt so lost and at the same time so right, like something had brought him here.

Bruce's eyes widened as he realized that Vance wasn't just here for a simple evening stroll.

"What happened to you?" his voice faltered, as if he feared the answer. He looked around tensely, causing Vance to bite his lip.

"My old man was pissed because I snapped." he explained simply, raising his right hand to show Bruce the small cuts and his bloody knuckles. On his way, he had subconsciously started removing the splinters. It was something that distracted him.

Bruce stared at him. Even though they couldn't see each other very well in the dim light and the black night around them, he saw Bruce pale.

"Vance? What made you...cause you to freak out?" the boy's voice was little more than a whisper.
Vance looked at him, felt his stomach churn.

He must have told Bruce at some point how much he hated arguing with his parents. They were more powerful than he was, which is probably why he always avoided it.

He stared at Bruce.

He had also been a victim of the monster.

"What do you remember?"

Vance felt his every emotion build at once, another wave threatening to knock him over and push him underwater. To smother him again.

"You-you remember? You remember." he whispered.

Before he could even realize what was going on inside him, Bruce finally jumped at him, snatched him into his arms.
They never have hugged before.
Why did he feel so clam?

"Oh my god.. Y-you remember.." the boy whispered against Vance's shoulder, who just stood there stiffly.

If he remembered, and was one of the victims, and Bruce went through the same thing, how many more were there?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well it was certain to say, that Bruce Yamadas parents were utterly confused when Bruce stepped inside, calling them outside just to see a rather beaten up Vance standing awkwardly in their backyard.
But if they were averse to him, they didn't show it.

They brought him in, and Vance wondered if he'd ever been here before.

Bruce's mother helped him wash his hands without asking, while the black-haired man's father got him a mattress from the basement.

Vance had just stood there and looked awkwardly at Bruce when his father asked if he could help. Bruce had been frozen, and Vance felt like thousands of ants were crawling through his body and biting him. It was a kind of panic he'd never had.

But they didn't yell at him when he shook his head, being uncharacteristically quiet.

He was allowed to sleep in Bruce's room. But the two boys did not sleep.

"What..what do you remember?" Vance asked, having been staring at the mattress. She was clean, tidy, and he'd even gotten a cover for it.

"I..I don't know. Touching. Hands all over me, then cold and dusty floor. Dirt." Bruce hid more. Vance winced at the mention of the hands, feeling sick with the realization of what happened to them at the hands of the monster.

"I just had so many emotions all of a sudden." began Vance. "So many fucking emotions I just eloped. And even now it doesn't stop.. It wasn't a dream. Dreams are pictures. No emotions.. No touching." Vance snorted, his voice laced with contempt.

He was dead. Should be dead.
And Bruce too.

"What do we do now?" Bruce whispered and Vance looked at him.

"We'll find out which bloody motherfucker did this to us and kill him."
“It wasn’t only us..”

“I don’t fucking care. We will kill the son of a bitch. The more help the better.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vance didn’t remember how he got into this fight. Not really.
He had skipped classes as always, though Bruce for sure would scold him because of it, and now he had beaten some kid up.
It was like a greater power had taken over him, as this little bastard had grabbed him from behind. He felt like prey. And Vance wasn’t the kind of prey to just take it. He was like a rabid beast.

Maybe it was a bet, maybe the guy was stupid. Maybe it was all of these combined.
Vance didn’t care.

He beat the guy up, and for seconds he didn’t saw the bruised face of a teenager, but a devil horned mask covered in blood.

Then he walked into a bathroom, cleaning his again bloody hands. He’d be in trouble.
Then he had shown up.
Robin Arellano.
He had heard this name being whispered around, after he left the beaten up kid.

He didn’t think it was a friend of his though. He wouldn't look at him like this.

“The fuck you want Arellano?” he hissed, while letting the water run over his hand. Shit his knuckles were bleeding again.

He felt again this feeling of helplessness, maybe a bit of respect around the younger boy.
He also was a victim.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” he leaned against a stall.

Vance groaned.
He was way to comfortable around him to not remember.

“I guess you remember dying?” Vance turned around to the tan boy. He had expected him to grin, but he looked dead serious.
Better for him.

“So you do too.. this makes things a whole lot easier. You apparently also know there were others.” the shorter one summed up, making Vance tilt his head slightly.
How fucking many were there before the psycho was stopped?

“How many others?”

“Five, including me and you. Six, if you include the one that survived.”

