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Fixing my father’s mistakes means facing my own. But I don’t want to.
I tried burying it a long time ago. The anger. The pain. The memories.
It never works. It never did.
I think about them more than I’d like to.
Elizabeth. Passionate, energetic, determined.
Determination was always her downfall.
It was her downfall.
She had strawberry blonde hair that she always put in pigtails for school. I brushed her hair quite a lot when our father started becoming more distant.
She had a collection of bows and headbands. There was a small red one that she wore on the top of her head.
She wore it the day she died.
I wake up in the night sometimes because I hear her giggle in my dreams. It shakes me up every time.
Evan. Quiet, empathetic, sensitive.
I always thought he was a crybaby.
But he was just a kid.
He always carried around his favorite plushie, Fredbear. It was modeled after our father and Henry’s animatronic.
Evan was terrified of the animatronic, though. I once asked him what the difference was.
He said that the plushie was small and cuddly, and the robot was big and had teeth.
Then he asked me to play with him. I shrugged and he handed me one of his action figures.
I wish I played with him more.
He cried for his entire birthday party. I thought his fear of the animatronics was just that; a fear.
I touch my face constantly to remind myself that Evan’s blood is no longer stained there.
The buzz of machinery makes my skin crawl.
I wince when I see siblings in public.
I can’t look myself in the eyes when I look in the mirror.
I have to fix my father’s mistakes.
For his punishment. For his victim’s justice.
For my redemption.