Chapter Text
"Fred, if your hallucinations are worsening--" Don't say it, Carrol. I came to you for help, not some secondary quack who thinks they know me better than me. "-- I need to refer you to a psychiatrist." She finishes, tightening her lips. She already knows what I'm going to say.
Yes, I miss my brother every day. That's normal for any sane individual. What's happening to me is decisively NOT.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from raising my voice. Carrol's as stubborn as her damn daughter, so shouting isn't going to help anything. It might make me feel better, though.
"And you can't prescribe me an antipsychotic, why?"." I grit my teeth, trying to stay composed. "I know for a fact that you gave Bonita a cocktail of drugs. I don't need to remind you of the reason."
It's ridiculous that I even have to argue with her like this! I'm sick, and there is medication for it. It's simple!
"I could prescribe her because I consulted a specialist, Fred. I didn't skip steps like you are trying to do now." Her expression softens, but her words have a finality to them. "I know it's almost the anniversary of Goldie's death."
She knows precisely what buttons to press. I glared at her, daring her to continue. At the same time, I feel a deep pit in my stomach.
"The mind is capable of making unconscious connections. If you're depressed—"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" A lump forms in my throat as I step out. I'm suffering, but I'm not weak like some people who break down at the slightest hint of adversity. I get up in the morning. I go to work. I socialize. I take showers.
I feel her eyes on my back as I storm out. I know she's calling every person in the apartment to check on me.
"I'm not surprised that you went for drugs first." I grip the steering wheel tighter. I'm not indulging in this brother-shaped delusion. "If you really wanted drugs, young Bonita keeps her medication in her nightstand."
The words only reinforce that it isn't real. Goldie died before Beanie moved into the apartment.
I stall in front of the apartment, mentally preparing for the intervention for me by friends to tell me to talk about my feelings. Thanks, Carrol. I just need to get this over with.
"I'm back from my appointment," I call out. I expected to see a small crowd, but the only person in the apartment was Foxy, and he was more enamored by the TV than me.
"Oh, Boss! Did you get my meds while you were at Dr. Rabbinson's?" Foxy calls without looking up from the poker show.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. It slipped my mind.
"I forgot, but if you're out, I can go back and get it." I offer, but Foxy waves me off with his hook.
"I have enough to get through the rest of the week. I can get it transferred over to the pharmacy down the street. Don't worry about it."
"Gives you a reason to get out of the house," I hum in agreement. Since I know I won't be bum-rushed, I relax and remove my jacket and hat.
A surge of adrenaline jolts my body as a cold, yellow hand grabs my arm, freezing me in place. I wait for him to say or do something. He– it patiently waits as my eyes trail up his purple silken shirt and lock with his permanently tired ones.
"Why must you act like this? Archibald forgave you for forgetting his meds. Because of your childish tantrum, might I remind you, and you return it by insulting him." His voice was always soft and gravelly but cut as sharp as a knife. I feel his disappointment as if it's a physical presence in the room. "With how much you've cleaned up your act, you're still as selfish and conceited as ever, Freddy."
And just like that, he's gone in the blink of an eye. My body finally caught up, and my hands started tremoring violently. It was the first time the hallucination touched me. I'm too vulnerable out here.
I retreat to my bedroom and try my damnedest not to slam the door behind me. I'm shaking too hard to turn the lock, so I sit down in front of it.
What I wouldn't do for a bar right now. No, I can't think like that. I haven't touched that stuff in years, and I'm not starting today. I'm Fred Fazbear, not some college frat boy. I can work through this myself.
I don't know how long I sat there like a scared little child, covering my ears and repeating mantras that whatever happened to me was just a very vivid and isolated incident. Still, whenever it passed, I was exhausted and sweaty. I strip down to my boxers and leave my room. I need a shower.
I don't bother knocking to let myself into the bathroom.
"Hey! Occupied!" Beanie squeaks from the toilet and covers her lap. I'm not interested. I take my towel from the rack and hang it over the edge of the shower. "Fred?" I flinch at her worried tone.
"I had a long day, I stink, and I'm taking a shower." I leave no room for argument as I step into the shower and close the curtain. I yank down my underwear and toss it over the divider. The hot, scalding water hits me hard, but I welcome the sensation. It felt like it was washing away my troubles.
The silence doesn't last long before Beanie, of all people, breaks the silence.
"So… how did the appointment with Mom go?" The soothing heat doesn't work if I'm reminded of my problems. But there's no reason to lie.
"Badly. She wants to refer me to a psychiatrist." I'm too tired to be angry, but not annoyed. It was a waste of time! I know what's happening. She can fix it, but she won't. "It's pointless."
I hear Beanie stand up and slide her clothes back on.
"Yeeeah, Mom likes going the medicinal route. If it's what I think it is," It's not, and the grumble that leaves my throat must be a good enough warning to back off, "Maybe talking to someone would help."
"My memory must be failing because I distinctly remember you calling psychologists fake doctors. Change of heart?" I can practically hear her roll her eyes.
"Doesn't have to be one of those pricks. It could be your priest, a stranger at a bar, whatever." I don't like the idea of sharing my personal thoughts with anyone around here. Especially when it could cause… relapse in some people.
"I'll take it into consideration. If you're done, I'd like to finish my shower in peace."
"I was here first! You're the one that stormed in here!" I can't help but smile as she scoffs and leaves, but it fades quickly. A sense of foreboding makes the water washing over me feel cold. The hallucination isn't here, but I still feel vulnerable. I hastily finished my shower and got out of the bathroom.