“Fucking bastard. He is alive again, isn’t he?” Vance voice was clam. It wasn’t the same clam he had with Bruce. This clam right now was the clam before the storm.

“You remember how he got us?” Robin asked. Vance shook is head in reply. The only thing he knew was, that streets and too open spaces made him uncomfortable.

“He kidnapped us in his van. The same standing in front of the school.” Robin said, his voice filled with nothing but hatred.
Vance eyes darkened, his brow furrowed.
“Then lets go and beat the shit out of him.” it wasn’t a question . He really wanted to do it.

But the boy raised his hands, shook his head with a sad glance.

“Doesn’t work this way. Though beating the shit out of that hijo de puta sounds amazing.” Vance scoffed, looking at his hand.

“Then why the fuck are you here? I don’t think you just wanted to chitchat.” he raised an eyebrow, and Robin nodded.

“I’ll want to stop that maldito pendejo. And for that I want to get all of us together. Each one seems to remember at least something, so with that we can piece together a plan to get rid of him. You in?”

Vance rolled his eyes for a moment. That boy was more annoying than he thought, but he could say that he was honest and he somehow got at least some respect out of Vance, so that meant something.
“Of course, as if I would miss out on the chance of getting revenge.”

“Sweet. Oh and the guy you beat up was Moose. An asshole, so good job. And I know someone who can patch up your knuckles if needed.” the boy had a warm smile plastered across his face. Maybe it would have scared him if he didn’t remember all those emotions or anything, they were talking about murdering a guy.

“Would be better. I want to land a good punch on his shit face. You said something about a survivor?” Arellano nodded, and Vance felt envious.
He knew, that he shouldn’t. It was surely traumatizing to be forced to kill someone, not to mention being kidnapped, but he couldn't stop it.
He wanted to kill the man that killed him and Bruce. That killed Robin and those other two boys. The one that kidnapped the last one.

“Yeah. But I wouldn’t mention anything if I were you.”

“Why the hell not?” he leaned a bit forward.

“I wont tell him before we have a plan. I want him and us to be safe.” the look in the boys eyes was determination, and a small threat was hidden beneath his words.

Vance again rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Butt the plan will involve killing the sick fuck.”

“Of course. Come, he will be out of class soon.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a game.
The same game he had played before all of this, though all the details were getting blurry.
He slowly forgot. It got slower with each passing moment.
It hurt.
It hurt worse than the belt slashing his skin open.
More than those dirty rotten hands all over him, squeezing his throat.

He looked at the viewers, their faces nothing more than just blur. He couldn’t even make out where their eyes would be.
What hurt the most were the image of the three people fading he so dearly wanted to remember. But he didn’t.
He felt like his heart was ripped out looking at the slowly fading group.
Why did it hurt so bad?

Only one seat wasn’t taken. The one from where he would watch him.
But there was nothing.
The viewers didn’t see him.

His baseball bat was nothing worth here. He couldn't hit anything.

But still, it was a game.
But he wasn’t playing.
It was like he was watching and at the same time playing.

It was confusing. This place was confusing.

He had tried to dug his way out from under a loose tile.
But it didn’t work.

He was caught. Beaten.

He felt the belt hitting and slashing him all over his body, hitting his face and cutting him.
He remembered the rough and way too big hands, the cold and dirty ground beneath him, his finger tips reaching the dirty mattress.
The the hit on his head, the agonizing pain as his skull cracked.
The “mercy” of the demon who took him as he cut open his throat.
But this was over.
The game suddenly got faster again, Bruce being able to interfere.

It was time.
It was finally over.

He felt the edges of his mouth rising, his hands shaking with amazement.
Finn is doing it.
He is killing the demon.

He felt his bat appear right next to him. And by now he knew what it meant.

It was time for one last call.

For him, the call didn’t appear in form of a phone or anything similar
It was a baseball flying towards him, a shadowy silhouette throwing it.

But he knew who it was.
The one that almost had him.
The one that got so close to beating him was now avenging him.

Then there was the figure. It slowly reappeared, as If it was waiting for he to realize the moment he had longed for has finally arrived.

The first time he was frightened. He had though the demon had found a way to get him again. The first time it was different. It was almost see through and the throw sloppy and not good. He had no chance of reaching this one. No matter how hard he tried.
But then there was the throw of the ball, and he realized, that it was his chance to warn another one. This one would hear him.

And he did.
He even gave him back his name.
Bruce. Bruce was his name.

