Chapter Text
His seemingly motionless bear mask trembled within his palms as he felt the fire course through his undead, weak body. He could not feel anything, but his mind torments him into thinking he can. He was always paranoid, and that made his mind break down. The robot inside of him seemingly melted away into a pile of broken down wires and junk. He shook as he thought of everything he has done wrong. Elizabeth, Father, Evan.
He never really liked his father. And even if the old man shut himself away from the world he would be fine. But Michael was so naive. Thinking that his father still truly loved him. Waiting for his approval, yet it never came. Then Michael died, and he blamed his father. Yet, he never died. He wondered if it was truly the afton way. His father finding renment and sucking the life out of almost everyone he ever knew. His father was clever like that. Smart, but not empathetic enough. Finding ways to get out of trouble. Yet, he got springlocked while the children he murdered in cold blood laughed and taunted him from the grave. The children, he hoped before he died to this fire that the children's souls would be free.
He closed his eyes, awaiting death. Even though his tear ducts could not produce tears. Michael cried, yet not for himself. For the people he has hurt. And the brother he had yet to set free. He smiled. He felt his light body become numb and colder than it already was. And his nonexistent heartbeat slowed. And Michael, as the other children's, and henry's souls were free to find peace through the lives that were all too hellish.
Michael awoke, his head pounding and his eyes sore. He lay dazed and confused, opening his eyes he looked up to a ceiling that was all too familiar. Nostalgia and nausea hit Michael, and he sat up begrudgingly. His tan body wailing in protest, he slowly got up. And walked. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked into a mirror. And all he could see was a childish, round face. And eyes that are too blue to be his own white slits.
"What the hell happened? Am I in my old room?" He looked around confusion and paranoia filling his mind. His blue walls and his space collectables that he remembered throwing away years ago. The spaceship that hung on the ceiling depressingly he remembered taking to college with him. And there it sat, the foxy mask. He lifted a shaky hand towards it and pulled it back as if it had some disease. Scratching his head, he roughly pulled himself into the corner. Panic coursed through his too alive, too young body. He could feel everything, the pinches he gave himself, the feeling of the carpet underneath his feet. The cold air biting at his nose through the window. He wasn't accustomed to this. He'd been a zombie for at least 40 years for christ sake!
"Mikey! Daddy made breakfast! You know how he gets when you're late. Hurry up slowpoke!" The soft voice of his sister muffled through the door with a teasing undertone. Michael ceased his breathing. And for a minute, he couldn't respond. He remembers her dying, he didn't do anything, C.C couldn't do anything. They watched as their youngest sibling was suffocated into a giant robot. His father made that robot to kill children, and that night, he watched his father angrily leave the house only to return hours and hours later.
"Coming." Should he go? His feet felt melted into the ground and cement covered his hands. He couldn't bare to see his brothers face. The innocent child whom he killed over 80 years ago. He shook. Stepping out of the door, it was hard to remember the layout of the house. His memory was a bit clogged ever since he left to work at the pizzeria. And his memory was awful after he became a zombie.
He was having a sensory overload, the unusual feelings he felt in his skin were wild and unfamiliar to him. Like a dreadful sense of nostalgia weeping over his alive form. He was shaking so bad he could barely stand. He sat down, pulling his shaky hands in his messy hair and crying. If he sobbed too hard, he remembered, father would get angry. He just wanted to die already. He didn't want to go through life again. His breaths came out staggered and uneven. He tried calming himself down, he tried so hard. But apparently being blown back in time caused his emotions to be all over the place, and his body barely being a teenager didn't register that well.
"Michael, you're missing breakfast! Come on, you have to walk your siblings to school." His father's voice "Come out." was sternly stated. Michael forced himself to stop crying. His hands and legs still wobbling. He couldn't bare to speak right now, his throat was clogged and his voice was shaky. This sucked.
His father sighed. Pinching his nose bridge. Making Michael scowl slightly, he knew this wasn't the father that murdered a bunch of children in this time. But he still hated him for ruining the family. You're going to school Michael." He grunted out. And Michael was suddenly reminded that he skipped and played hookie at thirteen. Not wanting to make William angry Michael nodded.
Well, this was awkward. He grimaced visablly. He had absolutely no idea where his classes were and what his friends names were. Something about..Frank? No, Mark? No.. He'll just, not talk to them? Since they were essential. He thinks. Did he even have the same class with them? He had absolutely no idea.