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Seven. The Luxury Of Trusting.
Death terrified her.
Amelia didn't want to die.
She didn't want to leave her mother behind in this cruel world. She didn't care to know about what came after this life—heaven, hell, or whatever lay in between. She didn't want answers. She wanted time. Time to breathe, to live, to be something more than a casualty of someone else's choices.
She didn't want to die at eighteen, trapped in an elevator, while he still breathed.
Because if she died, it meant he outlived her. It meant he won. That everything she endured—the silence, the fear, the control, the tears—had been for nothing. Pointless. It meant her pain ended with her, while he kept walking free, untouched.
She didn't want to feel her heart slow beneath her ribs or her vision fade into blackness. She didn't want to feel lifeless. She didn't want her body to go still while he kept moving.
She didn't want to give him the pleasure of her absence. She didn't want to give him peace.
No. She wanted him to hurt. To feel the weight of her, the rage of her, the nightmare he created. To feel the pain. She wanted him to bleed, to bury her teeth in his skin, make him regret every second he kept her caged.
If he died, then maybe, just maybe, she could finally live.
But the thought itself was sinful. What kind of daughter wished death on her father? What type of soul did that make her? Maybe the kind who deserved the casket, too.
She wasn't ready to die. Not when freedom was finally within reach, wrapped in promises and handed off to her in the fine print of a curfew. Not when summer finally meant something more than locked doors.
She didn't want to die. Not when she'd only just started living.
Endless hours had passed. Time felt painfully slow.
Dustin's voice became a faint echo in her skull, burning his desperation to find an escape route into her memory. The same few words bounced off those four metal walls like ghosts refusing to rest. He kept clinging to the idea that his friends would hear them. That they'd come. But down here? It was hell. And they were alone.
Amelia sat slumped, fingers curled around her dirty shoelaces. Her head low, her expression strained and tired. Her eyes watched her hands. Out of habit, her thumb reached for the ring she always twisted around her finger, only to touch bare skin. She sighed.
Robin's footsteps filled the emptiness. She paced back and forth, stuck in her bubble. Meanwhile, Steve stood near the vent, glancing down at a small item in his hands, before disappearing to follow Dustin up into the maintenance shaft to check if there was still hope.