As the figure got into position, Bruce did the same.
He grabbed his bat, feeling the warm wood underneath his fingers. It was so much clearer right now.

Then there was the throw.
He hit the ball with a big thud.
This was his chance.

He could say something. But it wasn’t meant for Finn, not entirely.
He knew his killer would die today. He would die by the hands of his latest victim.

“Finn’s arm is mint!”
Then a loud crack filled the otherwise silent world he was trapped in.
For a second there was silence, but he felt his hands shaking, the wooden bat inside his hands grow hotter and hotter.

Then there was cheering, as if the crowd had been waiting as much as Bruce for this moment.
He saw his teammates, faceless and featureless figures, approaching, calling not his, but Finney’s name.
But he couldn’t let go of his bat. Then there was a spark,
Fire.
His bat was on fire. But he couldn’t let go of it, not even when the fire was burning his fingers, the heat making it nearly unbearable.
His teammates were saying something, but it was nothing but wordless and structure-less sounds. They hit him on his back, their hands burning through his clothes as they made contact with him.

Bruce wanted to scream, to scream that they should let go of him. He wanted to throw his bat away. And soon, Bruce Yamada was lit on fire.
That was when everything faded to black.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Bruce..?” a voice called out for him. The boy opened his yes confused.
His body felt like it was still burning, burning with the touch of someone he didn’t want to touch him.
His hands felt like they were covered in burning ashes, as if he was digging in them.
Then he sat up, ignoring the slowly fading burning.
He was dead.

He knew that. He felt it.

But he looked away from the thought, to the source of the voice.
It was dark outside, it was night. It was like a dream.
But dreams weren’t supposed to be like this.

They were something only made up by ones brain. But this were only pictures. Nothing that would leave the feeling of fire on ones skin.

Amy.
A voice inside of him called as he saw the girl standing before the bed.
It was his bed.

Memories swept through his fingers where he touched the blanket.
This was home.

And the girl in front of him was his sister.
He loved her so much.

“Amy, what is wrong?” he asked, his slight confusion being masked as sleepiness. He knew she was his sister, he knew this was his home. His own room, but at the same time he felt so damn clueless.
The girl had long black hairs as far as he could tell, and as she stepped closer Bruce could see strains of tears on her face.

“I had a nightmare.. I-i was in school and suddenly everyone was against me in someway.. They made fun of me.” she whispered, clinging onto her nightgown.

Bruce felt his heart ache.
“Come here.” he tried to smile reassuringly, was trying to clam her down. He had moved a bit to the side, trying to ignore the little burn again.

The nine-year-old looked at him with shy eyes, but she sat right next to him.
He couldn't shake the feeling of, that there was more to it.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked with a gentle tone. He felt like he needed to touch her, hug her, but at the same time, the thought of touch made his skin light up again.
Amy looked at him, her still wet cheeks reflecting the slight moonlight falling through his window.
“You weren’t there..I-I tired looking for you, but I couldn’t find you..” she whispered.

Bruce looked at her for a moment in silence.
He was taken away. He knew it. He felt the hard grip around his body, the impact of something crashing into him.
He felt the impact of something hitting against his head, crushing his skull in the process.
Bruce Yamada was supposed to be dead. But he wasn’t.

And looking at his little sister, sitting so crushed because of a dream besides him, he wouldn't let it happen again. Not to himself or anyone.

It didn’t matter how he came back.
It didn’t matter why.
The only thing that mattered for him was, that he would stay here.
For his sister.
For his parents.

He took a deep breath, smiled softly at Amy.
“I wont go away Amy. You are sadly stuck with me as you big bro.” he grinned while opening his arms, an invitation for a hug.
His prickling and burning skin didn’t matter anymore.

All that mattered was his sister.
She tossed his arms around him, and for a moment Bruce wanted to flinch away.
But he didn’t.

He stayed there for minutes, his arms gently held his sister, whom began to sob again.

“Bruce, please never leave me alone..”
“I wont. I promise.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was weird walking with Vance Hopper to school. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it.
Vance was rough, but they had shared a moment of weakness with one another, though Bruce didn’t know if the blonde saw it the same way.

He remembered the same.. He remembered being taken too. And the worst part there were more of them. Bruce had no idea how to figure it out who they were.
He knew Vance before all of that had happened.

But he had felt his skin light up again as he saw him that night. It wasn’t burning though, it was like the light of the moon had touched each part of his body that had been marked by blood and cleaned it of in gentle strikes, as if it was afraid it would open up those wounds again.

But when he heard, that Vance Hopper had beaten up Moose, a well known bully and had seemingly spent some time of lunch break with a group of kids, that didn’t fit together much, he knew something was up.
And then he showed up together with Vance.

A boy with tan skin and slick dark brown, almost black hair, and a bandanna.

He again felt the prickling of moonlight. But this time, he was the one who touched something.

“So you are Bruce Yamada? The base-ballplayer.” the boy was around thirteen. And still Bruce got the same feeling he had with Vance.
A victim.

He didn’t know exactly what was telling him who was a victim of the demon, he just knew.

“I am sorry.. you remember, don’t you?” Bruce noticed the glance Vance was giving him. He looked like he could tolerate the kid, and as far as Bruce was concerned, this boy had a similar reputation as Vance.
But what was his name again.

“Getting straight to the point I guess.. and yeah.” the dark-eyed boy was surprised for a moment, and Bruce looked slightly confused at Vance.
He didn’t try to fight the kid, did he?

“And..what is your name?”

“Robin Arellano. And I am hereby inviting you to the meeting of the grave-boys.” the boy smiled, but his eyes had a serious shine in them.
Still, Bruce couldn't help but chuckle. But it was more or less because he was overwhelmed.

“Fucking grave-boys? That was the stupid idea you couldn't tell me till I brought you to Bruce?” Vance rolled his eyes, growling a bit.

Robin didn’t seem to be intimidated one bit.
Bruce smiled.
“The name is a bit..morbid, I have to admit. Are there..more than us?”

“Five who died, six that got kidnapped.”

Then it hit Bruce like a baseball bat against the ball.

“I think I know who you are talking about! But what was his name again.. I know he plays baseball.” Bruce exclaimed, making Vance look at him with a grin.

“We all do kind of remember that boy. He was our avenger.”

“Finney Blake is his name.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the same road.
The same routine he always drove.
He had the papers in his basket, somewhere where he could easily reach them
This was his purpose.
Something that kept him from going insane.

Delivering newspapers.
Though, he knew they weren’t the ones he once had delivered all trough down.
These were his connection.
Through them he could see what was going on down there.
But he didn’t want to look. He had warned him.
He had told him not to go upstairs.
Yet he still did it.

It made him angry.
Why didn’t he listen to him?
He only wanted to protect another one from suffering.

He picked a newspaper out of the basket, throwing it away without looking.
He didn’t want to see it happen.

He didn’t want to see another one die.
Another one going through what came after his game.

He sighed. He felt the blood tripping from his fingers and the cut on his cheek.
It would continue to drip forever.
He didn’t know how it would stop.

At first, he had thought it would end when he finally had his name back.
Then the boy said he was some boy named Billy Showalter.
But he wasn’t he didn’t know this name.

Again he picked up a newspaper, rolling his eyes slightly annoyed at the blood smudges on it.
He knew, he’d never deliver new ones again, but it still annoyed him to see the newspapers he had here being dirty.

He continued his route. In a few moments it would reset again. He would reach the end and then he would end up at the start again, restarting his route again.

He was only a paperboy.
He was paperboy.
He picked up the last newspaper, expecting to smudge blood over it again.
But it wasn’t.

No blood was smudged over it.
Confused he looked at it.

Maybe he should take a look.
It had never stopped smudging, never stopped running out of the wounds all over his body.
But now it did.

Something was wrong.
Very worng.

He stopped before the last house.

The house.
The house where his remains were buried beneath.
It almost had a disturbing sense of familiarity to it.
This whole world, his only connection to the living realm being his newspaper, made him feel somewhat safe. He felt his wounds, sure, but then again, he could do what he loved. He was alone here, without even more pain inflicted on him.

He could never get to him again.
He couldn't hurt him anymore.
He couldn't play with him anymore.
He took the newspaper, removed the rubber band band holding it together.
And then he saw it.

The Grabbers body in a hole. Its neck snapped.

He was dead.

A headline appeared on the paper, Paperboy felt his stomach turn.

Denver’s Serial Killer and Kidnapper stopped by heroic victim.

Hero.

The boy was a hero.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Then, before he could even react, the newspaper just turned black, swallowing the picture and headline whole.

Black ink started dripping from it, slowly crawling towards him like some spider-like creature while still being wet and shiny.

Disgustingly disturbing.

But he didn’t move.
He was still in shock.
The boy had survived.
The man that took his life was dead.

The Grabber was killed by hero.

Hero.. Fighter.. Player.. Pinball.. Paperboy and the first one.
He, Paperboy, had given them these names in his head.

They didn’t disappear or lost their meaning after endless circles of abuse and death. They stayed with him, as he felt the ink reaching his fingers.

It was a thicker consistency than he had expected and was a lot warmer than he had thought it’d be.

Then it was like a lightning bolt was rushing through his body, his reflexes he once had lost returned.

He tried throwing the paper to the ground, getting it away from him.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t work!

He started panicking. He had no control over it, no matter how hard he struggled to get the paper away from him, it didn’t work.

It was like super glue had taped his fingers at the paper, no chance to remove it.
And the ink, or whatever it really was, was spreading.

By the end of seemingly endless hours of struggle without success, Paperboy was covered in the ink. He couldn’t even scream anymore.

The only thing not covered were his eyes.

Again those names showed up.

Hero.
The boy that survived.
Fighter
The boy that fought back without success.

Player.
The one that believed he could play the game and win.

Pinball.
The one who stayed the longest.

And a new one.

Loner.
The one nobody saw before it was too late.

And he was Paperboy
The one who wanted to stay in the world without pain.

And then, the ink was all over him.
It was over.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a weird feeling waking up while standing.
It was dizzying and confusing.
It confused him.

He stared at his body.
He didn't quite know what he was expecting to see, but not this.

His body was healthy. No wounds. Nothing about him that should say he shouldn't be standing here.

And yet there was the oppressive, crushing to be exact, feeling. It told him not to stand here.
His reflection showed a dark blonde boy, his eyes a brownish hue.

Maybe his name should come to him now. But nothing came.

He knew it should be him in the mirror.
Paperboy, he was paperboy.

Not just any billy that got kidnapped.
Paperboy, which he couldn't touch anymore.

A scrape on the door interrupted his thoughts, and at first he was just confused as to what that was.

It was only now that these memories pushed back into his mind.

His name, according to documents and his parents and classmates at least, was Billy Showalter.
But he saw that name as nothing.
It even made him uneasy.

No, Paperboy was a better name.

But now he turned to the door, the scratching didn't stop.

Rosey, his Rosey.

He felt the corners of his mouth lift and he pushed down on the latch, allowing the dog to enter the bathroom.

And the golden retriever didn't need to be told twice, tail wagging, she jumped into the bathroom as if she had been waiting for him for ages until he finally came out.

His heart beat faster with joy, he didn't care that she almost knocked him over and started stroking through her fur.

He didn't care if he was supposed to be dead.
No, Paperboy wasn't dead.

Billy Showalter was, but wasn't anymore.

----------------------

It was ironic how he still seemed to know his route inside out despite not recognizing his own mother.
Well it had to be even more ironic, to come back from the dead only to deliver newspapers.
But it didn’t bother Paperboy.
He liked delivering newspapers.

But wasn't she his mother in that sense, she was Billy's mother.

He cycled on his bike that he would probably always recognize even when there was a pile of ash.

He passed out his newspapers, Rosey following him with a curious look.
He always took her with him. He would always take her with him.

They turned onto a street, a street so terribly familiar.

He bit his lip.
He had forgotten the names of the residents of this street.
Doesn't matter.
He didn't have any special issues with him today, so he didn't have to worry about the names.

He took a deep breath, pedaled again and threw the first newspapers.

Then he spotted a car in an exit ramp, a man loading it.

A black van.

He stopped so fast he almost fell over and some of his newspapers even flew out of the basket onto the floor.

A name came to mind, but he could not say which. It was still too blurry.

Rosey looked at him confused out of her dark eyes, standing next to him.

Paperboy felt his heart race. And then the man turned in his direction.

The Grabber.

"Oh good morning Billy!" he greeted him with a friendly smile and Billy practically jumped off his bike. The spoken name practically froze his blood, and he felt both addressed and not. Billy wasn't his name.

Who the hell was the grabber? Why did he think that name when he saw the man? His name, as Paperboy slowly began to dimmer, was nothing like Grabber. That was Mr Shaw. The magician.

"Oh- good morning Al." He nervously greeted the middle-aged man back while Rosey had started happily wagging her tail and even barking.

Mr. Shaw also had a dog whose name Paperboy escaped. But he sometimes gave Rosey treats, which made her like the man.
She trusted him.
The man smiled at him, then turned back to his van, which made Paperboy's stomach turn.

He had started collecting his newspapers, keeping Rosey close with the command "stay".
He didn't have a good feeling about this man and at the same time couldn't say why.

With quick and skillful movements, all the newspapers landed back in the basket.
He sat back down in his seat and handed out the remaining newspapers.

And yet this name did not let go of him.

The Grabber.

He had no idea who that was.
-------------------------------------------------------------
School was shit.
There was nothing more to say about that.
Or so he thought.

Mr Shaw’s van was parked near the school.
It made him uncomfortable.
Again that strange name was practically plastered all over his mind, not letting him rest.

He paid no attention in the classes, his mind of somewhere else completely. And again, everyone was calling him Billy.
Billy wasn’t his name.
Billy was dead.

He was Paperboy.
Paperboy was alive.

Maybe the Grabber was the one who took his life.
The thought of that made him sit straight up in realization.

He didn’t remember anything about his death, nor his killer.
In class he was just scribbling one a note, trying to remember anything.
His teachers said they were worried about Billy.
He just replied they didn’t need to worry about him.
It wasn’t technically a lie.
There was no more Billy to be worried for.

After lunch break, he didn’t go back to class. Why would he?
It has nothing there for him.
But something still hold him here. It was weird.
Like something was missing, and so he stayed.

He sighed.
Paperboy had walked up the whole campus, and didn’t find anything of use.
Or so he thought.

He walked into two people, a bit older than him.
He wasn’t looking where he was going, his glance glued to the ground. And then there was something in the way.
Both of them almost lost balance, but the one he walked into was caught by whoever was with him, and Paperboy had the luck to find his balance himself.
He looked up, feeling nervous.
Something inside of him already had names for them.

One had raven-black hair, a sporty build and kind, dark eyes.

Player.
The one who thought he could win the game.
The other boy was simply staring at him. He had blond, kinda mop-like looking hair and fiery blue eyes.

Pinball.
The one that stayed the longest.

They were victims of the same monster. The Grabber.
“Pinball? Player?” his voice was slightly shaking.

For a moment, both looked confused.
“What?” Pinball asked, his tone telling how confused he was, But his fiery blue eyes showed he knew more.
Player looked hurt.

“Your names. You stayed there the longest. And-and Player here thought he could win his ga-” Paperboy began, but was cut short by Pinball charging at him, this time resulting in him dropping to the ground.
He felt his heart race, while Player was trying to get Pinball off of him, but the angry blond didn’t bother.

He grabbed Paperboy by his shirt.
“Don’t fucking talk about that.” he hissed, while paperboy could only gasp.

“Vance get off of him!” Player finally got a grip on Pinball, or Vance how he called himself, and tore him off of Paperboy.

“Y-you go by your old names?” he asked.

“What do you mean by that, Showalter?” Vance scoffed, looking away from the boy while inspecting his hands. They were bandaged.
He had gotten into a fight.

Now Paperboy got serious.
“That’s not my name. My name is Paperboy.” he said.

“What?” Player looked at him. Sorrow lit up in his eyes as he realized something.
“You don’t remember your name?

“I do… or at least I suppose I do. Everyone calls me Billy.. but Billy doesn’t exist anymore. I never really thought that there were others..” Vance scoffed, but Paperboy could see some remorse on his face, hidden behind a mask of ignorance and anger.

“Well that’s just stupid. The sick bastard couldn’t be satisfied.”

Paperboy felt his skin prickling with unease.
He didn’t know or remember when he died. Or how. He just know he did.

“Vance, I know it is all way too much for us. But we shouldn’t just go after us. He is one of us.” Player talked softly to Vance, who in response looked away from both of them.

“Then, Paperboy, you shouldn’t talk about what you know about us, like we are just some headlines in a newspaper. My name is Vance, and the idiot that you walked into is Bruce.” he introduced himself and the other boy.

Bruce, who he remembered as Player, looked at him apologetic, but the temper of the blond wasn’t bothering him. He was angry. Rightfully.
But Paperboy didn’t feel angry. He felt numb.

“We’re going too meet up with the other two boys. You know..the ones that died. You want to come along?” he smiled awkwardly.

Paperboy nodded.
“I think I will.. but isn’t there someone missing? I feel like there were more than five.” he couldn't quiet explain the feeling, but yeah. Something was missing. Five didn’t sound right.

“Well one little shit got away, and his boyfriend doesn’t want to involve him until we have a plan, so yeah. The surviving one is missing.” Vance replied.

The one boy that survived.
Hero.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He knew others were here. He knew he wasn't the only one who had fallen victim to this monster.

He had fought, cursing the hijo de puta with all the insults he knew. He had used every one of his tricks and fighting techniques, but in the end he was just a thirteen-year-old boy. And his opponent a grown and armed man.

He was Robin Arellano. The toughest kid in school. He lived with his Tio Toby most of the time. His best friend was Finney Blake, to whom he gave the nickname Finn.

And now he was just another faceless victim, a nameless grave hidden where none would find his rotting body.

He was Robin Arellano.
The toughest kid in school. He lived with his Tio Toby most of the time.
His best friend was Finney Blake, to whom he gave the nickname Finn.
He wanted to watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with him.

He knew the other ghosts, or whatever he was, of the other victims were lurking around here too.
In his last moments he could hear it.
The ringing of the black phone.
The phone that really shouldn't ring.

Now he knew that there is a connection between this in-between thing, not being able to continue life after death, but not being in the body either.
Something kept them all here.
They were here, even if not visible.

Robin hadn't known what it was first.
Then the masked son of a whore had thrown it under here.
Finn. his best friend

He had protected him from bullies and everything. He knew that Finn had to learn to stand up for himself at some point.
But that moment had come sooner than any of them ever wanted.

He was Robin.
The toughest kid in school. He lived with his Tio most of the time.
His best friend was Finn Blake. It was a nickname.
He wanted to watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with him.

Robin watched over Finn, sitting next to him when he slept.
He could never leave the basement.
He had tried, and yet something always pushed him back, painfully reminding him of his bloody wounds that marked him as a ghost.

At first he had feared that Finn would suffer the same fate as he and so many boys before him.

But Finn was special.
He heard the phone ring.
He had warnings and tips.

And yet, every attempt to break out had failed.
Finn was about to give up.

Robin had shied away from calling him.
He had left Finn alone.

But when he saw him crying in a corner next to the hole he had dug in the wall at Vance's tip, looking like he was about to give up, he couldn't watch any longer.
He took a deep breath, a gesture that was actually completely unnecessary, but still robbed him of his tension.
He walked towards the phone, having no idea how the others were doing it.

All he knew was that he had to get Finn out of here.
He couldn't let him die.
Not in this way.

Arriving in front of the black telephone, he imagined a receiver that he could pick up. He even performed the movement.

seconds passed.
Endless seconds in which all he could hear was Finn sobbing.

Then it rang.

Finn looked up, went to him.
He was standing right next to Robin without knowing it when he picked up the phone.
“Hey Finn.. Whats happening?”

“Robin..?” his voice sounded weak, defeated. It made his nonexistent heart ache.

“Hey Buddy.” he smiled. Hopefully Finn could hear it. He looked besides him, seeing Finn tear up once again.
He also felt like crying.

“Don’t cry.” he didn’t want him to. He shouldn’t give up.

“I’m not.” his voice was raspy. He was lying. Robin saw him cry.

“Yes you are.. I can see you.” he didn’t know how Finn would react. Would he be angry that Robin had waited for so long? Or would he just break down altogether?

“You can..?” disbelief, but no anger. He looked around. For a moment their eyes met. Finn didn’t see him.
“I’m with you. I’ve been with you this whole time.” Finn looked like he didn’t know how to react, and Robin wanted to hug him.
They never did that before.
And now they had no time left to do so.

“You have?” his voice was shaking.

“A man never leaves a friend behind. My dad didn’t leave his buddies behind when he went to Nam. That’s why he didn’t come back. And I am not coming back either.. And I am not going to leave you behind.” he answered. He never would leave him behind again. He would follow him, though he couldn’t protect him anymore. Finn needed to learn how to stand up for himself. And now was now or never. He never told him what had happened to his dad. He thought he would have time for this later in life. When he was ready.
But fate was cruel.
So so cruel.

“We’ll be together again soon..” Finns voice was weak. Robin clenched his fist around his imaginary phone.

“Fuck that. You aint gonna go like I did.” Robin didn’t scream or even raised his voice, his voice was just full of determination. He was going to prevent this.
“I’ve tried everything. Nothing’s worked.” he sounded desperate.

“Yet.”

“Robin-” he didn’t let him finish.

“You remember what I told you?” he cut him off. He would prevent Finn from dying by the dirty hands of the Grabber.

“That I need to see Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Robin couldn't tell of he was joking. But it made him smile. He remembered.
But this wasn’t what he had meant.

“Before that.”
Finn stayed quiet, till he pulled himself together.

“Someday I have to stand up for myself.”

“Someday is today, Finn. Today is the day you stop taking shit from anybody.” he said, walking a bit away from the wall.
Finn wouldn't see him.
It didn’t matter. He would teach him.
“I’m not a fighter like you Robin.. you couldn't even take him.” he was giving up.. Robin couldn’t let that happen.
“You’ve always been a fighter Finn, that’s what we have in common. That’s why we are friends. You’ve always been afraid of a little punch, but you always knew how to take one. And you always caught back up. Every. Time.” Finn really was a fighter. Not like he was. Not like Vance was before he was taken.
Finn was smarter than them.
He could survive. Robin knew it.

“You are getting out of here. If you can’t do it for you, do it for me.” he didn’t want Finney to slowly loose himself, his memories. He wanted him to live long. To live happy.. and that meant without him.

“Why does it matter?” Finn’s voice was getting angrier. But Robin knew, it wasn’t because of him. Finn was ready to die..
“ ‘Cause I don’t wanna die for nothing! I want to at least have died for a friend.” he snapped back. This was the reality they were facing.
Robin was dead. And he didn’t want to have died for nothing.

His death would be the end of the Grabber.

“And because I cant kill that hijo de puta, you have to do it for me.” it was always just “’he has to escape.’ But deep inside Robin knew, no one would be safe if that piece of human scum would continue to live.
Finn had to kill him.

He stayed quiet, then dtermination filled his voice.
“How?”
“You are gonna use a weapon.”
“What weapon?”
“The one in your hand.”

Finn was quiet once again.
“The phone?”

“Fill the receiver with dirt. Pack it in tight. Give it some heft.”

“Then what?”
“Then you practice. You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back and swing.” he demonstrated.
Finn didn’t do anything.

“Try it.”

“Now?”
“Yes. You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back and swing.”
Finn slightly followed his movements. *

“Again.”

“You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back and swing.”
“Again.”

“You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back and swing.”

“Again.”

“You raise the phone, take a fast step back, step forward, step back and swing.”

Finn followed his steps, doing the same tricks as him.
Then he stopped. He put the receiver back at his ear again.

“You got it.. now fill the phone with dirt like I told you to.” he knew what was about to come.
This was the last call.

“Will I still be able to talk with you?” Finn asked, hope sprouting in his voice.
Robin didn’t want to answer.

“This is the last call Finn. Its all you from here on now.” he looked at Finn as he stepped closer to the wall with the phone.
“I miss you Robin..” he whispered.
Robin wanted to tell him that everything would turn out fine, but he knew it wouldn’t. He was dead.
“Then get out for me.. Use what we gave you.”
Finn had something the others never had. He had a chance of escaping.

“I will.” he promised.
“Bye Finn..” he didn’t try to hide how hurt he was. He was always going to watch over Finn, but hearing his voice would be different. They couldn't interact anymore. No answers would reach the other.
“Bye Robin..”
Then he hung up.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I cant kill you hijo de puta, so Finn is gonna do it for me!”
The other ghosts taunted their killer, the image of them smiling widely appeared for seconds next to their killers head.

And after Bruce said his line, the neck was snapped.
The pain of his wounds stopped.
They stopped bleeding.

Robin followed Finn near the stairs, watched him throw a piece of meat to the dog guarding it. Then he started walking up.
For Robin it was like the entrance to heaven.
Golden light was shining through it.
It was beautiful.

Until it wasn’t.
As he set foot in the last stair, something grabbed him, yanked him face first onto the stairs.

“You aren’t going to leave! You aren’t going to get away naughty boy!” something screamed.
Robin didn’t turn around.
The sick voice.
The fucking name.

Then he kicked. He kicked harder than ever before, got the beasts hands away from his ankels. Then he ran. He ran up the stairs again into the light.

If he followed him. Robin didn’t notice.
It didn’t matter.
He’d end up burning in hell.
The light was warm. Comforting.
Then there was a sharp pain on his neck, the same pain he felt when the knife hit him.
He screamed.

Then it was over.

Notes:
Translation:
maldito pendejo- damn asshole
Tio- uncle
hijo de puta- son of a bitch

I’ve decided to cut this in two.. next chapter will be the rest of Robins pov and how he and the other boys decided to get rid of their very much alive problem.
I Hope I brought the different personalities out quiet well and that you guys enjoyed the chapter ^^.